by Liz Talley
“I need to go, honey. Have fun with your father,” Abigail said.
“Mom!” Birdie squealed, not hiding the outrage in her voice. “You can’t go out with him. Dad’s coming over. And—”
“Why not? He’s a nice guy. Plus, he asked me.”
“Why? You’re all wrong for him.”
Hurt zinged straight to her heart at her daughter’s statement. “How?”
“You just are, Mom. I don’t mean you’re not pretty or anything, but you’re just, uh, just not like him.”
“I know that. It would be weird if I were.”
Birdie sighed. “Look, I’m not trying to be mean, but you’re older and you’re nerdy. You don’t fit with him.”
“Eva Brigitte, you ought to be ashamed. I may not be cool, but I’m not a nerd.”
“Have you seen your jeans lately? Or the music you listen to? You’re dangerously skirting lamedom, Mom. And Leif’s, like, hot. I don’t understand why he would want to take you on a date.”
“Maybe it’s because I put out,” Abigail said, punching the end button, her breath coming faster, her fists knotting at her side. “That little—”
And then she realized what she’d said…to her twelve-year-old daughter.
Crap.
Who said something like that?
She picked the phone up, dialed Birdie, but got no answer.
So she texted Birdie:
That last comment was a joke, but you hurt my feelings. Have fun with your dad. Don’t wait up.
Then she backspaced over Don’t wait up.
’Cause that sounded as if she might possibly put out for Leif. Birdie might not even know what put out meant. But she probably did because she read extensively…and she had gotten much of her sexual education from Cosmopolitan magazine.
She pressed Send and tossed the phone on the bed, her flirty mood diminished by her daughter’s hurtful words.
You don’t fit with him.
Like Abigail didn’t know that. She’d examined their suitability seven ways to Sunday and still had no answer. But that hadn’t stopped her from wanting Leif to fit her, if only a little bit. Besides, he seemed just as interested as she tried to pretend she wasn’t. That said something, didn’t it?
She picked up the jeans, the same fit she’d worn forever. They were comfortable and didn’t sag at the waist and show the everyday panties that she bought at the wholesale club. What was wrong with covering your butt? Maybe that was nerdy, but she didn’t have a back-door draft going all day long.
Abigail didn’t have any other jeans to wear to an outdoor picnic in the middle of winter, so she pulled them on with the white shirt and put on some pretty gold hoop earrings and a coin necklace bearing her initial. Grabbing a jacket and her phone, she headed downstairs.
Leif sat with Alice Ann, who leafed through a huge photo book that showed the renovations of Laurel Woods.
“There you are,” he said, lifting those gorgeous eyes, taking in her nerdy jeans and snap-button shirt with amusement. “Alice Ann was showing me all the work you did on this place. Amazing.”
Alice Ann looked up. “Yes, our Abigail is an amazing woman.”
“The flattery is getting thick in here,” Abigail joked, pulling a sweater off the hook beside the door. “Do you have everything under control, Alice? Leif and I are going to be only a short walk away so if you need me, just holler.”
“Literally? Or on the phone?” Alice Ann asked, quite seriously.
“On the phone. I’m pretty sure our guests won’t appreciate a bunch of caterwauling out the back door,” Abigail said, softening her rebuke with a grin. “That’s a little too much realism.”
“Can I take this book with me?” Leif said, lifting the book from Alice Ann’s lap. “I’d love to examine the process a bit more.”
“Oh, sure,” Abigail said, surprised he’d be interested in the renovations, but after thinking about it, realizing the artist in him likely appreciated the grueling transformation. “Are you ready?”
He rose. “I was ready forty-five minutes ago. Good thing tofu dogs are easy to cook.”
Alice Ann smiled like a fool, no doubt thrilled Abigail was going on a date. She’d been pushing Abigail to date her youngest son, Neil, who had a gambling problem and lived with Alice Ann’s grandmother. But he was a sweet boy…or so Alice Ann liked to say. Abigail hadn’t taken the bait.
“Oh, goodie, fake meat on a stick. Do you do this for all your dates?” Abigail cracked.
“Only for the ones who are late. On-timers get the added bonus of Tofutti.”
“What’s that? Oh, wait, that weird ice cream? If that’s true, I’m going to be late every time.” As soon as she said it, she knew it was presumptive. This date might be a one-and-done for her. Leif may wake up and realize he’d asked out a nerd, replete with high-waist jeans and a label maker. Appalling.
“I’ll mark it off my grocery list,” Leif said, winking at Alice Ann. “Thanks for showing me the pictures.”
A quick stroll through Abigail’s backyard later, they stepped into Leif’s house. The living room was austere with a simple overstuffed twill couch and some not very grown-up beanbag chairs. But the art covering the walls was breathtaking.
“Wow,” Abigail said, setting down the banana bread she’d grabbed off the counter on the way out the door and strolling around the room. Some pieces were abstract, strong in color and form. Others were landscapes and still lifes. There was even a sculpture masquerading as a painting. “Did you do these?”
“None of those. I surround myself with the work of others. Feels less indulgent, and it’s inspiring to be wrapped in other artists’ visions. Like I have a little piece of them with me.”
“Most are by friends?” she asked.
“The one you’re studying so closely was done by my mother.”
“It’s incredible.”
And it was. The huge piece of art was unusual in that it was half painting and half sculpture, molded out of some sort of plaster. The piece possessed sensual movement even as colors drenched the sweeping form with vibrancy. “I didn’t know your mother was an artist, too. Does she still—”
“She’s no longer living.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Abigail sensed Leif’s mood fading to reflective. Mentioning his mother had saddened him and though she wanted to know more about the artist who’d created something so stirring, she’d much rather re-create the flirty mood he’d had earlier, when he’d danced around her patio, eyes teasing as his touch promised untold delights. “So where are these tofu dogs of which you speak?”
He snapped out of his reverie and flashed a grin. “Follow me.”
He walked through an equally austere kitchen featuring only one piece of art—a bright chrysanthemum done in the spirit of van Gogh. Sliding the back door open, he waved his arm with flourish.
Abigail walked through the door into something out of a fairy tale.
“Oh, you’re joking,” she murmured as she took in the swaths of shimmering blue silks and Moroccan-style lanterns hung on hooks around the pergola-style patio. Fire pots scattered the perimeter, lending a nice glow to the darkening day. A good-size fire pit sat in the center with plump square cushions scattered on the jute rug. No traditional patio furniture could be seen, but large tropical plants and sago palms created a lush getaway steps outside the door.
Abigail inhaled, noting the scent of jasmine and spices in the air. “I feel like I’m in Sri Lanka or Morocco.”
Leif looked pleased with her response.
There were even lotus-flower candle things floating in the lap pool just beyond the patio, their flickering lights heightening the romantic theme. “I can’t believe a man did this.”
“Plenty of guys get in touch with their feminine side when it comes to creating a cool vibe for a date with a lovely lady.”
“Sure, but their date usually has an Adam’s apple and the same equipment south of the border.”
“Are you implying on
ly gay men have good taste and a flair for decorating? Way to stereotype,” he teased.
“I’m sorry, it’s just that most of the guys I know decorate with antlers, milk crates and beer signs. They wouldn’t know a lotus flower from a ceiling fan,” Abigail said, walking over to the unlit fire pit.
Leif laughed. “Well, maybe my standards are a bit higher because I grew up believing animals were our brothers and sisters here on this good earth. I was taught to enjoy the colors of the sunset and see potential in every element. Making the world more aesthetically pleasing was encouraged.”
Abigail turned to him. “That’s not a bad way to be raised.”
“I always thought so.” Leif gestured to the cushions. “Slip off your shoes and make yourself at home while I start the fire and get the appetizers from the fridge.”
A few minutes later a nice warm fire crackled in the pit, and a slate tray containing cheeses, hummus and figs sat between them. Leif handed her a glass of wine, clinking his against hers. “To what lies beneath.”
Abigail crinkled her nose. “Wasn’t that a horror film?”
He tilted his head, a soft smile gracing his pretty mouth. “Still, I like that toast for you.”
She crooked an eyebrow.
“Because beneath the layers you cover yourself in lies your true spirit. And I’m looking forward to knowing the real Abigail.”
“Oh,” she said, nodding at the buttery apple of the chardonnay, trying to ignore the sudden fluttering of nerves. “Good wine.”
“From one of my friends, as is the goat cheese.”
“So tell me about where you grew up,” Abigail said, snagging some cheese and nodding again to indicate her enjoyment.
“In Sawyer’s Peak, Colorado. My mother lived in the Seaton commune there as did many other artists.”
“A commune?”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t like what most people think. Sure, we were self-sufficient, sharing the work, creating things to sell in the farmers’ market. It was a gentle way to live. Simple, much like what the early transcendentalists embraced.”
Abigail couldn’t imagine living any other way than how she lived. She knew very few vegetarians. Louisianans’ cultural dishes and overall outlook reflected a different way of life. So a life without modern conveniences like bug spray and air-conditioning sounded miserable. “I can’t imagine growing up that way, but obviously you embrace that lifestyle.”
“Not always. You saw how complex things were with Marcie. I’m not always good at being…calm.”
Abigail smiled. “Difficult situation. So you said your mother was an artist and I saw her work, but what about your father. What did he do?”
“I don’t know.”
Abigail lifted her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know who my father is.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LEIF WATCHED ABIGAIL’S reaction to his statement. Revealing his father was someone still living in Magnolia Bend was a risk. But a calculated one. He needed help and knew he could trust Abigail.
“Oh, well, that’s, uh, a hard thing, I guess.” She shifted her gaze, embarrassed, looking endearing in her mom jeans and the white shirt with the snaps. With her hair down and slightly messy and bare feet peeking out at the hem, she looked much more approachable.
“It was, but I had plenty of role models in the elders of our community so I never really lacked for male influence.”
“Oh,” she said, her forehead crinkling. Several seconds ticked by. “So your mother…”
“Oh, she knew. She just wasn’t forthcoming.”
“But isn’t it important from a medical history standpoint? Or didn’t you wonder?”
“Sure, I’m normal. Mostly.”
She picked at a bit of cheese before tossing it in her mouth. Silence descended.
“Actually, searching for my father is what brought me to Magnolia Bend.”
Her head snapped up. “Wait…you think your father lives here?” She sounded incredulous, as if Magnolia Bend were way too small or dull to harbor an unknown father. He almost laughed at her caricature of shocked righteousness.
“When my mother died, she told me my father was still alive. Growing up, she never spoke of him no matter how much I pestered her. But near the end, she told me that she’d never told him about me and begged me to find him. She wanted to make things right, but she also told me people thought she killed someone. Or something like that.”
“Wait, what?”
“Her exact words were ‘They think I murdered a man.’”
“But she said you father was still alive? That doesn’t make sense.”
He crossed his legs, sipping the wine as he stared into the flames. “I know, but she was in a lot of pain and not very lucid. Bone cancer. The last few weeks were very hard. They gave her a lot of drugs.”
“So she implied he lived in Magnolia Bend?”
“She lived here for half a year. She was one of the last artists who lived at—”
“Oh, my God, your mother was Calliope?” Abigail’s mouth dropped open.
Leif felt part dread and part relief. “Yeah.”
“Oh, my God.”
“So you said.”
She snapped her mouth closed, the furrow on her forehead growing deeper. “She killed Simeon Harvey.”
“I suspected that’s what many thought when I learned the circumstances around Simeon’s death, but Hilda said—”
“Hilda?”
“She invited me to brunch yesterday and hit me with the fact she knew I was Calliope’s son.”
Abigail laughed. “My cousin is a sharp lady, but even so, how did she know?”
“I look like my mother. If I looked like my father, it would be easier to find him. Hilda said she’d help, but I wanted you to know, too, though I hope you’ll keep it on the down low.”
“Of course. You need to talk to Bart. His uncle was a quirky Southerner with odd habits. Very Faulkner-esque. Though I was a toddler when he died, I heard about it. Anytime a man worth millions plunges to his death, it becomes local folklore. Everyone knows the story.”
“What version do you know?”
“That nothing was proven. Bart found her with his uncle’s body and said your mother had convinced Simeon to change his will, leaving everything to her. Frankly, Bart painted your mother as some sort of trickster. He said Simeon could no longer walk so your mother rolled his chair to the second-floor landing and pushed him down the stairs. He broke his neck.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Because Simeon had called her on trying to swindle him. He said he was calling the police.”
Leif pushed the breath he’d been holding from his lungs. He hated hearing his mother cast in that light. “None of that makes any sense.”
“Why?”
“First, my mother wouldn’t allow me to kill a scorpion in our house. If she wouldn’t kill an insect, she damn sure wouldn’t kill a crippled man. Besides she said they thought she killed him, not that she had killed him.”
“Bart said he found his uncle at the bottom of the stairs and Calliope panicked and ran when she saw him. Supposedly he heard them screaming at each other just before he heard the crash of his uncle coming down the stairs. Maybe there was some sort of a struggle.”
“Maybe so but my mother wouldn’t fight over something like money.”
“Money motivates a lot of people to do things they normally wouldn’t. I’m not saying she meant—”
“Money never motivated my mother. She ran away from a wealthy East Coast family in the late sixties. Mother wanted to live in Haight-Ashbury, free love and all that. She ended up in the commune with an old boyfriend who smoked peyote and did a lot of woodworking. An old Pueblo woman taught her how to make pottery, so she stayed and started working in clay before getting into bronze. Calliope’s real name was Martha Jane Weiner and her father was a real estate broker on Long Island. She had a trust fund and didn’t need money.”
“Not if he was in a wheelchair.”
Abigail stared out at the night. She shifted and curved her arms around her knees, her light blue toenail polish incongruent with the serious woman he encountered in the halls of the school. The firelight softened the angles of her face, making her green eyes glow. “Maybe you’ll never know, but that doesn’t mean you can’t find your father.”
Leif shrugged. “I’ve gone my whole life not knowing, so I’ll survive if I don’t find him. Still, something inside me feels restless, like I need to know the truth. Maybe knowing what happened to my mother here would—” He clamped down on his thoughts. How could he say it would give him a different life? Knowing his father could give him grounding, an idea of why he was on this planet. Maybe discovering how love had ended so badly could help him set his own love life to rights. Leif wanted to stick somewhere…someday. “I don’t know. I wonder if it’s a bad idea. Maybe knowing about me would make his life worse. Maybe it would make mine worse.”
A few more seconds ticked by. “And you don’t have a clue as to who he is?”
“The only possible clue is a tattoo my mom had. She had a story for every tattoo on her body, but there was a small tattoo of a bird between her thumb and index finger she’d never speak of. Often I’d catch her tracing the outline, her eyes clouded. I always thought the bird reminded her of my father. But I could be wrong.”
“Good thing she didn’t say he lived in Dallas or Houston. That would be much harder,” Abigail said with a small smile. “So I’m guessing that’s why you wanted the book from Laurel Woods…and maybe that’s the reason you wanted to go out with me?”
“No,” Leif said, seeing very plainly that Abigail thought this was about his mining for information. “Sure, I thought visiting Laurel Woods might give me a sense of where my mother lived and loved, but I don’t think there’s anything left from her time there.”
“There might be. Bart had tons of junk packed away into huge storage containers in the cabins. When we bought the place, he washed his hands of the stuff. I opened a few boxes and it’s mostly things like hot plates, old dishes and art supplies. I haven’t gone through the rest of them because I haven’t had time. My plan was to renovate the cabins as guesthouses, expanding the inn’s business. You’re welcome to go through the stuff if you think it would help, but your best bet is to talk to some of the folks who were around then.”