Temple Secrets: Southern Humorous Fiction: (New for 2015) For Lovers of Southern Authors and Southern Novels

by Susan Gabriel

  Iris and Rutledge were Catholic school chums and she confided in him quite a lot. Could he have had access to the Book of Secrets? If so, what would he gain from it? More law suit battles for Iris? With her being his biggest and best client, perhaps he would have a motive for releasing them, but how would he have gotten to that ledger in the first place? Queenie hates that she hasn’t been able to solve this mystery.

  Secrets aside, Queenie took it as a good sign that after Bo Rivers initially entered the room, he shook her hand first. Perhaps he realizes that when the Temple house reverts to her they will continue to have dealings together. Or perhaps she was simply sitting closest to his desk.

  As controlling as Iris could be, for the last decade she has turned most house-related things over to Queenie and always talked of when the house would be left to her. Hopefully, Iris filled Edward in on her plans, too. Whenever Iris spoke of the future, she referred to her eventual demise as a kind of extended vacation. Never actually using the word death.

  When I go away, she would say, you need to do this and that.

  Well, you’ve gone away now, haven’t you Iris? Queenie thinks. Although maybe you haven’t.

  She glances around the room. Violet is shivering and she wishes she had a sweater to give her.

  Meanwhile, Edward taps a finger against the arm of the chair as if both irritated and inconvenienced. However, Queenie knows nothing short of a total apocalypse would keep him from this meeting. Edward is the oldest son—the male heir—here to collect his legacy.

  Even though Queenie wouldn’t dream of threatening Edward’s inheritance, the house should be hers. Not just because of Iris’s promise all these years but because Queenie has taken care of the mansion like it was her own for decades now. No small feat, given how obstinate Iris was about every little detail.

  Her mother’s warning from earlier that day causes Queenie to sit straighter, as well as feel a little queasy. If anyone knows what Iris Temple is capable of, it is her mother.

  But if anyone knows how to hit curve balls thrown by Iris, it’s me, she thinks. “Bring it on, Iris,” she says under her breath.

  While the Temples have their share of eccentricities—the males with their penchant for bedding the servants and the females with their controlling yet delicate constitutions—Rose has somehow escaped that fate, as well as Queenie. As for not being a “true Temple,” as Iris reminded her daily, she responds with a hearty halleluiah that she isn’t. It is her mother’s DNA, after all, that keeps her sane.

  Queenie focuses in when Bo Rivers reads a clause stipulating that anyone contesting the will loses all rights to any of the monies. He glances at Edward when he reads that part. It is just like Iris to not want any talking back, even in death.

  “This could get interesting before it’s over,” Queenie whispers to Violet, who nods her agreement, her arms folded across her chest. She hears a chattering and leans closer. “Is that your teeth?”

  Violet nods again.

  When it comes to the bequeathing part of the document, her name is read first: Ivy Temple. She hasn’t heard her real name in so long it sounds unfamiliar to her. Remembering her mother’s warning, Queenie braces herself for Hurricane Iris.

  “Ivy Temple will receive a stipend of $20,000 a year for the remainder of her natural life,” Bo Rivers reads.

  “Say what?” Queenie says. Rose and Violet gasp. All Iris has done is extend her allowance.

  Edward Temple laughs. “You were expecting more?”

  Queenie looks at Edward thinking: You are damn lucky I don’t have one of Mama’s spells at my disposal. Then she wonders how much damage she could do if she sat on him. At the very least it might mess up his crease.

  She turns her attention to her present dilemma. In the twenty seconds it took to read the part of the document that pertains to Queenie, her world has shifted into something unknown.

  “Mama was certainly right about this one,” she says under her breath.

  Violet looks concerned.

  Never mind that there is no mention of the house or other properties, or any of the Temple millions hidden away in stocks and bonds. This news sticks in Queenie’s throat like a wedged chicken bone. She coughs to dislodge it. Iris not only gets in the last word but she also has her revenge. Queenie has been put in her place from the grave.

  A hand touches her shoulder and she jumps, thinking it is just like Iris to take a moment to literally rub it in. But it is only Spud Grainger.

  “Miss Queenie, are you all right?” he asks.

  “I’ve been better, Mr. Grainger,” she says, “but thank you for asking.”

  Queenie and Spud have never talked that much, even though they often find themselves in the same room. For different reasons, they were both bonded to Iris and his was undoubtedly the more genuine reason. Iris was a difficult woman and not easy to love, but Queenie had grown accustomed to her lifestyle. She is the first in her family to not scrub floors, dust countless antiques and make endless meals for the Temples.

  You didn’t have any intention of leaving me the house, did you Iris, she thinks, looking up at the light fixture. It was all just an act to keep me loyal. Her face grows hot with this awareness. Queenie is not easily duped. But duped, she has been.

  While Violet and Rose express their bewilderment at Queenie’s meager inheritance, Edward’s eyes sparkle, as if her defeat means he is one step closer to his divine destiny. Her mind scrambles to keep up with what just happened. For the first time in thirty-five years Queenie worries about where she will live. And who will the Temple house go to? Edward?

  Over my dead body, Queenie decides. Living with Edward isn’t even a remote possibility. Not that he will even suggest it. For all she knows, he will probably evict her later this afternoon and then where will she go?

  Even though Queenie has spent the last three decades of her life doting on Iris, Savannah’s matriarch has her revenge. Her guilt over the casket prank disappears. She wishes now she had soaked Iris’s casket in chicken grease and thrown in a match. Their acts of retaliation hold no comparison. The last word is given to Iris.

  Bo Rivers reads Rose’s name next and Rose crosses her legs, the leather chair responding with a sound that Queenie thought only Iris could make.

  “Rose Temple will be given a one-time amount of two thousand dollars,” Bo Rivers says.

  Edward laughs and claps his hands like a child opening a delightful gift at Christmas. To be given such a small amount is more insulting than being totally written out of the will. In an instant, Queenie forgets her own distress and turns her attention to Rose, who has turned as white as one of the monogrammed Temple sheets.

  Bo Rivers holds out a hand as if a school-crossing guard at a dangerous intersection. “Wait. There’s more,” he says. “The will stipulates that if Rose moves back to Savannah to live, that amount will increase to twenty million dollars. However, if at any time she moves away from Savannah, the money will go to the Iris Temple wing of the Daughters of the Confederacy building.”

  More gasps and murmurs fill the room. The vein on Edward’s forehead bulges like an alien creature might burst through his skin. They are all on a roller coaster ride that Iris has designed. Queenie can almost hear the click, click, click of the metal car as they ascend the next steep climb. Meanwhile, Rose’s face turns from ashen to red. A tear rolls down her cheek. Queenie reaches into her purse to get Rose a tissue and hands it to her.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Queenie says to her.

  Conflicted feelings are written all over Rose’s face. It is Iris’s final manipulation. How can Iris expect Rose and Max to move to the east coast? Their whole life is out West.

  As if awakening from his stupor, Edward says to Bo Rivers: “Wait a minute, that can’t be right. Rose was written out of the will years ago.”

  “In the latest revisions, she was written back in,” Bo Rivers says.

  “Mother was very troubled at the end,” Edward says. “Those damn s
ecrets getting out made her insane. Plus I think my sister may have manipulated her. She’s always been after the Temple money.”

  Bo raps on his desk, as if to call order to the room. “Edward, this isn’t the time or place--”

  A gust of frigid air sweeps through the office, a current so strong that papers flutter on Bo River’s desk.

  “Did y’all feel that?” he asks, turning to see if one of his permanently closed windows is open.

  “Iris is weighing in,” Violet says matter of fact, like ghosts attending the reading of their wills is commonplace.

  Bo Rivers’ gaze darts around the room, like he’s looking for his dead client. “We need to finish this up,” he says. He continues reading, now a little faster. The name, Henry Grainger, is read next.

  Henry must be Spud Grainger’s legal name, Queenie thinks. She finds herself relieved that his parent’s didn’t intentionally name him after a root vegetable. Queenie grips the chair arm to prepare herself for the next surprise.

  “Henry Grainger will inherit three beachfront properties on Hilton Head Island,” Bo Rivers says.

  From the shock registering on Edward’s face this real estate must be worth millions. Queenie covers her smile. What a hoot, she thinks. Iris has left one of the Temple jewels to a jazz musician turned butcher. At the same time, Edward looks like he might take a cleaver to him.

  “For God’s sake, that can’t possibly be right,” Edward insists. “He’s nobody.”

  Even Bo Rivers looks offended. “I assure you, Edward, your mother was quite explicit in her wishes,” he says.

  Meanwhile, Spud Grainger has a hand across his heart like he might recite the Pledge of Allegiance to Iris Temple. Seconds pass as his hand moves from his heart to his tie, as if this single action might somehow help him pull himself together. He clears his throat.

  “I think there’s been some kind of mistake,” Spud says.

  “No mistake, Mister Grainger.” Bo Rivers thumbs through the rest of the will and looks at his watch, as if needing happy hour to start earlier today.

  The vein on Edward’s forehead appears to be throbbing now. In the event that he strokes out, Queenie knows how to administer CPR like she did with his mother. She cringes at the thought of giving Edward mouth-to-mouth.

  “Mother wasn’t of sound mind,” Edward says. “She had trouble with her health for years. Hell, everybody can attest that she smelled like a sewage plant.”

  A thin layer of sweat aligns itself above Edward’s top lip as he twists the ring on his finger.

  “This will is airtight, Edward,” Bo Rivers says. “Your mother didn’t leave any wiggle-room. Besides, everyone in this room can attest that Iris Temple would never do anything she didn’t want to do.”

  “But what I’m saying is that Mother wasn’t well,” Edward says to Bo. “For all we know she was releasing those secrets herself.”

  “No chance,” Queenie says. “You weren’t with her the first time she saw them. Iris wasn’t that good of an actor.”

  “Why else would she give millions in property to a damn butcher?” Edward asks. He turns his glare to Queenie and then back at Bo. “She was manipulated, Bo, and for all I know you may have been in on it.”

  They meet each other’s gaze. “Careful, Edward,” Bo says, as if to remind him whose turf they’re on.

  Their exchange reminds Queenie of a game of H-O-R-S-E in basketball, where each player tries to make a shot from the same location. Except with Edward playing, a better name for the game might be J-A-C-K-A-S-S.

  Even though everyone in the room appears visibly shaken, Bo Rivers is intent on finishing the reading of the will. Edward’s name is read next. He repositions himself in his chair like his coronation requires good posture. He takes a deep breath and the vein relaxes on his forehead.

  Queenie anticipates that Edward will receive the Temple mansion. In which case she might have to move in with her mother at the beach tonight, considering what $20,000 a year buys these days.

  But instead, Bo Rivers reveals that Edward will inherit a collection of real estate properties in Atlanta.

  “Wait a minute,” Edward says, his look disbelieving. “Those are junk properties. They aren’t worth anything.”

  “Sorry, Edward,” Bo Rivers says, in a tone that reveals he isn’t sorry at all.

  But what about the house? Queenie wonders. Maybe she gave up too soon.

  Edward’s face is an unnatural shade of red. She waits for his head to explode. Instead, he folds his arms tightly against his chest and looks like he did as a little boy whenever he didn’t get his way, which wasn’t very often.

  With the exception of Violet—who appears to have slipped into hypothermia—they all wait to hear who gets the central jewel in the multi-jeweled Temple crown.

  The reading continues. Large dollar amounts pass to several different charities, the Daughters of the Confederacy and the Junior League being the biggest winners in that category. Then Bo Rivers announces the last item of business, the Temple mansion.

  Queenie leans back as Edward leans forward. The only thing missing is a drum roll as the winner is announced.

  “The historic Temple house in downtown Savannah, Georgia,” Bo begins, “is to be left in its entirety to Violet Stevens.”

  The news hits Queenie like a cymbal crash at the end of the drum roll. She does what comes naturally and giggles.

  Everyone turns to look at Violet. “What did I miss?” Violet asks, as if shaken from a daydream.

  Bo Rivers reads the news again for Violet’s benefit.

  Iris, I never knew you had this in you, Queenie thinks, barely unable to contain her glee.

  Meanwhile, Edward strides out of the office, his fists clinched. A blast of cold air follows him out, along with an invisible contrail that smells strongly of rotten eggs.

  “Edward’s true legacy,” Queenie says, covering her nose with her handkerchief.

  Queenie turns to congratulate Violet, who keels over on the sofa in a dead faint.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Violet

  Violet opens her eyes to see several people standing over her. Spud, on his knees, gently pats her hand and tells her everything will be all right. To counteract her dizziness, she focuses on his tie.

  “Welcome back,” he says. “We lost you there for a while.”

  “Thank goodness you’re okay,” Queenie says to Violet. She’s on her knees, too—something Violet has never actually seen her do—and she looks relieved to see her awake. She fans Violet with what looks like Miss Temple’s will, evidently grabbed from the lawyer’s desk. The breeze makes her even colder than before.

  “Did I imagine it, or did I just inherit the Temple house?” she asks Queenie.

  “You didn’t imagine it,” Queenie answers. “Iris has surprised us all.” Queenie smiles, as though not the least bit upset.

  “You mean I’m not fired?” she asks.

  “Not by a long shot,” Queenie says.

  Violet remembers the seconds before she fainted: the collective gasp, everyone looking at her, Edward Temple’s face frozen in controlled fury. Then she remembers feeling warm for the first time in Bo Rivers office right before the light-headedness hit, like the time she tried to stand up too soon in the hospital after giving birth to her daughter, Tia. The room became a washing machine on spin cycle, and then faded to black.

  While Spud continues to pat her hand, Queenie leans over and asks if she’s okay. For a second, Violet imagines what it must be like to have parents. Meanwhile, Rose takes on the role of first responder and helps Violet sit up. She holds three fingers in front of Violet’s face.

  “How many do you see?” Rose asks, her expression serious.

  Violet answers the correct number. She’s never seen Rose act like this before.

  “Who is the president of the United States?” Rose asks. She widens her eyes, as if to offer a clue.

  “Rose, I haven’t lost my mind. I just passed out.” Violet still
feels a little light-headed and definitely confused, but she doesn’t think her current state is a result of a concussion, only the shock of a lifetime.

  In the background, the lawyer is on the phone to the paramedics. His secretary stands in the corner videotaping the entire event, as if to cover him if a lawsuit arises.

  With the help of Rose and Spud, Violet stands. Her knees feel shaky and for the first time since Violet fainted, she notices the energy in the room has shifted. Iris isn’t there anymore.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Rose asks.

  “It was just such a shock,” Violet says. But, in reality, ‘shock’ doesn’t begin to describe what she feels.

  Violet assures Bo Rivers that she is fine and that paramedics are unneeded. “I just fainted,” she says. “Wouldn’t you if you just inherited a mansion in downtown Savannah?”

  He chuckles and agrees he probably would. Then he tells his secretary to turn off the video recorder, and everyone returns to their seats. Without Edward and Iris, the room feels different. Almost peaceful. They could be a party of friends, except no one seems to know how to proceed, including Bo Rivers.

  “Now where were we?” Violet says with comic flare, which sounds like something Queenie would say instead of her.

  “You had just inherited the Temple mansion,” Queenie says with another smile.

  A new blast of cold air brings chill bumps to Violet’s arms. Miss Temple is back. The vibration registers in Violet’s solar plexus. It accelerates and grows more chaotic. New frequencies emerge and Violet doesn’t understand what these new energies mean.

  Her grandmother has offered to teach Violet more about the Gullah tradition. But with Violet’s full-time job and caring for Jack and the girls, she just hasn’t had time to pursue it. But maybe she should make time for it. After all, her grandmother won’t be around much longer. In a weird way, she feels her presence in the room, too, as if here to protect her.

  Miss Temple’s energetic charge bounces around the room like a four-year-old after drinking a 16 ounce Mountain Dew.