“Let me take you to the Harborview, Vivien.”
She felt the weight of his big hand on her shoulder. “I want to go home.” She wiped her eyes and looked up at Henry. Up past the mud on his wide chest to his dark eyes beneath darker brows. “I need to go the carriage house.”
“Is your suitcase upstairs?”
“Yes.” She stood and Henry’s hand fell to his side. She never thought she’d ever have a reason to step foot on Whitley-Shuler property again.
“I’ll get it.” He pointed toward the garden. “I’m parked in back.”
Vivien carried her saucer and teacup to the sink. She remembered buying the cups and saucers for her mother’s housewarming party. She rinsed the teapot and set it in the sink to dry. The coat fell from one shoulder and she pulled it tight around her as she moved across the kitchen. Again she caught the scent of his jacket. The thick canvas material had a woodsy top note, a full-bodied middle like wind across warm skin, and an undertone of something definitely swampy. She grabbed her hairbrush and phone from the table. With her thumb, she checked for messages. She had twenty texts and thirty-three e-mails, and ten missed phone calls. None of them from the coroner.
Sunlight broke through the clouds and poured through the drawing-room windows. It cast irregular shadows across the hardwood floor and covered furniture. She slipped her phone into her purse sitting on the sheet protecting the sofa. How did a person plan a funeral? The only funeral that she really remembered was Mamaw Roz’s. She’d been fifteen and remembered going with her momma to pick out a casket and order flowers. Everything else was a blur.
Did a person just Google mortuaries? Her momma had been Episcopalian. Did that make a difference when it came to funeral arrangements and cemetery plots? And what about food? Funeral food was big in the South.
There was so much to do that she didn’t know where to begin, and taking care of her momma wasn’t something she could push on Sarah. Sarah could run out and buy panties and bras for Vivien. Her momma’s funeral was too personal. Something only Vivien could do. Like when she’d been a kid and her momma would depend on her whenever she’d fall into her one of her sad depressions.
Dust tickled her nose and she sneezed. The townhouse was a mess, and her gaze took in the hole above the torn-out fireplace mantel. She’d bought her momma this house, and now it was a wreck. Instead of the pink house where her mother could live happy, it was a real disaster area. Anger bubbled up like lava, and she let it roll through her because it felt a lot better than the burning grief scorching her heart. Her mother had been notoriously gullible, especially when it came to men. It would have been incredibly easy for a crook to convince her that the house needed renovation. A swindler who preyed on vulnerable women. Vulnerable women who owned historic houses that had to have each and every restoration approved, then checked and reapproved by the historical society or preservation society or whatever the heck they called themselves. Vivien looked around at the sanded floor and wiring hanging from an outlet, and her temper rose to thermal nuclear. Every step had to pass inspection and be approved, and a shady contractor could conceivably make this project take years.
“The rain stopped,” Henry said as he walked into the room.
She turned to watch him move through the variegated shadows. Sunlight passed over his hard shoulders and through his dark hair. He held her Louis Vuitton suitcase in one hand and her muddy dress and black straw hat in the other. The strapless bra and panties she’d worn earlier were soaked through with rain, and she’d shoved them into a nylon pocket in the pull along.
“Are you ready?”
Instead of answering, she pointed at the missing mantle. “This house was inspected just two years ago. What the heck happened?”
“The flashing pulled away from the chimney.” With his free hand he pointed to the ceiling, then lowered his finger to the hole in the wall. “Water ran down the brickwork and caused rot in the lathing boards and plaster.”
“Who said?”
“An inspector for one.” He dropped his hand and returned his gaze to hers. “A general contractor and journeyman for another.”
A skeptical frown pulled at her mouth and she folded her arms beneath the big coat. “Water created all that?” She pointed her chin at the wrecked wall.
“Water is the most destructive force on earth,” he said as he walked across the room to the French doors. The sun once again dipped behind clouds and washed the drawing room with deeper shades of gray.
What did he know about home renovation? He was a stockbroker or money manager or something or other to do with banking. Not exactly a job that had anything whatsoever to do with slinging a hammer. “Momma was way too gullible and obviously let some con artist in here to destroy the place.” She grabbed her red handbag and followed behind him. “Crooks who prey on vulnerable women should be run over by a bus.” For good measure she added, “Then shot.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Momma believed everyone and could be talked into anything. Clearly, some sneaky bastard took advantage of her trusting nature.”
“No one took advantage of Macy Jane.”
“How do you know?”
He opened the doors and looked across his shoulder at her. The sun broke free of the clouds and he flashed a bright smile. As if he was a heroic caricature, she could swear she saw a twinkle on his right incisor. “I’m the sneaky bastard who destroyed the place.”
Chapter 4
The Diary of Vivien Leigh Rochet
Keep out! Do NOT read under Penalty of Death!!
Dear Diary,
Donny Ray Keever is the CUTEST boy in school. He sits behind me in math and pokes the back of my chair with his binder. He asked me if I had an extra pencil he could borrow. I told him he could keep it. He said, “Thanks.” I think he likes me. ☺
Dear Diary,
Proof!!! Spence Whitley-Shuler is stupid! He chews gum that is so hot it burns your mouth. I always thought Spence was dumb. He smiles at me and laughs like he thinks he’s funny. He’s not funny. His jokes aren’t funny. I think he’s slow in the head. Why else would he chew hot gum that burns your tongue?
Dear Diary,
It’s official!! I love Donny Ray Keever! His hair is golden blond and his eyes are turquoise azure topaz. He’s sooo handsome. Sooo super hot. I told him I was getting braces on my teeth next week. He said, “Cool.” Cool is the coolest word.
Dear Diary,
I don’t think I’m ever going to get a bra. I measured myself today. No change since last time. ☹
Dear Diary,
The Mantis accused me of eating some of the petit fours for her stupid garden party. She had a dozen boxes of them delivered this morning. They looked like tiny purple presents with lacy green bows. She said someone ate half a box. She’s so stupid. Someone ate a whole box!! I laughed and laughed, but then I got sick. I barfed purple and green in my closet. Momma found out and got mad. She said she was fixin’ to wear me out, but she didn’t. She did make me clean up the barf. ☹ ☹
Dear Diary,
No Fair! I told Momma I want a Tamagotchi, but she said maybe for my birthday. My birthday is two months away!! All the Tamagotchis will be gone by then. Every kid in the world will have one but me! And Momma might forget. Like when she gets sad and forgets that I don’t like macaroni and cheese all the time. Or like the time I was a lamb in the Christmas program. Momma made my costume and we practiced my part: “baa—baa. Behold—baa baa.” I got to sit right next to the baby Jesus, but Momma forgot and went to see Titanic with stupid Chuck instead. I cried but Mamaw Roz took me for ice cream.
Dear Diary,
Death to Danny Ray! He said I was fat and the only reason I go to Charleston Day School is because Momma gets financial aid. I almost cried but I didn’t. I made my eyes stay dry and I told him I could do something about my weight if I wanted, but he couldn’t do anything about his ugly face. When I got home, I told Momma and she said some people feel so bad about the
mselves that they have to make other folks feel bad right along with them. She said men are no good and I’m beautiful. But she’s my momma and has to say that. I put my head in her lap and she rubbed my back as I cried it out. I don’t want ice cream anymore. ☹
Things I Don’t Want To Do List
1. Eat ice cream
2. Clean the Mantis lair
3. Clean anything
4. Run in school
5. Math
Chapter 5
Vivien dreamed she was on the set of a film she knew nothing about and in which she didn’t want to participate. No matter how much she protested, everyone insisted she play her role. Each time the director said, “Action,” the crew stared at her, expecting her to know what to do. She’d always had a gift for memorizing her lines but she’d never been given a script. She liked to break down a scene and know her part before she stepped in front of the camera, but she didn’t know her part. Improvisation made her freeze and her insides felt stuck in ice.
She woke once and, for several terrifying seconds, she didn’t recognize her surroundings. Then the sharp edges of grief cut into her heart as her gaze took in the shape of her mother’s old white dressing table and the outlines of perfume bottles and the snow globe she’d made in the third grade out of a Mason jar and glitter. She buried her nose in her mother’s pillow and breathed in the scent of flowery shampoo. When she closed her eyes again, she dreamed of soft loving hands and pink magnolias. She dreamed of Mamaw Roz and her house in Summerville, where she’d spent Christmases and Thanksgivings and where she stayed when her mother fell into depression.
The next time Vivien opened her eyes, sunlight was streaming through the exterior shutters and lacy sheers. The sound of someone moving around in the kitchen downstairs drifted through the open crack in the bedroom door. Last night, she’d texted Sarah the address of the carriage house and location of the hidden key. She thought about getting up, but turned on her side and adjusted the pillow instead. She didn’t want to get up. She didn’t want to face the day. She didn’t want to face what lay beyond the bedroom door. She only wanted to stay in the comfort of her momma’s bed. In between the caresses of Momma’s soft sheets, where she’d often slept after a bad dream or childhood scare. Her eyes drifted shut and the heavy weight of sorrow pulled her toward a peaceful dream.
“It’s time to get up, girl.”
Voice recognition stabbed Vivien’s sleep, and for several horrifying heartbeats, her peaceful dream turned into a nightmare, much like Dorothy happily skipping down the yellow brick road only to have the Wicked Witch of the West appear in a poof of black smoke and ruin her good time. Her eyes opened and her nightmare was confirmed. Only this witch was blonde and lived in the South.
“I’ve made you tea and toast.” Nonnie Whitley-Shuler stood in the doorway, dressed in a yellow silk blouse and floral scarf tied around her neck. Her ever-present pearls, yellowed with age and worn by generations of Shuler women, hung around her neck. Nonnie’s pearls were a badge of honor and prestige. She loved to tell the story of how her great-grandmother had hidden her momma’s pearls in “Grandfather Edward’s nappy” when a “swarm of Yankees” had ransacked the family plantation, Whitley Hall.
“I’m not hungry,” Vivien croaked.
“You have to eat.” Nonnie’s blonde hair curled about her shoulders and long face. She’d never been a beautiful woman, but she’d always done the most with what God had given her. “I’m not going to have people say I let you starve.”
As always, Nonnie barked and everyone was expected to obey. Vivien sat up and swung her feet out of bed. Not because she’d been ordered, but because no matter how appealing, she couldn’t stay in bed forever. Along with underwear and bras, she’d forgotten to pack a funeral dress.
“You look more like your momma in person than you do in movies.”
She didn’t know if that was meant as a compliment or not, but she took it as one. “Thank you, Ms. Nonnie.” She shuffled to the end of the bed and pulled on her mother’s kimono robe over her short pajamas. Her cell phone sat on the dressing table and she grabbed it before following Nonnie into the narrow hall, past the closed door of her old bedroom, and down the stairs.
The three original carriage doors had been replaced with arched windows long ago, and she squinted as they passed through the blocky light stretching across area rugs and worn furniture. Vivien checked for messages and missed calls on her phone as she walked into the kitchen behind Nonnie. There was nothing from the medical examiner’s office yet, and she set the phone on the oak tabletop where she’d eaten most of her meals as a child.
“Henry told me you were here when my momma passed.”
“Yes.” A bowl of strawberries sat in the middle of the pedestal table and the older woman carried two small plates of toast to the table. “Would you like jam? I believe Macy Jane made peach again this year.”
“No, thank you.” She slid into a spindle-back chair.
“I’ll have a spot of marmalade.”
Yes. Vivien remembered Nonnie’s precise “spot of marmalade” and watched her dab the orange preserve at the corner of her toast. Just like always.
Vivien curled her hand around a delicate blue cup and brought it to her lips. Warm tea flowed into her mouth and the taste of sugar on her tongue filled her with visceral memories, sweet and comforting. Since moving away, she’d had to break herself of the sugar habit. As a result, she’d had to give up tea because no matter her physical address, she was still a Southerner. Tea without sugar just wasn’t done. Or at least not talked about in polite society. Like French kissing your first cousin.
“Henry tells me you have an assistant traveling with you.” Nonnie took her seat across from Vivien and placed a linen napkin in her lap.
“Yes. Sarah should be here anytime.” And Vivien had a list of things she needed her assistant to do for her this morning. First, find a Starbucks and a triple grande latte, nonfat, no foam, with two packs of Truvia. Second, shop for panties and bras. Before she’d gone to bed last, she’d washed her underwear and hung them to dry over a laundry basket. Just like when she’d been a teen and in charge of herself.
“Have you heard from the coroner’s office?”
Vivien glanced at her phone and returned the cup to the saucer. “Not yet.” She surreptitiously slid her napkin to her lap like she was ten years old again. “I need to know what happened to Momma.”
Nonnie’s long, thin fingers picked up her toast. “Eat first. You’re too thin.”
That coming from the woman who counted every calorie before she put it in her mouth might be laughable if Vivien was in the mood to laugh. “I’m not a child anymore.”
“Yes. I know.” She took a bite, and only after she swallowed and touched the napkin to the corners of her lips did she add, “Macy Jane would never rest in peace if I let her girl faint from hunger.”
Vivien resisted the urge to shove her food in her face or stick her tongue out. She was thirty years old but Nonnie made her feel like a kid again. “Do you know why Momma didn’t live in the row house?”
“She liked this house better.”
“This house isn’t hers. It belongs to you.” Vivien raised the toast to her mouth and took a bite. She didn’t realize how hungry she was until she sank her teeth into thick whole wheat and tasted the melted butter.
“This house belongs to your mother. It’s in her name.” Nonnie’s wide green eyes looked across at Vivien as she dabbed preserve on her toast.
A chunk of wheat got stuck in Vivien’s throat and she washed it down with tea. Nonnie had given her mother the carriage house? She would have been less surprised if she’d learned Nonnie gave her staunch Episcopalian soul to the devil, which might actually have happened, now that she thought of it. “Since when?”
“Quite a long time. I guess it belongs to you now.” The older woman took a small bite as if that wasn’t shocking news.
“Why didn’t she tell me?” Vivien was beginning t
o suspect there were a lot of things her mother didn’t tell her.
“I assumed you knew. She certainly called the carriage house her home.”
Yes, but Vivien had always thought she meant “home” as in where they resided. Her mother had always dreamed of moving away. She’d had fantasies about living in exotic places. She’d wanted a Candy-Button row house of her very own. She’d wanted their own backyard were Vivien could climb trees without someone complaining about broken branches. “What else hasn’t my mother told me?” she asked more to herself as she took another bite.
“I couldn’t say. Trying to follow Macy Jane’s thoughts was often like trying to watch the flight of a butterfly. A beautiful butterfly, drifting from one flower to the next.” That was true enough and a surprisingly nice way for Nonnie to describe her mother. Then she totally blew it with, “That’s why you were such a hoyden.”
Hoyden? Who even used that word anymore? Sixty-something-year-old, uptight, tight-ass women, that’s who. Bless her heart. “‘By day she was healthy and hoydenish, a veritable dynamo, by night a beautiful enchantress.’” Vivien grabbed a strawberry and bit it in half.
Nonnie lifted a brow. “If you know enough about Zelda Fitzgerald to quote what people said about her, you also know that she was diagnosed with schizophrenia and died in a mental hospital.”
Just Kiss Me Page 4