Things I Want To Know List
1. My daddy’s people
2. When I get to wear a bra
3. If I’ll get Momma’s sadness
4. What I will be when I grow up
5. If gum really stays in your stomach forever
Chapter 8
The funeral service for Macy Jane Rochet took place at St. Phillip’s Episcopal Church. The parish rector, Father John Dinsmore, clothed in his white vestments and aided by an equally impressively dressed verger, delivered the liturgy for the burial of the dead. Secretly pleased that the church was filled to capacity and the mourners would hear his deep, compelling voice, he praised Macy Jane for her love of God and dedication to the community of Christ.
Vivien hadn’t known her mother to have so many friends but, as Vivien was learning, there was quite a bit she’d never known. Quite a bit Macy Jane had kept from her. Quite a bit she’d have to sort out, later. When she had time and space to think and breathe. When she was finally alone and could curl up in a ball.
When Father Dinsmore praised Sister Macy Jane’s love and devotion to Jesus, Vivien almost smiled. Whether it was, “Jesus hates ugly,” or “Lies make baby Jesus cry,” or “You can worry or vex—or insert any verb—Jesus right off of his cross,” Jesus had always been big in her momma’s life.
Vivien sat in the front pew, surrounded by more than a hundred people, but she’d never felt so alone in her life. Not even as a kid, singled out for being different. She wore a sleeveless black dress and her grandmother’s pearls. The princess-length necklace was nowhere near the same quality as the Mikimoto pearls Vivien had given to her mother, but the sentimental value was beyond measure.
She’d combed her hair into a loose bun at the nape of her neck and wore her mother’s black pillbox hat with the netting pulled over her face. She’d brushed waterproof mascara on her lashes and red smudgeproof lipstick on her mouth. Nonnie sat on one side of Vivien and her uncle Richie and his wife, Kathy, sat on the other. Just a few feet away, Macy Jane’s white casket gleamed beneath the chandeliers, and Vivien was grateful that the Episcopal Church required a closed casket. She didn’t think she could hold herself together if she had to look at her momma once more, wearing her pink dress and holding prayer beads in her hands folded across her abdomen.
The worst part was over. At least she hoped it was the worst part. Earlier, she’d done her duty and sat by the open casket while mourners poured in for the viewing. Except for the lipstick that was a shade too orange, her momma looked like she always looked. Like she was asleep and would open her eyes and sit up, and Vivien had had to hold herself tight so she wouldn’t jump up and run out of the room. She’d had to hold herself together when she wanted to tear off her own skin, rip out her own aching heart, or wail like Marta Southerland when she’d approached the casket.
Vivien had held it together during the viewing and during the long funeral. At the conclusion of the service, Henry and Spence and four other pallbearers carried the casket out of St. Phillip’s and to a silver hearse parked at the curb. Across from the church, a large group of boys and teenage girls, middle-aged women and men, stood behind a security barrier guarded by the four big men. In light of the TMZ internet post, Sarah had arranged a security detail to make sure the funeral wasn’t disrupted, but the gathering across the street was solemn. They simply raised one hand in the air above their heads, Zahara West’s rebel brand drawn on their palms. The salute was a sign of respect taken from the Raffle trilogy, and the sight of her fans gave her pause before she dipped inside the silver limo and sat next to Nonnie. Across from her sat her momma’s only brother, Richie, and his wife, Kathy, watching the Raffle fans as if they were about to rush the car. Vivien wasn’t all that surprised to see them. Thanks to TMZ, they knew she was in Charleston. Someone had caught her eating at the sports pub, but the image of her blue bra dangling from Henry’s finger almost made it worth it. She wondered if he’d seen the picture. Did he still think she was just paranoid?
The funeral procession wove through the Holy City toward Mt. Pleasant Cemetery. Vivien forced herself to engage her uncle and Kathy in small talk, even as Kathy eyed Mamaw’s pearls around Vivien’s neck. It had never been a secret that Kathy thought Macy Jane got everything after Mamaw’s death. She believed that Richie got slighted and had refused to accept that there’d been little to get. Her momma had always said that death made some people “too tacky for words. Kathy is from the North. We have to pray for her.” Vivien didn’t care where the woman was from, she just never felt like praying for a woman who’d said bad things about her mother, nor for Uncle Richie, who’d never quite forgiven his sister for her mental illness and the chaos it had created in the family.
After several minutes of “yes” and “no” answers, Vivien turned her gaze and looked out the tinted windows. Small clusters of Raffle fans gathered along the route and stood with palms raised on the side of the road.
“Who are those people?” Nonnie wanted to know.
“Fans of the Raffle books and movies.”
“What in the devil are they doing?”
“Showing respect for Momma.”
“Well, they’re not even bothering to hide their crazy.”
Vivien didn’t think they were crazy, at least not all of them. She appreciated her fans, but some of them were certifiably crazy. Last year, a man dressed as Evil Commander Rath had tried to break into her house and she’d had to beef up security. Most were normal, respectful people but she did worry that some might show up at the cemetery and cause a distraction just by being there.
As the limo pulled to a stop at the grave site, Vivien was relieved not to see anyone standing among the headstones with Zahara West’s symbol on their raised palm.
The pallbearers poured out of the second limousine, then carried the white casket to the site. Nonnie, Vivien, Richie, and Kathy sat in the chairs provided by the funeral home. Henry and Spence stood directly behind them as Father Dinsmore conducted the committal service. The soles of Vivien’s peep-toe pumps were planted on the grass turf while her fingers twisted her white hankie. She’d thought the viewing had been the worst part.
She’d been wrong. Nonnie placed her hand on Vivien’s and gave her a gentle squeeze. The older woman’s touch of unexpected kindness sent Vivien over the edge, and she could no longer hold back her grief. From behind her sunglasses, tears fell from her lids and a sob escaped her lips. What was she going to do without her momma?
Henry rested a hand on her shoulder, and he spoke next to her right ear. “You can do this, Vivien.” His warm breath seeped through the netting of her veil and brushed the side of her throat. “You’re going to be okay.” With him standing so close, she almost believed him. He squeezed her shoulder and the warmth of his touch gave her strength at the moment she needed it most. His thumb brushed the back of her neck before he straightened and dropped his hand, and she felt the absence of his strength.
The graveside service was blessedly short, and a confusion of emotions tumbled inside her stomach as she climbed back into the limo and rode away, leaving her mother behind. She felt relief that the funeral was over and guilt that she felt relief. Her momma was gone, and Vivien was completely alone now. Anxiety crawled across her skin and she made herself take slow, even breaths. Her momma would soon be in the ground.
By the time Vivien made it to the reception in Nonnie’s double parlor, her head pounded and her throat hurt from trying to breathe past her tumble of grief and anxiety.
Vivien raised the black netting from her face and made her way to the bar as Richie and Kathy joined the line of mourners at the tables groaning under the weight of funeral food. She’d managed to pour a glass of wine before her momma’s friends closed in on her to express their sorrow and give condolences. Everyone wanted to give her a hug and weep on her neck and let her know they’d pray for her. Vivien wasn’t opposed to anyone praying for her, she just wondered if the prayers would be sincere, or more in the vein of t
he disingenuous, “She’s too big for her britches. I’m going to pray for her.”
A plate of food appeared beside her on the bar, filled with cherry-and-Coca-Cola salad, cheese mousse, and ham. A few minutes later, someone added corn loaf. After that another added anchovy-stuffed eggs and rosemary potatoes. The faces and names before her became a blur. For an hour, she received touches and hugs and yet felt so alone in the world.
“Macy Jane was a wonderful lady,” one of her mother’s many church friends praised, while another said, “the service was real lovely,” all approved of her momma’s “big funeral.”
“So much classier than Richard Green’s service last week,” one of the Episcopal ladies said, and they nodded in agreement.
“After the liturgy, his wife, Lucy, popped up beside the prayer table and sang their favorite song.” The woman’s lips pinched. “Sixty-Minute Man.”
“Filthy,” they all agreed.
“Shocking.”
“Inappropriate.”
“I’m going to pray for her.”
After another fifteen minutes of gossip and grief, Vivien excused herself to use the bathroom. She pressed a cool washcloth to her face and wondered if anyone would notice if she escaped to the carriage house for a nap. Of course sneaking away wasn’t a choice, and she reapplied her red lipstick, preparing for the long day ahead of her. When she returned, well-wishers had scattered about the room, and she moved to the bar once more and the plate of food. Someone had added a piece of Louisa Deering’s Twinkie loaf, bless her heart. She poured a glass of Pinot Grigio because the day had been long and was going to get longer. She raised the glass to her lips and glanced through the original-glass windows. Henry and Nonnie stood in the backyard under the wisteria arbor. The late-afternoon sunlight bounced off the lenses of Henry’s sunglasses and the single button of his black suit jacket. He raised his hand to the top of his head and the bottom of his jacket rose up his hips. Nonnie shook her head and he dropped his hands to her slim shoulders. Nonnie put a hand to her lips and Henry pulled her into his arms and patted her back. He looked more the parent than child, and Vivien would not have believed it if she hadn’t see them with her own eyes.
“Vivien?”
She turned toward the sound of her name and it took her several moments to recognize the cute round face framed by light blonde hair. “Lottie Bingham?”
“It’s Davidson now.” Her old friend grinned and pulled her into a tight hug. “Lordy, there’s nothing to you anymore.”
Weight was one of Vivien’s least favorite topics. Throughout her life, people had either called her fat or skinny. They’d either tried to restrict her fattening food or yelled at her to eat a cheeseburger. She pulled back and looked up into Lottie’s big blue eyes. “How have you been?”
“Real good.” Lottie dropped her arms and took a step back.
“Rowley and I heard about your momma as soon as we got back from Dollywood. I’m so sorry, Viv.”
Dollywood. Too funny. “Thank you.”
“You look like your movies. Well, except for the one where you were a hooker.”
Vivien laughed. “The Stroll.” She’d chosen the role as her Pretty Woman to break herself out of the sci-fi mold. It had worked, sort of. The R-rated movie had been universally panned by critics and nominated for a Razzie. She didn’t think the movie was as “bad as a cheap hooker.” After multiple script changes, “a turkey of a film stuffed with filler,” was somewhat accurate. “What have you been up to since high school?”
“I went to the University of South Carolina and met my husband, Rowley.” She paused and pointed to a redheaded man talking to Spence on the veranda. “We have two girls, Franny Joe and Belinda,” she added.
A lot of Southern women were married and on their third child by the time they reached thirty. If she’d stayed in Charleston, she was sure she’d have a husband and a kid or two by now. Just one more reason why she was glad she’d left town at the age of nineteen. Vivien wasn’t opposed to marriage, but she’d been raised by a single mother in the backyard of a single woman. She didn’t know a lot about marriage, but she liked the idea of falling in love and sharing her life. Of finding a man who had her back and wasn’t intimidated by her success. She’d like to give it a try someday, but there were a couple of problems blocking that path.
First, Vivien didn’t trust men.
As a kid, she’d watched men use and lie to her mother, and her own love life wasn’t much better by comparison. In the past, she’d dated bums and users who’d sold stories about her to the tabloids. Horrible stories that made her wary and distrustful of anyone outside the business. There was a reason why actresses and actors dated each other. A tacit agreement that neither would sell stories in fear of having their own story sold.
Second, Vivien didn’t really like dating actors.
Yes they were pretty to look at, but she didn’t find them very interesting. She was an actress. She knew the business. She lived and breathed it every day, but it was one of the last things she wanted to talk about when she went home at night. She’d much rather talk with people who lived outside the Hollywood bubble. People who didn’t say things like, “When I was on set last week . . .” or drop names “At Sundance this year, Bob threw a party that . . .” or complain about their privileged lives “I ordered kale chips on my rider! Where are my freaking kale chips?” Vivien had to admit that she was privileged too, but she was often bored by the same conversations from the same people who’d forgotten that they hadn’t always been so fortunate. Vivien hadn’t forgotten. On those rare occasion when she did, she reminded herself that she and her mother had cleaned house for the privileged. The house in which she now stood in her Armani dress and six-hundred-dollar shoes.
Vivien chatted with her old friend about their days at Charleston Day School and refilled their wine glasses. The two of them stood at one end of the bar, as Lottie caught her up on various classmates. She raised the wine to her lips and, over the top of her glass, her gaze landed on Henry, standing within a circle of men, drinking hard liquor, and laughing at something. He’d taken off his black suit jacket and looked handsome in his white dress shirt and black tie. Henry had called her “darlin’” yesterday. That made it two times now.
“And no one’s seen hide nor hair of Caroline Mundy since forever. I suspect that’s because she went from debutante to doublewide.”
A tall blonde with killer curves joined the circle of men and slid her arm around Henry. He tilted his head to one side and gave her a killer smile. Vivien wondered if he called the woman “darlin’.”
“Do you remember Jenny Alexander?”
Vivien thought a moment and returned her attention to her friend. “Brunette? Pants so tight you could see her religion?”
“That’s the one. Her brother Paul married one of the Randall girls. They had three kids, and one day he just up and decides he’s a lesbian. Like Bruce Jenner deciding he’s Caitlyn.” Lottie gasped. “Do you know the Kardashians?”
Vivien caught herself before she rolled her eyes. “I met Khloe at the Moschino fashion show in Milan, but no.” She looked toward the circle of men. Henry was gone and so was the blonde. “I don’t know the Kardashians.” Khloe seemed perfectly nice and Vivien did not begrudge any of them their success. She just wasn’t a fan of scripted reality.
After several more minutes of listening to her friend, she excused herself to say good-bye to her uncle and Kathy. The two were driving back to Texas and wanted to make it as far as Atlanta before they stopped for the night. She walked them to the door, where Richie gave her a surprisingly warm hug and an invitation to visit them anytime. He might have even been sincere. She hoped so because he was the only family she had left. Kathy gave her a pat on the shoulder and Vivien watched them walk across the veranda and down the steps. She looked beyond her relatives to the sidewalk across the street. A small group stood near the curb and Vivien moved back into the house. Their hands weren’t raised and they weren’t in
costume. More than likely they were just tourists gawking at one of Charleston’s most beautiful and historic mansions. Maybe she was just being paranoid, but she didn’t want the public to know where she was staying in Charleston. Her momma’s carriage house had absolutely no security and flimsy locks. That had to change if she was going to stay there while she settled her mother’s affairs. She had to leave for L.A. in the morning, but she’d call Sarah later and see if she could manage to have a security company take care of it while she was gone. While she was in Charleston taking care of her mother’s affairs, she needed to feel safe.
When she returned to the parlor, she chatted with Gavin Whitley and ate the strawberries and watermelon someone had set in a bowl next her plate. It had been a long time since she’d seen Gavin, but she recognized him immediately. He was the male version of his sister. Better-looking because the Whitley genes were better suited for a man. He was tall, blond, and blue-eyed like Spence, but there wasn’t a bit of Henry’s dark broody looks in Gavin Whitley.
Two hours into the reception, Vivien’s feet hurt and she was so tired she was almost groggy. She was talked and hugged out, but she knew she couldn’t leave yet. She poured another glass of wine and found a blue-striped settee next to the open French doors. The small couch wasn’t all that comfortable, but it was out of the way. A nice breeze touched her face and she closed her eyes. She breathed the fresh air deep into her lungs and dreamed of climbing into her momma’s bed.
“How are you holding up, Vivien?”
Just Kiss Me Page 8