Promises to Keep

by Chaffin, Char

  He paused for a second as Annie turned to Travis and flung her arms around his neck, then rapped his gavel sharply to dispel the congratulatory rumble already forming. “Order, please, I’m not finished. Annie and Travis,” Perdue eyed them over the rim of his reading glasses, “I trust you won’t mind a visit from County Child Welfare once in a while, say, quarterly, for a period of one year. Said visit not to exceed one hour, for the purpose of verifying the child care progress of Henry Travis Turner. Unannounced visits,” he clarified.

  “No, Your Honor. I mean, yes, Your Honor. I mean, visits are fine,” Annie stammered out.

  “Good. Child Welfare will be happy to hear of it,” Perdue retorted dryly, and unbent enough to bestow a smile on them.

  He glanced over at Travis’s mother, who stood as if turned to stone between the hapless attorneys assigned to her. “Mrs. Quincy, your son and future daughter-in-law will be randomly visited within the next twelve months, to assure they are taking proper care of your grandson, Henry Travis Turner. I trust this will appease your worry concerning your grandson’s well-being. I am sure you’d like to set some kind of visitation schedule in motion, and I am certain Travis and Annie will find it within their hearts and in the child’s best interests to allow his grandmother access now and then. Court is adjourned.”

  With a slam of his gavel, Perdue brought everyone to their feet. He stepped down from his bench and strode out the door. Behind him in the courtroom, the Turner family hugged Annie, and slapped Travis on the back before taking turns hugging him, too.

  While Mary Turner kissed his cheek, Travis couldn’t help but look over at his mother, as she stood and tugged on pale leather gloves as creamy and delicate as her own skin. She smoothed them carefully, tucked her purse under her arm, and swept from the courtroom without so much as a glance his way. Travis refused to feel guilty for the judge’s decision. But he couldn’t deny the piercing hurt, deep inside. He couldn’t help but feel he’d just become an orphan.

  “Let’s get out of here, huh?” Henry slung his arm over Travis’s shoulder. “I know two little boys who are very anxious to see the family. And I’d bet you anything there’s a few pies in the refrigerator, compliments of Aunt Nan.” He winked at his sister-in-law, and a rosy flush stole over her cheeks.

  “Pie? Why on earth would I make you a pie, Henry Turner? You think all those ingredients grow on trees?” She huffed her way toward the courtroom’s double doors.

  Chapter 33

  The gown hung in Mary’s closet. She rounded the corner toward her bedroom and smiled when she saw the door wide open and Annie mooning over it for about the fourth time that day.

  Mary and Annie had both scolded Nan, but Mary knew her sister would do as she pleased, and it had pleased her to buy Annie a wedding gown. A few days ago Nan drove to Thompkin and laid it in Annie’s arms. While Annie cried on her shoulder in reaction to the lovely dress, Nan had cuddled her close and whispered gruffly, “Every bride deserves the gown of her dreams.”

  “But the cost, Aunt Nan—” Annie tried to protest.

  “Oh, faddle. Haven’t you ever heard of clearance sales, my girl?” Mary looked on, amused, as Nan gave Annie’s ear a quick tweak. “I went to Bridal Palace, over in that newfangled mall. They were practically giving their gowns away. And as soon as I saw this one, I knew it was meant for you.”

  Nan plucked a hankie out of her pocket and wiped Annie’s tears. “You can still have your daisy bouquet, if you must be thrifty. If we can find decent springtime daisies by now. They don’t grow on trees, you know.” That now-standard line was just what Annie needed to turn the sob in her throat to a watery snicker. She hugged Nan again, fiercely, then caught Mary around the neck and squeezed her, too.

  Mary could have sewn a simple gown in just a few days with minimal expense. The last thing she knew her baby girl wanted was to burden anyone with wedding costs they couldn’t afford. Annie would marry the man she loved and nothing else was more important.

  But the dress was perfect. Simple in design, the heart-shaped neckline slipped off Annie’s shoulders at just the right spot. Small, dainty cap sleeves showcased her slender arms and the fitted bodice curved into a dropped waist, which erupted into a flutter of scalloped chiffon panels. The back panels lengthened to form a subtle train. There wasn’t any beading. No seed pearls. Instead, its very simplicity made it special.

  When Mary came up behind Annie, she already had the protective bag unzipped and was sighing yet again over the chiffon panels. “Caught you! How many times have you looked at it today?” Mary snagged her at the waist.

  Annie leaned her head back on Mary’s shoulder. “Once or twice.” That understatement earned her a pinch, and Annie giggled. “Okay, four or five times. I can’t stop myself. It’s so beautiful, Mama.” She turned to face Mary. “Aunt Nan said it was on clearance, but this time of year, why would a bridal shop have a sale like that?”

  Thoughtfully, Mary tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her daughter’s ear. Annie was nobody’s fool. She’d told Nan as much when her sister called from the mall in Roanoke and announced she’d found the perfect dress for Annie.

  “You know how set Annie is against you spending your money, Nan.” Mary spoke softly so Annie, upstairs with Hank, wouldn’t overhear her.

  “It’s not my money, it’s Annie’s,” Nan retorted in satisfaction. “All that “rent” she tried to pay me went into a savings account for her. There was enough to buy the gown. Why, I only had to toss in a few dollars of my own.”

  “Nan—”

  “Well, maybe more than a few. So what? That child deserves a wedding gown. Heaven knows I have money in my bank account that sits there and grows dusty. Now, I’ll bring it up at the end of the week. You’re not to tell Annie, you hear? She was proud of herself, giving me room and board money. I’d sooner cut off a hand than upset her or make her feel badly that I didn’t keep it in the bank.”

  Mary promised not to say a thing, not even to Henry, about how Annie really came to have her dress. And now, seeing the way Annie sighed over it, her hands reverent when she touched it, Mary was glad Nan had gone with her instincts. Annie would look like a dream, wearing it. Her sister was the sweetest person in the world, and her gruff exterior hid a heart of pure gold.

  To diffuse her own emotional state, Mary took one of Annie’s hands and examined it. “There better not be anything on your fingers that can smear this dress, young lady, as much as you’ve been pawing at it.” In spite of her teasing words, a catch roughened her voice.

  “I’m going to be so happy, Mama. Please don’t cry.” Annie pulled her close.

  Mary stroked her girl’s soft brown hair. “I know you will, Munchkin. It’s all I ever wanted for you.” She eased away and kissed Annie’s cheeks. “Your happiness. It’s all your daddy ever wanted, too. And he’ll be the proudest daddy in the world when he walks you down the aisle, with you on his arm wearing your pretty gown.”

  “I’m worried about Mrs. Quincy,” Bette said to Phoebe Sherman.

  Phoebe looked up from her lunch preparation and frowned at the blunt statement. Curious, she asked, “What’s she been doing that would cause you worry?”

  “For one thing, she’s holed up in that study of hers all hours of the day and night.” Bette jerked her chin toward the foyer and the locked study door. “She paces and mutters to herself. She canceled her Wednesday bridge club and her Monday Guild luncheon. Said she doesn’t want any of those women in the house ever again.”

  Bette’s concern showed on her ruddy face. “She’s not eating properly. All she ever seems to want is tea and those thin little lemon cookies that you can practically see through. And I tried asking her if I could swap Friday with Jenny, because Dougie and I—well, we have our blood tests for the marriage license that day. But she told me,” Bette dropped her voice to a scandalized whisper, “she told me to “fuck off.” Can you imagine, Mrs. Quincy saying a word like that? I’ve never, ever heard her swear, not even th
e mildest cuss word.”

  Phoebe rinsed her hands in the sink and wiped them off, as she processed Bette’s concerns. Ruth had changed since losing that custody case two weeks ago. Never overly pleasant to the staff, she’d become downright hateful and surly to everyone from Phoebe herself to Charles, her gardener, whom Ruth had always seemed to hold in such high esteem. She even rebuffed her friend, Janice Cabot, who’d called three times to speak to Ruth. Janice had finally given up, probably certain Ruth would never forgive her for what had appeared to be lack of support during the custody hearing.

  If only Martha were still at the Hall. Phoebe missed her calmness and common sense at times like these. She sighed once, then put it aside. She added a few finishing touches to Mr. Ronald’s lunch, which was more important right now than anxiety over Martha’s dismissal or Ruth’s bizarre behavior.

  Mr. Ronald was her biggest worry. His appetite had plummeted in the past year, and Phoebe often thought she prepared his meals for nothing, as he rarely ate them. She managed to get one or two prescribed protein drinks down him each day, and considered it a small victory. But his body seemed to be shutting down. It hurt her heart to think of how short his time on this earth might be.

  “Phoebe? What should we do?”

  Bette’s fretful voice brought Phoebe back from her unwelcome thoughts, and she hastily folded a napkin and laid it on Ronald’s tray. “I don’t know. But right now I can’t be thinking about it. I have to try and get as much of this lunch into Mr. Ronald as I can. Let me give Martha a call later on today, and maybe I’ll call Dan Marley, too. He deals with Legacy business, doesn’t he?” At Bette’s nod, Phoebe hefted the tray and carried it out of the kitchen. As she headed toward the elevator, she glanced over her shoulder. “When I speak to Mr. Marley, I’m going to ask him to reinstate Martha. She needs to be here.”

  In her suite of rooms, Ruth stood at the window glaring at the beautiful grounds, faithfully groomed daily by Charles and two other day helpers. She didn’t know their names nor did she give a shit if she ever learned them. All of the roses were in full bloom. She didn’t give a shit about them, either.

  What was the point of having flowers, or a carpet of perfect lawn that stretched over the rolling hills? The formal gardens, the luxurious pool area, the tennis court? The three-hole golf course? What was the point of tastefully decorated rooms, precious heirlooms and priceless works of art?

  What was the goddamned point of having Quincy Hall, without an heir? Ruth pressed on her aching temples and cursed the onset of yet another headache. She’d been having them every day for over a week. It was the fault of all the people in her life who tromped on her and caused her untold pain. Her own son had betrayed her in the most heinous way. Her grandson was beyond her reach. Her moronic attorneys resigned before she could have the satisfaction of firing them. And her husband—her once-handsome, once-strong husband—was a fucking rutabaga.

  “Fuck.” Ruth whispered the word. “Fuck it.” A bit louder. It felt satisfying, she decided. A taboo word, never spoken in this hallowed house by anyone. Ladies didn’t curse, ever. Ladies never used this most foul of all curse words.

  “FUCK YOU ALL!” Ruth screamed it at the top of her lungs.

  She’d tried her best to follow Mama Quincy’s genteel principles, for all the good it had done her. Her son still left her for the trashy granddaughter of a monster. Her husband still suffered two strokes and was now useless to her. Yes, being a lady certainly afforded her a wonderful life, hadn’t it?

  Ruth pressed harder on her temples, finally giving in to the need for medication. She staggered to her private bath and fumbled in the medicine cabinet for aspirin, uncapped the bottle and shook five of them into her palm. She nearly broke her etched crystal water glass in her rush to fill it with enough tap water to swallow the pills. Finally she got them down, and carefully replaced the glass in its matching crystal holder. It wouldn’t do for her to break either and have glass shards everywhere. Besides, the lovely glass and holder once belonged to Mama Quincy, and Ruth treasured it.

  Mama Quincy—how Ruth longed for her guidance, her thoughtful advice and caring warmth. Mama would have known how to best handle the Turners, offering valuable advice to deflect all of the suffering they had visited upon the Quincys. Mama would have lent added strength in the goddamned courtroom, too. She would have won the boy, if Mama had been there.

  Ruth wandered through her elegant rooms, unable to take pleasure in them as she usually did. There had to be a way to get the child. Benson Perdue, the fool, spouted legal jargon in his idiotic ruling, going on about visitations and such. As if she’d be satisfied with just a visit now and then. She barely felt the way her nails cut into her palms when she curled them into tight fists.

  She didn’t want a stingy schedule of damned visits. She wanted her grandson, in this house. She wanted him under her singular control and she wanted to raise him as truly befitted a Quincy.

  With Duncan, there’d be no mistakes, no errors in judgment. His time outside of the Academy would be regimented and geared toward preparing him for the life he had been born to assume.

  She wouldn’t allow him to dodge his lessons, or to run off in the summer to some horrid, smelly pond, grubbing about in brackish water for nasty, slimy fish.

  No more association with the utter dregs of Thompkin, either.

  Duncan would be hers to mold and shape. He’d wear designer clothes chosen by her, sleep in a lovely room painted blue, to match his eyes . . .

  She frowned briefly, trying to remember. Blue. Not brown. Her darling boy’s eyes could never be brown.

  If she could only see him. Ruth stopped in the middle of her sitting room and imagined how he’d run toward her with his arms open wide and a smile on his face for his Nana. She’d find another judge, a better judge, one who would understand the boy belonged with the only person who could open doors and pave his way with wealth and stature, prestige and opportunity. Why, under her guidance and authority, young Duncan might one day aspire to the Presidency.

  With the right force behind him, it could happen. But if left in that dismal hovel on the foul side of Thompkin—well, it would never happen, would it?

  She had to save him. He was the Quincy future.

  “You mean, you didn’t want to go along on the great shoe-shopping expedition? I’m shocked.” Mary ruffled Travis’s hair as she stepped into the kitchen. He sat at the table with Hank in his lap, and for once Hank wasn’t trying to play with his breakfast, instead taking his scrambled eggs and applesauce with cherubic placidness.

  Travis shuddered. “Shopping is painful enough. Going along with two excitable women on the hunt for the perfect shoes? No, thanks. Besides, I have to head over to the library. There’s registration I can only do online, and I need to use the computer lab.” He scooped up more fruit and made airplane noises as he sent the rubber-coated spoon toward Hank’s mouth. The baby giggled and opened wide, clapping his hands. He sucked and then bit at the spoon.

  Mary winced. “I’m sure glad Annie stopped nursing that boy. He’s been biting on his spoons for months. Better them than his poor mama.”

  “She told Sissy babies bite. I hear Sissy turned white as a sheet. Annie’s got a mean streak. I can’t imagine who in the family she gets it from.” Travis sent Mary a sidelong glance as he fed Hank the last spoonful, and she laughed as she held her arms out for her grandson.

  “Well, I’m almost certain I said the same thing to Annie. And I’m almost certain she turned just as white. We mothers have such rare moments of rottenness, you know. Most of the time we have to be perfect.” She patted Hank on the back as he burped loudly, then looked proud of himself. “Good one, honey-pot! Let’s get you settled in your sandbox, okay? It’s a shame to waste time indoors on such a sunny day.” Hank planted a smacking, sticky kiss on her cheek and burbled happily at the mention of his beloved sandbox.

  “Can I pick up anything while I’m out? It shouldn’t take very long provided I can
get right online and don’t have to wait for a cubicle.” Travis hefted his backpack over his shoulder and reached in his pocket for his keys.

  “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to get some more milk. Maybe a couple of gallons. Sissy’s drinking it like crazy and I swear Henry could slurp down a quart at every meal.”

  Mary started to go for her purse, and Travis waved her off. “No way. I have money. I could also pick up some pizzas for dinner, you know. Save you from having to cook. Pepperoni and black olive,” he enticed.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t! It’s not like I don’t have time to make something—although Lambelli’s does have the loveliest crust, far better than anything I can make.” Thinking about her favorite pizza, Mary dithered, undecided, hating to see Travis spend his money. Finally she exclaimed, “Go ahead! Before I change my mind.” She caught hold of his arm and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “You’re a sweetheart for thinking of it, my dear.” She walked with him to the door. “Now, you take your time. Hank and I are going to have a nice play date outside, then he’ll have his bath and a nap. I reckon the girls will traipse all over Weston and maybe end up in Collette, before they find those shoes Annie needs for her dress. And I have no idea when Mark and Sissy might make it back in, what with visiting her mama. So, take all the time you need, all right?”

  “I will, thanks.”

  A few minutes later, standing at the door and admonishing Hank to wave to his Da, Mary sighed with contentment. She had a wonderful afternoon ahead of her, playing with her favorite boy. With the wedding coming up so quickly, she knew these precious days would soon be gone, as her children found their places out in the world. It was happening too fast, but she was happy for all of them.

  Mark’s transfer to Andrews Air Force Base would bring him and Sissy closer, and she’d see her sweet Toby more often. The twins would start tech school outside of Charlottesville. They’d worked hard these past few years and saved their money. Student loans would take care of whatever they lacked. Bobby’s decision to enlist in the Air Force and follow in his big brother’s footsteps had pleased everyone, and Susan would work and live in Weston. All of her chicks, settled and thriving, and all but Bobby remaining comfortably close to their parents. Truly, what more could she and Henry ask for?