His mother whispered something as she passed by Mary Catherine.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” Mary Catherine asked.
“Oh, I was just saying a year goes by quickly.” She motioned toward the child. “They grow up so fast.”
Mary Catherine sighed heavily as she made her way back to the main house. Breathtaking manicured gardens led to the top of the hill where the Middleton House, now a museum, sat surrounded by hydrangea and crepe myrtles. This hill had been the backdrop for some of Hollywood’s biggest epics and most beautiful period pieces. The home itself was more reminiscent of an English manor in the countryside than a Southern plantation home like the one she grew up in.
It would have been a perfectly lovely day had she not passed by the museum store. She froze at the entrance to the store, her knees going weak. She wrapped her hand around the door frame of the entrance.
“Can I help you with something?” the girl behind the sales desk asked.
“Oh, no thank you,” Mary Catherine managed. “I’m just . . . just looking.”
The girl cocked her head the way Coco often did. “You’re more than welcome to come in and look, if you’d like.”
Mary Catherine would have closed her eyes if it would have helped, but she would have still been able to smell the “stuff.” She gripped the door frame until her knuckles turned white. She squinted her eyes as if not being able to see the items inside the store quite as well would diffuse the heart palpitations.
No such luck. She had only one option left. Run.
She ran.
Elizabeth slid the glasses from her nose, shut her book, and laid it on the edge of the tub. The doorbell rang—once, twice, three times. She knew it was Aaron; he’d be the only person concerned with the fact that she didn’t come back to work. She picked up the bottle of water and ran it across her forehead, its wet condensation cooling her face, while the sounds of Chopin’s Berceuse in D-flat major cooled her remaining frustration.
Tears stung her eyes. She opened the bottle and took a long drink. She would keep drinking until the bathwater grew cold, and she’d deal with Aaron tomorrow.
Jeffrey drove through the streets of downtown Charleston in a fog of desperation. The questions pounded inside his head: How would his practice survive a year without him? Where would his patients go? What would his staff do? How would he ever have a clinic of his own again?
He tried to reassure himself that with the money he’d inherit by being the only one to complete this insane challenge, he could start an entirely new practice if he had to. “But your reputation will be toast,” he muttered aloud.
On the stereo, the soulful Toni Braxton tried to soothe him. He thought of Pamela’s perspective: tell them he’d been working for children in need, and they’d think he was a hero. But that argument had yet to stand up against the temperaments of people addicted to his talents. His clientele wouldn’t care about anything other than the fact that he wasn’t there to tuck their bellies or lipo their thighs.
But did he really have an option? Did he really want to suck out fat and pump up breasts for the rest of his life? Didn’t he want what his father’s money had to offer?
He drove his car back to the office and pulled into the parking garage. A part of him simply wanted to cry—it would feel good, and he knew it. But the day his mother died, his father saw his lower lip quivering and informed him that men didn’t cry. He had been a man ever since.
He picked up his phone and punched in the speed dial for Pamela. “You need to get over here immediately. Your publicity prowess is going to have to get into action sooner than you think.”
“Laura!” he barked at his secretary as he came through the door. Laura was a stately redhead and more beautiful now than when she had started working with him. Neither her elegant nose nor her trim, firm thighs were original. “Get Dr. Frederick Peterson on the phone and see if he can meet with me today at four. Then call that new Jordan McAllister. The one Dr. Jefferson mentioned I might want to look at bringing on as a partner. I’d like to meet with her at five. Then call my attorney and tell him I need him here by 5:30 and not to plan on going home anytime tonight.”
He went into his office and punched the intercom button. “Helen?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I want to see a list of everything that is on the books for the coming year.”
The door flew open, and she stood there with one hand on her hip. “What?”
Helen handled all of his scheduling. She was sixty and only working to reach retirement and the benefits it provided—a fact she reminded him of daily. She hated plastic surgery and had spent her first six months working for Jeffrey scaring his patients away. He let her know her only chance to reach retirement with him was to keep her mouth shut. It had worked—at least with the patients. With him, keeping her opinions to herself seemed an impossibility. “Do you know how many that is?!”
He stared at her. “No. I don’t have to know how many it is. That’s your job, and that’s why I asked you to get it. And I want it quickly. Because this afternoon you have to pick up Matthew from basketball practice.”
“What about the nanny? Gertrude?”
“Gretchen. She doesn’t work past five. And tell Sheila to get me a drink.”
Helen closed the door behind her. Jeffrey could hear scurrying on the other side. His nurse, Sheila, brought him his drink.
By the end of the night he had successfully brokered a deal to have Dr. Frederick Peterson handle all his surgeries. The new Dr. Jordan McAllister would handle the day-to-day activities of seeing patients. And the contract agreement his lawyer drew up for Dr. McAllister to sign stated clearly that there would be no staff changes and no restructuring of the business.
He had done all he could to protect his business. He just hoped it wouldn’t have to go on too long.
Pamela came by to help him write a letter to his patients and work on a press release that was effective without crossing the line. Dr. Nadu had made clear that “exploitation” wasn’t on the list of acceptable behavior.
As he finally crawled into his car and headed home, Jeffrey realized he had forgotten one thing—checking the actual patient references of one Dr. Jordan McAllister. He and Frederick Peterson had been colleagues for years. Jordan was an unknown.
But she wouldn’t be doing surgeries anyway. What could go wrong in a year?
Will stumbled along the path to the student center and collided with someone in his way. He cursed, then looked up and saw who it was. “Oh, sorry . . . hey, Olivia, what are you doing out this late?”
“Hey, Will. Looks like you’ve been having a rough evening.” She pushed past him and entered the lobby of the Student Center.
He followed. “Yeah, well, I’ve been at the frat house for a little while. I’m headed back home now.”
She opened the door to the small food court and walked over to the Chick-fil-A counter. It didn’t close until 11 p.m. on weeknights. “Can I have an eight pack of nuggets and a medium sweet tea, please?”
Will had barely noticed the hunger pangs that had stabbed at him over the last two hours. Booze and poker tended to distract him. But smelling the aroma of the chicken brought him around. He ordered two chicken sandwiches, a large order of waffle fries, and a large Dr Pepper. He and Olivia reached the register at the same time.
He pulled out his wallet to find only a five-dollar bill. He laughed sheepishly at the young girl who stood behind the cash register. Olivia noticed and handed the girl another five to cover what he lacked.
“Thanks. I’ll pay you back. Can I sit with you?” He didn’t wait for an answer but began following her with his tray.
“I really came to do some work for my sorority, Will.”
“Yeah, yeah, I won’t bother you. I just wanted to talk.” His speech was still coming out slightly slurred.
She sat down at a table by the wall. “Talk? I’m not sure that would be in your best interest this evening.”
He sat down across from her. “You’re so cruel to me.” He leaned over and did a bad imitation of Elvis: “Well-a don’ be cruel . . . to a heart tha’s true.”
She didn’t respond.
He went on, taking a bite of his chicken sandwich. “Why do you hate me?”
She looked up at him. “I don’t hate you, Will. I just don’t have any interest in you. I think you’re sad.”
He almost blew out half his sandwich. “Sad? Do you know that I’m the president of my fraternity?”
“Do you know why you’re the president of your fraternity?” He frowned. “Huh?’
“My point exactly. You don’t have a clue, and that, Will, is very sad. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll just take this back to my room.”
He would have protested had he not been so hungry. Instead, he let her go, vowing that she would be his in multiple ways before this year was over. And seeing as the year hadn’t even officially begun, he had plenty of time to make that happen.
chapter eleven
The phone on the night table woke Mary Catherine from a fitful dream of toddlers and topiaries.
“Hello?”
“This is Frances Bordeaux from the Charleston County School District.”
Mary Catherine sat upright in the bed. Her eyes scanned the room for a camera, someone watching her, plotting out her life without her willingness or participation.
“I’m looking for a Mary Catherine Bean.”
“This is she. How did you get this number?”
“Well, a Nate Bean contacted us, and—”
“My husband?” She punched Nate, nearly knocking him off of the bed.
“Yes. Apparently he called yesterday telling us about you and your qualifications and wanting to know if we have any positions available. He said it was very important that you find something by the end of the week. He was quite convincing, I might add.”
Nate turned over and groaned, rubbing his side. Coco simply relocated herself at Mary Catherine’s feet.
“I called so early,” the woman went on, “because there is a position available, and we need someone to start right away. We thought we had the post covered, but at the last minute our new teacher was unable to fulfill her commitment. A substitute is taking the classes for the time being, but the principal has asked for a meeting immediately. Preferably this morning, before classes get started for the day.”
Mary Catherine rubbed her eyes and scratched her head as if that would somehow give her the brainpower necessary to make such a ridiculous decision.
“Mrs. Bean? Could you make it there by eight o’clock?” “Eight o’clock?” Her eyes tried to register the numbers on the green florescent clock across from the bed. It didn’t work. “What time is it now?”
“It’s six thirty.”
“Where am I going?”
“The school is in North Charleston off Rivers Avenue.”
“North Charleston?”
“Mrs. Bean, do you or do you not want to take this meeting? I doubt that anything else will come up before the Christmas holiday. We’re already two days into the school year. All other positions are filled.”
Mary Catherine gave a huff. “Yes, I guess so. I’ll go and see what they are wanting. What grade, do you know?”
“It’s a middle school.”
“I don’t do middle school. I only do kindergarten.”
“I’m sorry to tell you, Mrs. Bean, but you won’t find a kindergarten teaching spot available in this city. You’re lucky to get this offer. Would you like the directions or not?”
She clenched her teeth. “That will be fine.”
When Mary Catherine finally hung up the phone, she turned on Nate. “So you didn’t think I was capable of getting a job on my own?”
“I was just trying to help. I know you’ve been so stressed, and I thought maybe this might take some weight off of you, me contacting them for you and all.”
She cocked her head at him.
“Really, I just want to make this as easy as possible for you.”
She dropped her head into his chest. “Could you make me some eggs?”
“I’ll make you bacon and eggs.”
Elizabeth woke up completely refreshed, almost as if yesterday had never happened, but she suspected that her compartment of denial was almost full.
The phone rang while she was in the shower. Caller ID showed unknown number, but whoever it was had left a voice mail. It turned out to be James Cavanaugh, the private investigator. “I’ve got some information,” the curt message said. “Call me.”
When he answered, she didn’t even bother to say good morning. “What do you know?”
“I know your brother is headed to a new job today.”
“Just like I thought. He’s going to play along with his own charade.”
Cavanaugh grunted. “It could be that he has no more to do with this than you do.”
“He has to know something about this. This simply reeks of Jeffrey.”
“Well, whatever it reeks of, he is reshuffling his entire office as we speak. He starts his new job this morning.”
“But we don’t have to start until Monday.”
“Looks like he wants you to know he’s serious.”
Elizabeth’s brain spun, trying to make sense out of this information. “Anything else?”
“Not now. I’ll get back with you as soon as I know more.”
Elizabeth snapped the cell phone shut. She was in the closet, half-dressed, when curiosity got the best of her. She hurried back into the bathroom and grabbed her phone.
Mary Catherine’s number rang twice, and then Nate answered the phone. Elizabeth despised him. She had tried to warn Mary Catherine that he was only after her money, but Mary Catherine would hear nothing of it.
“Yes, um, Nate. This is Elizabeth. Is Mary Catherine there?” Elizabeth had no idea what she was going to say to her sister. She just needed to know . . . something.
“No, actually Mary Catherine is at a job interview.” He placed special emphasis on the words.
“She is? Well, just tell her I called.”
“Anything particular?” The words hung in the air—laced, Elizabeth was certain, with dual meaning. Nate was a snake.
“No. I just had her on my mind. I know she went through a lot the other night, and I wanted to make sure she was okay.”
“Well, I’ll tell her you called. Of course with her new job, she’ll probably be very busy.”
“That’s okay,” Elizabeth lied. “It’s no big deal.”
She closed her phone, then opened it again and dialed Cavanaugh’s number once more. “Check out one more person. His name is Nate Bean. He’s my sister’s husband.”
“Your brother-in-law.”
“No, my sister’s husband.”
Elizabeth disconnected the line and walked back into her closet to finish dressing. What did you wear on a day like today? A day when you had to begin the complete rearranging of your life? She chose a soft baby blue blouse and tailored white slacks. Blue made her peaceful. White made her feel clean.
An old memory fought its way to the surface of her mind, and she pushed it down. Blue and white. She needed both today.
Mary Catherine let the top down on her VW convertible so she could take in the rush of the palm trees as the ocean breezes swept past. She had lived on the Isle of Palms, a barrier island just north-east of Charleston, for the last four years. After college and a year of travel, she had moved out here and liked the small community atmosphere. Fewer than five thousand people lived on the island. It had recovered beautifully from the ravages of Hurricane Hugo, even though the live oaks with their draping Spanish moss were just now coming back to life almost twenty years later. The azaleas had already blossomed and gone, but all along her route crepe myrtles bloomed in shades of pink and white and purple, and gardenias emitted a powerful and lovely fragrance.
As she headed down I-26 and the commercialized landscape of North Char
leston came into view, Mary Catherine felt as if she might as well be driving into a foreign country. She’d lived all her life here and never exactly been to North Charleston. For years the area had a reputation for being a rough blue-collar area that had gone further downhill after the shipyard closed. Families abandoned it, leaving it to crime, poverty, and the ever-growing drug community.
She had heard that over the past few years North Charleston had experienced a revitalization of sorts—renovated cafés, antique stores, and banks. The artsy crowd had taken over some of the run-down historical homes and brought them back to life. But she didn’t see much of that as she drove, and however eclectic and interesting the place might be, she didn’t belong there. This was beginning to feel like the first day of the worst year of her life.
She found the middle school without too much trouble and parked parallel to the curb. The building was long and narrow, a dull gray brick two-story surrounded by patchy grass and red dirt. It couldn’t have been drearier if it had been a federal penitentiary.
An assembly of children shuffled around the walkway, obviously waiting for the bell to ring. A few of them noticed her, pointed, and got the attention of their friends. Soon everyone was watching.
Mary Catherine took in a deep breath and tried not to lose her bacon and eggs. “You can do anything for a . . . for a year,” she murmured to herself.
Her feet felt like lead, but she forced herself to make the long walk, a prisoner lumbering toward the cell block. She tried to smile as she passed a student. The snickering that followed as she passed proved that smiles weren’t worth much around here.
The door was metal, institutional, painted a dark charcoal gray. Just inside to the left, reinforced glass walled off the front of the principal’s office. Another cluster of students stared at her as she walked by.
“You’re just here to talk,” she reminded herself. “Nothing more. Just to see what the position is. That’s it.”
She pulled open the glass door and walked inside.
A woman behind a large counter was giving a young girl a tongue-lashing, and she didn’t look up. “Mr. McClain is not going to let you get by with your shirt knotted up like some two-year-old incapable of buttoning her buttons, with your little navel showing.” The woman swatted at the girl’s knotted shirt. “Now get it down and get it down now.”
The Will of Wisteria Page 9