The Peach Keeper: A Novel

by Sarah Addison Allen

  “Hello, Mrs. Osgood,” Willa said. Willa had been a sneaky child. Not a mean one. Not a deceitful one. But sneaky nonetheless. Agatha had always seen it. Georgie had, too, but as with Ham, she’d been convinced that she could trample down any wild hair that reminded her of Tucker Devlin and make her family as quiet and normal as possible. It hadn’t always been to their advantage. In fact, Agatha believed Ham could have gone on to great things if only his mother hadn’t instilled in him such a sense of his own smallness. But Georgie had felt she was only balancing out the magical stormy nature she was scared Ham and Willa might have inherited from Tucker. They had inherited it, of course. That much had always been clear. But that didn’t mean they would turn out badly. She should have told Georgie that.

  “The two of you here together can only mean one thing,” Agatha said. “You want to know what happened.”

  “Willa found something called The Walls of Water Society Newsletter. We’ve pieced some things together.”

  “The Society Newsletter. I’d forgotten about that.” Agatha laughed when she thought of it, how important they all thought it was at the time. “Jojo McPeat published it. That woman was the nosiest person God ever created.”

  “Mrs. Osgood, was Tucker Devlin my father’s father?” Willa asked.

  That hit her in the place her heart used to be. “Figured that out, did you?”

  “What happened?” Paxton asked, taking a seat beside Agatha. Willa lingered in the doorway. “Did you really kill him?”

  “Yes. I did,” Agatha said. For all the things she couldn’t give Georgie, she could at least give her this.

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re connected, as women. It’s like a spiderweb. If one part of that web vibrates, if there’s trouble, we all know it. But most of the time we’re just too scared or selfish or insecure to help. But if we don’t help each other, who will?”

  “So you killed him for Georgie?” Paxton asked, and her tone insinuated she had assumed it was for other reasons—other, less noble, reasons.

  “We were once as close as shirt buttons, Georgie and I. I didn’t think anything would change that. Until Tucker Devlin. You have to understand what it was like back then. It was during the Depression, and on top of that, the new national forest meant no more logging. Those of us who managed to keep our money were trying to help those who had lost theirs. When he arrived, it was like we came alive again. Days were brighter. Food was sweeter. He promised us each exactly the thing we wanted most. And we believed him. The whole town believed him. We were his captives. And we learned early on not to cross him. There was an old man named Earl Youngston who repeatedly tried to get us to see that Tucker was a con man. But after a confrontation with Tucker one day, Earl’s beard grew forty feet overnight, trapping him in his bed. He was quiet after that, and had to shave six times a day.

  “After a while, all the men wanted his opinion, and all the girls were in love with him. He made certain of it. Because he knew the best way to get what he wanted was to break down what made us strongest. And our friendships were what made us strong. He changed all that. That’s why we were so jealous when Tucker moved into the Blue Ridge Madam with his big plans to save the town by turning Jackson Hill into a peach orchard. Not only was Georgie the prettiest of our group, but she now had him under her roof.”

  Agatha turned her head. She could hear the food trolley coming down the hall. It was the only sense of anticipation she had left. Her stomach tightened with it.

  “Nana?” Paxton said.

  Where was she? “Oh. Well, Georgie tried to tell us what was happening. She said Tucker slept in the attic and paced a lot. She said he was restless, and it affected the whole house. She said mice fled, but birds were always trying to get in. She would say things like He’s got a mean temper and He won’t leave me alone. But we hated her for it, because we wanted him for ourselves. After a few months, Georgie started avoiding us. She didn’t go to parties anymore. We thought she was saying we were no longer good enough for her. But she did it because she was scared and ashamed, and when we turned our backs on her, she had no one left.”

  “What was she scared and ashamed of?” Willa asked.

  “There was no love story going on up there,” Agatha said. “Tucker raped her. That was one of the reasons he wanted to move there in the first place. To get to her.”

  Silence from the girls. The food trolley was getting nearer.

  “When she finally got up enough nerve to tell me she was pregnant, I was so angry with myself. She was my best friend, and she had tried so many times to tell me what was happening, but I let my jealousy get in the way. I could have stopped it. I could have stopped it all.”

  “So you killed him because of what he did,” Paxton said.

  “No. I killed him because he wouldn’t stop doing it. He was terrorizing her. I hit him over the head with a frying pan.”

  “The frying pan that was buried with him,” Willa surmised.

  “Yes.”

  “Did no one know?” Paxton asked. “Did you bury him under the peach tree by yourself?”

  “Georgie knew. We buried him together. And there wasn’t a peach tree there at the time. It came up later.” There was a knock at the door. “He always did say he had peach juice in his veins.”

  “Here’s your dinner, Mrs. Osgood,” the food-service girl said.

  “Go now,” Agatha said. “I want to eat.”

  “But …” Paxton said.

  “If you want to know more, come back. The story has been around seventy-five years. It’s not going anywhere.”

  She heard the shuffle as the girls left. She liked that they were together. It gave her hope.

  “Don’t underestimate us. You did before, and look where that got you,” she told Tucker.

  “What did you say, Mrs. Osgood?” the food-service girl asked as she rolled the tray table in front of her.

  “Nothing. Leave me to eat,” Agatha told her. Then she added, “Both of you.”

  ELEVEN

  Love Potion

  European dance troupes, African a cappella groups, Chinese bell ringers—it didn’t really matter. Every year, the Women’s Society Club chose one obscure international group to sponsor for an American tour, and in return they received a special private backyard concert. It was always the highlight of the summer social season—except for this one. This season, the gala was all anyone was talking about, much to the consternation of Moira Kinley, whose year it was to host the concert.

  It was barely a week until the gala, and Moira knew what she was up against. But she was smart. She was savvy. And most of all, she was Southern. So she scheduled the concert as a luncheon instead of a nighttime affair, completely different dressing situations, after all, and she managed to procure Claire Waverley as the caterer. Everyone wanted Claire Waverley, from the nearby college town of Bascom, to cater their affairs. Her food could affect you in magical ways. It was something you remembered fondly for years. Something you compared to every other meal you had. No one was going to pass this up, not even Paxton, who didn’t normally eat in social situations, and who didn’t even have a date for this one.

  “Introduce yourself to Claire Waverley,” Paxton’s mother said to her as she followed Paxton to their front door.

  “I will,” Paxton said, checking her watch. She had hoped she’d have time to call Willa to see how she was this morning. Last night had been intense. But now she’d run out of time. They had agreed to meet up again at the nursing home on Sunday, though.

  “Make a good impression,” Sophia said.

  “I will.”

  “Give her this.” Sophia handed her a small box wrapped in beautiful blue paper and a plaid bow.

  Paxton looked at it curiously. “What is it?”

  “It’s a gift for the caterer, a gold pin in the shape of a flower, because she works with edible flowers. And I wrote her a nice note, too.”

  It wasn’t a gift, it was a bribe, but Paxton didn�
�t point that out. “You really want her to cater your anniversary party, don’t you?”

  “It’s only eight months away!” Sophia said worriedly.

  Paxton had reached the door by this time. “Goodbye, Mama.”

  “Yes, goodbye,” Colin said, appearing from out of nowhere and slipping out the door ahead of them.

  “Colin! Where are you going?” Sophia called.

  “To commune with nature,” he called back.

  Paxton walked out, and Sophia said, “Fix the strap on your heel; it’s crooked.”

  Paxton caught up with Colin as he was walking to their father’s black Mercedes. “That was entirely too easy for you,” she said. “It took me ten minutes just to get to the door.”

  “The trick is to not make eye contact. They don’t charge if you don’t make eye contact.”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “You’re in a good mood.”

  “Yes, I am.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “But you’re not. When was the last time you were in a good mood, Pax? I know you don’t think I care. But I do. Nothing is going to get better until you get the hell out of this house. Find what makes you happy. Obviously, it isn’t here.”

  No, it wasn’t here. She just wasn’t sure where it was. “Are you really going to commune with nature?”

  “Actually, I have a date with Willa today. Which is why I have to go.” He nodded in the direction behind her. “Don’t keep your date waiting, either.”

  “I don’t have a date. Thanks for pointing that out.”

  “Tell him that,” he said as he kissed her on the cheek and got in the car.

  Paxton turned to see that Sebastian had parked his car in front of hers in the round brick driveway. He was leaning against the car, his hands in his pockets.

  He watched her approach, not smiling, not frowning. Definitely cautious, though.

  “I told you you didn’t have to come,” she said, stopping in front of him.

  “And I told you I’d do anything for you.” He opened the passenger-side door for her. “Shall we?”

  She couldn’t deny the relief she felt. She hadn’t been looking forward to showing up alone. “Thank you, Sebastian.”

  They didn’t talk much on the drive. They didn’t mention what they’d been doing this past week that prevented them from seeing each other or returning calls. He told her she looked beautiful in pink. She commented on his car’s nice wax job. That was it. She wondered if anything between them would ever be the same. And the sad answer was probably not, because she still couldn’t be this near to him and not feel that pull, that desire, that something that definitely wasn’t friendship. It never had been. And now that it was out, there was no going back.

  They pulled in front of Moira Kinley’s Federal-style house, called Sourwood Cottage, and the valet for the event took Sebastian’s car. They walked up the steps, and as they reached the door, he finally asked, “Who is the gift for? Moira?”

  “No. It’s a bribe from my mother to the caterer. She wants her for her anniversary party. At some point I’m going to have to slip away and give it to her, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  When they walked inside, the maid directed them to the back of the house, where they found the club members and their guests mingling outside on the large lawn. Moira had created artificial shade on this hot day by stretching a canopy of light blue fabric, the color of the sky, across the area where the tables and stage were. Huge cooling fans blew, making the fabric billow. It was a beautiful effect. All this, and Claire Waverley, too. People were going to be talking about this for days. And Moira certainly deserved all the credit.

  As Paxton and Sebastian walked toward the canopy, Paxton began to notice that there were quite a few women bearing gifts, including poor Lindsay Teeger, who was trying to balance a wok tied with a bow in one hand and a wineglass in the other. It appeared that Paxton’s mother wasn’t the only one who wanted Claire Waverley’s culinary talents for her next party.

  Moira was the first to greet them. She looked happy and proud of herself. She knew what a coup this was. “Welcome!” she said, bussing their cheeks.

  “This is stunning, Moira,” Paxton said. “Congratulations.”

  “That means a lot, coming from you,” Moira said. “And just so you know, I’m not trying to steal your thunder with the gala. I’m sure it will be nice, too.” She pointed to the gift Paxton was holding. “Let me guess, for Claire Waverley?”

  Paxton shrugged. “My mother insisted.”

  “I’ll tell you what I told everyone else. The kitchen is off-limits. No one allowed. I don’t want Claire distracted. Sorry! But grab some wine and hors d’oeuvres, and enjoy!”

  As soon as she flitted off, Sebastian leaned in and said, “These women should come with danger signs.”

  She smiled at that as they walked under the canopy and tried to find their table. They were soon stopped by a waiter in his early twenties, handsome, full-lipped, his eyes all over Sebastian in a blatantly sexual way. He offered Sebastian some wine. Sebastian thanked him and took glasses for himself and Paxton, handed a glass to Paxton, then led her away with his arm tightly around her waist, obviously uncomfortable.

  For the next half-hour, they mingled, and eventually they ended up in a group that included Stacey Herbst and Honor Redford. Paxton was getting tired of holding the gift from her mother. She thought she was conspicuous with it, since everyone else had given up hope and had either stuffed their gifts in their purses or put them on their tables, so Paxton excused herself to put her gift at her table, as well.

  She wasn’t gone long. As she made her way back, she had to admire Sebastian. He managed to make everyone else here look like they were dressed for manual labor. His suit was smoky gray, his shirt was starched white, and his tie was like water. Everything was completely smooth and unruffled, and he moved like there was no resistance between him and what he wore.

  She wasn’t the only one watching. The cute young waiter came back, this time with a tray of appetizers. He offered the tray to Sebastian, who shook his head and turned away, taking a sip of his wine. The waiter seemed to offer the tray to the rest as an afterthought.

  Paxton approached the group in time to hear one of the women say to Sebastian, “He’s cute. I think he’s interested in you.”

  “Darling,” Sebastian said, when he realized Paxton had joined them again. “Before we were interrupted, we were talking about you and the Blue Ridge Madam. The pall of the skeleton seems to have lifted.” Just as he’d said it would.

  “Yes,” Paxton said brightly, too brightly. “In your eye, Tucker Devlin.” She lifted her glass as if in a toast, but the glass tipped slightly and sloshed onto Sebastian’s jacket. It was the oddest feeling. She could have sworn someone had pushed the glass. But there was no way anyone could have done that without her seeing. “Oh, Sebastian, I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. It’s too hot for a jacket, anyway.”

  “Have you had too much to drink already?” Stacey asked her.

  Paxton looked at her with exasperation. “No. That was my first glass.”

  The waiter was hurrying over, but Sebastian held up his hand and shook his head, stopping him with irritation. He handed Paxton his glass and took off his jacket and shook it.

  “My great-aunt used to talk about him,” Sebastian said, draping his jacket over his arm and taking his glass back from Paxton. “Tucker Devlin. She said he held the town hostage with magic when he came. You know that painting in my bedroom, the one that belonged to her, the one with the bird perched on the bowl of berries?” he asked Paxton. That caused some subtly exchanged glances. They all knew now that she’d been in his bedroom. Paxton wondered if he’d said it on purpose. “She told me Tucker Devlin came to visit her once, because he liked to court all the girls, to make sure that they were all under his spell. She said as he stood there talking to her, he reached into the painting and brought out a handful of berries and ate them right in front of her. His h
and was bleeding, as if the bird had pecked it. I always thought that was the strangest story. My great-aunt wasn’t one for flights of fancy. But I can’t look at that painting now and not wonder if that’s blood on its beak, or berry juice.”

  “Wait a minute. My grandmother used to talk about a magic man, too,” Honor said. “A salesman who traveled through here once when she was a young woman. She said he stole hearts. Every time she told me the story, she used to say, If a man has so much heat he burns your skin when he touches you, he’s the devil. Run away.”

  This set off a slew of almost-forgotten stories that grandmothers had passed down to their granddaughters about the magic man, most of them warnings. Nana Osgood hadn’t been exaggerating about just how forceful Tucker Devlin’s personality had been. He was still talked about in awe, even if everyone had relegated him to fiction.

  He was living on in stories, stories that had been unearthed because his skeleton had been unearthed. But a man like that deserved to never be thought of again. Why couldn’t he have just stayed buried? No good had come of this.

  A ripple of exclamations started to roll throughout the gathering, and Paxton looked up to see that a black-and-yellow bird had found its way under the canopy and was flying around, causing people to duck. It flew in circles for a few minutes, bumping against the canopy, until it finally made its way out.

  And when it was gone, everyone had forgotten what they were talking about.

  Finally, Moira asked that everyone take their seats. She gave a short self-congratulatory speech about the lunch, then almost forgot to introduce the group they had sponsored that year, a quartet of Ukrainian violinists. Lunch was then served, beautiful food garnished with edible roses and tasting of lavender and mint and lust. People closed their eyes with each bite, and the air turned sweet and cool. The quartet played ravishing melodies that were strange and exotic. There was a curious sense of longing in the air, and everyone felt it. People began to think of old loves and missed opportunities. Unlike most of these functions, no one wanted to leave. Lunch lingered for hours. The quartet went through their repertoire twice. When the plates were cleared for dessert, the quartet announced that they had to leave for the next stop on their tour that night. Everyone stretched at their tables, as if waking up. Moira, standing to the side, looked very pleased with herself.