by Alan Chaput
Patricia awoke groggy, vaguely aware that Trey was still in bed with her. But it wasn’t the weekend. Was he ill? He’d been okay yester—
Reality slammed her like an immense black tidal wave. She gasped as the terrible pain returned in full measure. She turned away from Trey, curled, and sobbed into her pillow.
Trey snuggled behind her, draped an arm over her and drew her into his torso.
Patricia awoke again. Trey was still cuddled up to her. She pulled her phone from the nightstand and checked the time. Just after eight in the morning. She couldn’t stay in bed all day. Patricia turned to Trey. “Trey, honey, are you ready to get up?”
“I’ll get up when you get up.”
“I’m ready.”
“You sure?”
She nodded.
Trey rolled to his side of the bed.
After punching the remote to open the shades, she went to the front bedroom window, pushed the sheers aside, and looked down at the beautiful square with the pink azaleas in full bloom. Spring in Savannah. Pink perfection.
She gave a gasp. Rhett was back, standing by the light pole directly across the street from her home. Trey’s home to be exact. His family had lived in Falcon House since it was built for his ancestors early in the nineteenth century.
She could almost see Rhett’s scar from here. She put her hand on her hip and wondered where Rhett had called home and why he was a vagrant.
* * *
Shortly before noon, Trey parked his ’61 Bentley S2 Continental in the club’s private lot, donned his double-breasted gray suit jacket, crossed the oil-stained asphalt, and walked up the concrete steps to the entrance of the one hundred sixty year old building. The Oglethorpe Club, by far the oldest men’s club in Savannah.
He pulled open one of the massive mahogany double doors, greeted the petite blonde receptionist, and took the half-circular stairs to the second floor. There he checked with the British-born maître d’ who indicated where Beau Simpson was seated. Being lunchtime, most of the other tables were occupied.
Simpson stood as Trey approached. He was dressed in tan slacks, a crisp, light blue shirt and a navy blazer. Simpson’s manicured hand clasped Trey’s. The two men exchanged greetings, took opposing seats at a small two-person table, and ordered.
“I’m so sorry about your mother-in-law,” Beau said.
“She seemed in such good health. Was something wrong with her?”
“Her last visit she was in perfect shape. I’ve looked back at my records and I can’t see that I missed anything, but you never know what can happen.”
“You graduated from The Citadel, didn’t you?” Trey asked. He already knew the answer, but he wanted to get Beau focused on a different subject.
Simpson smiled and nodded.
Time for the setup. “What do you think of women attending The Citadel?” Trey asked.
Simpson tilted his head down a bit, then looked at Trey from beneath his obscenely perfect eyebrows. Plucked? Probably. “The adjustment was huge for all parties and not smooth.”
“Women in combat, who would have guessed?” Trey paused to get Simpson’s reaction.
Simpson hunched his shoulders. “Why not?”
“They’re everywhere these days,” Trey added.
“As they should be.”
“Times have certainly changed. I suppose we change with them or we risk obsolescence. What do you think, Beau, about opening the Cotton Coalition to women?”
Simpson’s jaws locked and eyes widened, then narrowed. His focus on Trey was as intense as a bass eying a worm. “No. No. No!” he said, his tone raw. He raised his glass of port and swirled it. “You’re cagey, Trey. I’ll give you that. But what we do isn’t women’s work. For sure it isn’t.”
Trey pulled back as if surprised. “Didn’t you just say women could be in combat? Be anywhere men could be? How can you take that stance and immediately reverse it?”
Simpson sneered. “Well, ah—”
“Women are everywhere.” Trey’s eyes bore down on Simpson’s. “There are women in Congress. Women run Fortune 500 companies. Women serve in command positions in the military as well as grunts in combat. They fight fires and police our neighborhoods. And I don’t need to tell you how many are accomplished cardiologists.”
Simpson’s uncommonly symmetrical face contorted. His eyes blazed. “This is Savannah, Trey. Proper women do not engage in this kind of work.”
“Are you saying what we do is improper?” Trey asked.
“I’m saying we do work that a civilized woman should not be subjected to.”
“Not to be disagreeable, but Lucius Alton and I are both proposing the rules be changed to permit women members, our daughters. Would you consider my daughter uncivilized?”
Simpson’s fingers turned white around the stem of the wine glass. His lips pinched. “Your proposal is a disgrace to your daughter. It’s not right to even consider the subject. You’re wrong to ask.”
“Obviously Lucius is supportive, and he believes he can get Potter on board.”
Simpson’s face darkened. “Well I’m not.”
The man’s hostility shocked Trey into momentary silence. “Attitudes have changed. It’s time you and the organization realize it.”
Simpson’s brown eyes narrowed. “Don’t lecture me.”
Trey took a moment to settle, trying not to give away his rising agitation. “What can I do to get you to change your mind?”
Simpson shot Trey a glare as sharp as a heron’s beak. Simpson was not the sort one wanted as an enemy. He had killed in the operating room for the Coalition. Cardiac arrest the authorities had reported, but Trey knew better. “Let me give you a warning,” Simpson said. “Drop this and save yourself from embarrassment.”
Trey wanted to argue, but he choked back the words. “Your mind’s made up?”
“Damn right it is. I’ll never countenance changing the Coalition. And by the way…”
“Yes?” Trey fixed on Simpson’s glaring eyes.
“Tell your wife to keep her nose out of my business.”
What? Rather than gape, Trey closed his eyes and sucked a slow, deep breath. Patricia hadn’t mentioned any trouble with Simpson. Perhaps the Coalition rules weren’t really the issue here. Trey opened his eyes.
A crooked, self-assured smile filled Simpson’s face.
“She handles her own business,” Trey said.
Simpson shook his head. “Shame you can’t control your woman.”
“I wouldn’t if I could,” Trey shot back.
“Consider yourself warned. Nothing personal.”
Under the fine linen tablecloth, Trey’s fist clenched. He’d hit men for less. He glanced around. Not the place for an altercation. But he was far from dropping this subject. There would be another time, another opportunity to settle this, one way or the other.
“Noted,” Trey said. Noted indeed. He wouldn’t forget. Beau would pay.
Chapter 7
Hayley had arrived home a half hour ago, unpacked, and though she’d said she was weary from the drive from Atlanta, she was now seated across the table from Patricia devouring a late-night snack of salsa and chips.
“What exactly happened to Grammy?” Hayley asked between bites.
“Plantation security found Grammy in her car early in the afternoon. She was unresponsive. EMS transported her to the hospital. Doctor Simpson was summoned. He declared her dead.”
Hayley wiped her bloodshot eyes. “Had she been feeling ill?”
“Doctor Simpson said she was in perfect shape. You saw her at spring break. Did she look ill to you?”
Hayley shook her head. “I just want to cry about Grammy.”
“Trust me,” Patricia said, “all I’ve been doing is crying.”
“I wish I’d spent more time with Grammy over spring break.”
Patricia nodded. “We all have the same kind of wish.”
Hayley’s sad eyes met Patricia’s. “I miss her so much.”
>
Patricia reached across the table and patted Hayley’s hand.
“It’s so hard to believe she’s gone.” Hayley blinked.
“She’s not so much gone as in a different place, and someday we’ll be reunited with her for eternity.”
Hayley let out a long breath. “Family is so important. I shouldn’t have gone away to college. I should have stayed home and gone to college here in Savannah.”
“Emerald is an excellent school,” Patricia said.
“I don’t think so.” Hayley took Patricia’s hand. “Mom, I’m dropping out of school.”
“You’re dropping out of college?” Patricia repeated to her in utter shock. “You seemed so happy at spring break. Did something happen?”
Hayley twisted her hands. “No, nothing happened. But after the campus bombing last fall, I’ve just been hanging on. I can’t take it anymore. I’m just dropping out for a while.”
“I know that terrible bombing disturbed you, but y’all found the terrorist cell responsible and the authorities shut them down.”
Hayley shook her head. “You don’t understand. I can’t walk that campus without being reminded of Ramona’s death and thinking of what might have happened if Shawn and I hadn’t stuck our noses into that business.”
“How about attending another school?”
“No, Mom. I just want to drop out for a while.”
“Though I’m having a hard time understanding you, I know this—you’re staying in college. Period.”
“Mom, it’s not a great time for me. I loved Grammy. I just drove five hours from Atlanta to get here for the memorial service. I’m exhausted and I’m grieving. You don’t want to talk? Fine. But I’m not going back to school. As you say, period.”
Hayley’s sharp insistence sent a shiver down Patricia’s spine. “Honey, it’s unwise for a woman with a mind like yours to waste it. You have a responsibility to develop your God-given talent.”
Hayley braced both hands on the table and leaned toward her. “It’s also a waste to spend time and energy doing something I have absolutely no interest in. Life is too short to waste. I could die any day. I want to have some fun before that. I detest college. I can’t stand it.”
Patricia gave a head waggle and sighed. Where is Trey when I need him?
“Mama, I’m serious about this. I’m going in the wrong direction. I need time to figure out what I really want to do. I need to find myself.”
“Child, that’s the purpose of college.”
“There’s no time for self-exploration at school.”
“Make time.”
“How can I make time? Being an honors student is a full-time job. I need to get away from school to think.”
“Don’t go fretting so.” She patted Hayley’s hand. “Stay in school. Things will work out.”
“Mama, I have to leave. College is stifling. I need to retreat, to rethink. I need to be here, not there.”
“You’re running away from your responsibilities,” Patricia said. “That’s not the Falcon way and you know it.”
“No. I’m turning away from a no-win, hopeless situation.”
“This is insane. You put all that time into those courses, and you’re not going to stick around for a few more weeks to get credit for them?”
“Credit?” Hayley’s brow furrowed. “Those courses are irrelevant.” Her cheeks flamed bright red. “It’s insane to waste time in college.”
“Dropping out of college is unacceptable. I know college is hard, sweetie. That’s the point. You learn to handle the challenges. If you don’t like Atlanta, move back to Savannah after the semester is done and go to a local college.”
“It’s not the challenges. I’m getting excellent grades. It’s just ... I’m not motivated.”
Patricia cringed. Her stomach knotted. Why couldn’t Hayley understand? “If you drop out, you’ll have to get a full-time job. Is that what you want?”
“No.” Hayley clung to herself and bit her lip.
Patricia rolled her eyes. “Then finish the semester. It’s just six more weeks. Take the summer break to figure out your future. We’ll go overseas. I’ll show you Paris, Rome, Madrid. Getting away will help.”
“I don’t know.”
“Trust me. Finishing the semester is best.”
“It doesn’t feel right. Everyone is so focused, and I’m so… ambivalent. I feel like a fraud. I’m taking a place in college from someone who really wants to be there. It’s wrong.”
“Give it time. You’ll find yourself this summer. Meanwhile, stay in school.”
“I can’t.”
“You can and you will.” Patricia laced her fingers. “End of discussion.”
Hayley raised her hands in surrender. The chair legs scrapped on the stone floor as she stood and stalked out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.
Patricia’s heart hammered as she sat at the kitchen table staring at her daughter’s retreating back. Hayley’s news had been a shock. Patricia’s fingers were laced together to avoid trembling as thoughts raced. The selfish part of her wanted Hayley home. But what was best for her daughter was paramount.
Why hadn’t she seen it coming? Hayley had seemed sincerely interested in college at winter break, and again at spring break. But not now.
Hayley a quitter? A dropout? More importantly, what could she do to get Hayley back on track?
Patricia shook her head, took a deep breath and turned to glance at the clock. Eleven and Trey wasn’t home yet from the Coalition meeting. The Coalition elders had been getting together a lot lately, plotting ways to deal with the outsiders and speculators who were trying to edge their way into Savannah’s historic district. Her stomach had been tense all evening and was beginning to ache. How much more could she take? Mama. Hayley. Trey. She so wished he was home.
She was aware of a sense of foreboding. Trey and the Coalition would handle Savannah. As they always had. And always would. Her job was to take care of Hayley, bless her heart.
Deciding she’d wasted enough time, Patricia took a deep, shuddering breath and went into the media room. The widescreen television boomed with a music video. She grabbed the remote and punched the mute button. The dimly lit room went silent.
Hayley looked up from the plush chair, surprise on her pixie face.
“I want you to sleep on this decision of yours,” Patricia said. “Tomorrow, after the service, let’s discuss it with Daddy and get his input. Take it slow. Think it through. And we’ll go from there, together.”
* * *
The following morning, Patricia, withdrawn into her memories of Mama, rode in silence to the memorial service. An excruciating, aspirin-resistant headache clung like a barnacle, piercing and compressing her skull. She and Hayley remained in the claustrophobic limousine while Trey got out and held the door for them.
She couldn’t escape what was ahead. Avoidance would be unbecoming and would dishonor Mama. She surveyed the crowd and the cathedral. The gray clouds. The mottled pale sky. It was important to take it all in. She wanted to carve this day into her memory, the day she said her final goodbye to Mama. But it was a bitter sight. As bitter as the bile rising in her throat.
She took a breath, eased her legs out and stood, trembling in the sultry air. She hooked Trey’s arm for stability.
The neatly trimmed, luscious grass and butter-yellow daffodils surrounding the cathedral stood in sharp contrast to the muted dresses and dark suits milling around the courtyard.
Sheila, a close friend who owned the corner florist, pinned a dainty forget-me-not on Patricia’s lapel and gave her a long, warm hug. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Patricia, though wanting to languish in the warmth of her friend’s hug, stepped back, patted Sheila’s arm, and took a deep breath.
“Are you ready?” Trey asked.
She nodded, though she wasn’t. How could anyone be ready for something like this?
He led her and Hayley, whose straight brown hair obscu
red much of her face, toward the entrance.
A jasmine-scented breeze rippled the Spanish moss hanging from the live oaks. No doubt, a farewell gesture to Mama. Those iconic trees were Mama’s favorites, as was the ocean and everything in it. Patricia folded the moment into her memory.
The sea of souls in front of the church parted to make way for Trey, Hayley and her.
Everyone seemed to be watching.
Her cheeks burned.
Blurred faces mumbled bland condolences. She acknowledged each as best she could.
Judy Simpson smiled. Meredith embraced her. Alisa seemed stunned. Her band of sisters, there for her as always.
Once through the gauntlet, she paused. The concrete stairs to the church entrance appeared steeper and higher than ever before. Her knees seemed weak and ready to buckle forcing Patricia to will her legs to climb the steps and cross the landing to the open doorway.
Filled with sorrow, she gripped Trey’s arm tighter, entered the cathedral and anointed herself with holy water. The cool air inside was so heavy she had trouble breathing. Her chest tightened. Her head throbbed. She paused and, stooped-shouldered, gasped for air. As her suffocation subsided, she stiffened her spine and moved forward with determination. She would ride out this storm with dignity.
Patricia genuflected as she entered the pew, made the sign of the cross over her chest and sat, relieved to be off her unreliable legs. Incense tainted the air. When she was ready, she knelt and prayed as Mama had taught her. In the background, people shuffled in. When her prayer was over, she returned to her seat.
Her eyes settled on the large, framed portrait of Mama at the front of the church. Patricia blinked away the tears. The crucifix over the altar taunted her. Jesus had taken Mama, and she didn’t know why. ‘The shadow on the face of God,’ Father Mark had said at other funeral masses. It wasn’t much of an explanation.
Father Mark, a young copper-headed man, stood and the congregation hushed. A boy priest. Did he know firsthand of death? Of loss? Of grief? Of sorrow?
Then she saw the urn. Mama. Her mother was truly an angel. God’s masterpiece. Memories competed for attention like confined children. Mama, Daddy and her as a young teen on vacation at Myrtle Beach. The void Daddy’s early death had left and how it brought her and her mother so much closer. Picking strawberries with Mama. Making Hummingbird Cake with Mama. Planting a tree in the live oak allee when Grandma died. Mama sitting with her in the rocking chair. The vegetable garden they grew one summer. And a collage of festive holidays. When I was young and afraid of the dark, you read to me every night, Mama. And when I was sad, you sang to me.