The Ladies of Garrison Gardens

by Louise Shaffer

  “That's beside the point. Doesn't it bother people that this woman has a conflict of interest?”

  “How?”

  “Three-quarters of the articles in the Gazette are about the Garrisons—the family or the business.”

  “And in the past those articles were written by that model of journalistic integrity, Hank Barlow.”

  “At least he wasn't directly connected to the empire. Is the entire town going to pretend they don't know what Gloria's daddy does for a living?”

  “The way I've heard it, her daddy isn't so happy about his baby girl's new profession. She won't be sucking up to the Garrison shrine.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Gloria.”

  “You know her?”

  “We've met.”

  “How?”

  “I get around.”

  He did. It was unnerving how many people seemed to consider him a close personal friend. Not that she was keeping track. “Gloria wears ugly shoes,” Laurel said. “And while she's wearing them, she talks about emotional investments.”

  “And she doesn't eat meat. Fortunately, Chrissie doesn't seem to mind.”

  “Who is Chrissie?”

  “Her partner.”

  “Gloria told you all of this already? I didn't even know she'd come to town.”

  “I'm friendly. I like people.”

  “Unlike me?”

  “Change of subject.” He paused to scoop a second helping of ice cream into his bowl. “So, how's it going with you and Gloria's father?” he asked.

  “It's in the works,” she said vaguely. She'd been hoping she'd have more to report to him by now.

  “What about the books? Do you need someone to go over them with you? You probably should hire an accountant to help you.”

  She took a deep breath. “I haven't seen the books,” she admitted.

  “They haven't given them to you yet?” he said indignantly. “Honey, if Lawrence is stonewalling you—”

  “I didn't ask him.” She told him about Sheralynn's cousin.

  “You're stealing your own financial records?” he asked sharply. It had occurred to her that he might disapprove of the Hail Mary pass she was trying to do around Stuart, but she wasn't prepared for his tone of voice.

  “I'm going to catch him off guard,” she said crisply, to end the discussion. “Can I have more ice cream?”

  She should have known crispness wasn't going to do it. “You were afraid to ask Lawrence for the records, weren't you?”

  “This seemed easier.”

  “Bull. You were afraid you were going to piss him off.”

  “All right! I'm scared. I've never pretended I wasn't.”

  “Well, get over it.”

  “It's not that easy for me.”

  “It's not that easy for anyone!” The dogs, hearing the edge in his voice, were trying to find cover behind or under the furniture. “Of course you're scared. You're a smart person, being scared is a fact of your life. But you don't give in to it.”

  She couldn't believe he was going at her like this. “I am not giving in, damn it!”

  “Stuart Lawrence isn't going to respect you until you force him to. You own those financial statements. You have a right to see them.”

  He was right, and somewhere in the back of her brain she knew it. “Maybe I don't want to see them. Maybe I don't want any of this crap!”

  “Laurel—”

  “Maybe I don't want to be respected. Maybe I shouldn't be! Hell, I wouldn't respect me if I were Stuart Junior!”

  He was watching her and shaking his head. She wasn't his fantasy woman now, that was for sure. “When are you going to stop buying what they're selling?” he asked softly.

  “Buying what?”

  “All your life, the nice people said you were trash and you believed them.”

  “That's not what—”

  “It's exactly what this is about. The sad thing is, you've always been worth ten times more than the nice people. You had the mother from hell, but you got yourself to school every day. A perfect attendance record, and straight A's right up to your senior year. You read Faulkner for fun, for Christ's sake; you turned me on to The Great Gatsby—”

  He was bringing up things she didn't need to think about. “And it's been downhill for me ever since. Maybe the apple doesn't fall that far from the tree. Ever think of that?”

  “You're not Sara Jayne!”

  “Go ask them about that at your daddy's bar. Or better yet, I'll give you a list of names to call.” That would get him. He'd walk out now. Except he didn't.

  “You want to match lists, honey? I'll give you mine. Anyone your age—or mine—who doesn't have one doesn't have a pulse.”

  “Says the perfect son. The doctor from frigging Harvard.”

  “Get something straight. I'm not afraid of your big bad past. I don't feel sorry for you because you had a bad time. And I'm not going to be your goddam babysitter like Denny. If you want to fight Lawrence, I've got your back. If you want to take the money and run, that's fine too. But I will not watch you fuck up so you can keep on feeling rotten about yourself.”

  “You won't watch me do anything. Because you're going to get the hell out of my house, and you're going to butt out of my life!”

  That was when he left.

  After he was gone, her house seemed way too quiet. The red light on her answering machine was blinking. She pushed the button and Stuart Junior's voice—surprise, surprise—came at her.

  “Laurel, I don't want to pressure you,” he lied. “You've had several days to get that power of attorney to me. We're facing many challenges at the resort and the gardens, and we need to be able to make decisions.” There was a pause. “I wouldn't say this if I didn't feel I must make you understand the gravity of the situation, but”—pause for dramatic effect—“there's never been a will that couldn't be overturned. Laurel, I'm speaking now as a lawyer and—” Laurel erased the rest and headed for her bedroom. For the first time in months she knew exactly what she wanted to do.

  It was ten-thirty on Saturday night. The drinking crowd at the Sportsman's Grill would just be getting started. It took her five minutes to pull on her tightest tank top, ram her feet into her red cowboy boots, and wriggle into her snuggest jeans. “The girl is back!” she told the dogs. “Don't wait up!”

  The Viper roared happily down the deserted highway while Patsy Cline sang “Crazy” from the CD player. Laurel Selene McCready was gonna party. She was gonna dance and sing and get shit-faced. Because she was celebrating. Stuart Junior had given her a way out.

  “I'm quitting,” she sang, putting her words to Patsy's music. “I'm dumping the whole mess and splitting.”

  She was going to tell Just Call Me Stuart to overturn the damn will. Let him take the log palazzo, the money, the financial statements, and even her beloved car if she could just stop being worried all the time. She'd never owned stuff before and she wasn't going to miss it now. And she really wasn't going to miss being responsible for the livelihood and well-being of three thousand people.

  “And Perry can go to hell,” she sang.

  Whatever crowd now hung out in the Sportsman's Grill was there in force. The parking lot was jammed, mostly with pickups, souped-up racetrack wannabes, and motorcycles. The Viper slid into a spot right down front, the best auto in the place, doing her proud.

  She got out of the car and gave herself the little tug that always made her tank top settle just a bit lower in her cleavage and turned to lock the car. Then she saw the suitcase. It was on the floor of the car in front of the passenger's seat, right where she'd left it.

  And she knew she wasn't going to be dumping a goddam thing—not the house or the resort or the decision about signing the power of attorney. It was too late for that. Because at some point while she'd been hanging out with the three Miss Margarets and helping Peggy and talking to Perry, she'd changed. It wouldn't solve a thing for her to walk away now, because she knew people were g
oing to be hurt. And it was her responsibility to make it better if she could. And if she didn't try, she'd be no better than the people she'd hated all her life.

  “Fuck,” she said. And she got into the Viper and went home.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  MONDAY MORNING, Laurel got up early and drove to the imposing gate that protected the residents of Fairway Estates from the rest of the world. She figured catching Stuart at home would be less intimidating than seeing him in his bare little office at the resort. Besides, she wanted him to know she was up early and ready to take care of business. Unfortunately, she'd forgotten there were guards at the gate.

  “My name is Laurel Selene McCready,” she said, trying to be impressive. “Mr. Lawrence will want to see me.”

  It was Lindy Lee who actually okayed her to the guard.

  “Stuart's gone to work,” she said, as she led Laurel into the dining room. She was dressed, made up, jeweled, and coiffed, although still barefoot. Laurel wondered if it was a fashion statement or if her feet hurt.

  “Have some coffee with me,” Lindy Lee said.

  “I should go. I need to talk to Stuart—”

  “And he needs to talk to you. You're driving the poor darling tee-totally mad, you know.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “I'm not.” She looked at Laurel and laughed. “Bless you, don't look so bewildered. And if you won't drink my coffee, at least sit down and talk to me. I believe you'll find it interesting.”

  Laurel sat.

  “Before I start, are you planning to do that interview for the Gazette?”

  “That's right. You're the owner now.”

  “And a more silent partner you'll never meet. But I know Gloria wants to ask you about some things that are going on at the gardens, or maybe it's the resort, or both. I make it a point not to know about that kind of thing myself.”

  It was probably how she managed to stay married.

  “Has Gloria asked her father about what's going on?”

  There was a sad little cackle. “He wouldn't tell her if she did. My Child and my husband do not have a copacetic relationship. He's never approved of her politics or her—uh, friends. Stuart can be . . .” She trailed off, then started again. “Stuart is a good man—well, he could be. But he's spent his whole life covering up for the old bastard.” She smiled. “That would be my late unlamented father-in-law.”

  “Mr. Lawrence Senior?” Laurel tried not to sound surprised. Had anyone besides his son liked the man?

  “He was a rotten lawyer, as well as being a world-class bully,” said Lindy Lee. “I never knew old Mr. Dalt, but do you really think he meant for poor little Peggy to have control of his beloved resort and gardens after he died? You know as well as I do how people like the Garrisons work. Ask yourself: Would you have been his pick to carry on the glorious family legacy?”

  “It doesn't matter what he would have wanted. I'm here.”

  “My point exactly. Stuart's illustrious daddy drew up a will so full of loopholes it looked like bad crochet work. And when my poor husband tells you he can overturn Peggy's will, he's whistling in the dark. Thanks to his father, only a blood relative of Peggy's could challenge that thing. And Peggy didn't have any family.” She sipped her coffee. “I overheard my husband leaving his message on your answering machine last night.”

  “And you're letting me in on this because . . . ?”

  “I'm tired of watching Stuart turn into his daddy. To know the old man was to despise him.”

  “He must have done something right. Peggy trusted him.”

  “Peggy hated his guts. And from something she told me once, I gather Miss Myrtis loathed him too.”

  “But Myrtis brought him here.”

  “She did, but she must have had second thoughts. But by then it was too late. He had no gift for the law, but he was a great manipulator, and I gather old Mr. Dalt was putty in his evil hands.” She shook her head, “With that man for a role model, it's no wonder my Stuart is so awful. Try not to hold it against him, will you?”

  She actually seemed to want a response. “Uh, sure,” Laurel managed. Then, before the conversation got any weirder, she stood up. “Thanks for the talk, but I probably should be going.”

  Lindy Lee got to her feet and saw her to the door. “Just remember, Laurel, you hold all the cards,” she said. “Now go see my husband.”

  When she was back in her car, Laurel took out the cell phone she'd gotten when Peggy was sick but never bothered to turn on. She dialed the number she used to know as well as her own and waited for an automated voice to tell her to leave a message after the beep. Instead, a living person answered.

  “This is the Charles Valley Gazette, Gloria Lawrence speaking.”

  One thing you had to say for the Lawrences, they believed in getting an early start on the day.

  “Gloria, I've decided I'd like to do the interview,” Laurel said.

  “Great,” Gloria said flatly. Obviously her mother was the exuberant one in the family. “When can you do it?”

  “Could you give me a couple of days? I'm clueless about the way things work at the gardens and the resort, and I'd like to have some idea of what I'm talking about.”

  “Excuse me, but are you expecting my father to educate you?”

  “Not exactly. But I am going to take a look at the books.”

  “He's turning them over to you?”

  “I'm going to ask him for them today.”

  “I'd love to hear that. So, I'll call you—when?”

  “Let's say Wednesday?”

  “Perfect. Gives me just time to write the story before I put the paper to bed. Can I use that article you wrote?”

  “Sure.”

  “And Laurel? After you pry those books out of my father's cold dead hands, if you want help breaking down the math into something the human mind can grasp, my partner Chrissie is an accountant. She can translate most of the legalspeak for you too. I'll ask her to give you a hand, if you'd like.”

  Turning her down because she was a beer thief with a bad taste in footwear would be childish. “Thanks. I was going to ask around. I figured no one local would want to go up against the resort and the gardens.”

  There was a pause. Then Gloria said, “You are the resort and the gardens. You do realize that, right?”

  “I'm working on it.”

  Chapter Forty-eight

  SHE'D BEEN RIGHT about Stuart Junior. When she showed up in his office asking for the books, there had been a little vein throbbing in his left temple that said how badly he wanted to throw her out on her unworthy redneck ass. But she'd walked in like she owned the place—which come to think of it, she did—and he hadn't given her a fight. He even said he was sorry for the crack about overturning the will, which was definitely the first time in her life someone who sounded and looked like Stuart Junior had apologized to her. An added bonus was the feeling of pride when she called Sheralynn to say Jessie didn't have to sneak the books to her after all. Then Chrissie had given her a crash course in corporate bullshit that was so infuriating she couldn't sit still when she reported it all to Li'l Bit and Maggie on the porch the following afternoon.

  “The CEO, Peter Terranova, the vice presidents of This and the directors of That—there's about a hundred of them,” she ranted, as she paced back and forth on Li'l Bit's porch, “you better believe they aren't worrying about paying for a hospital visit! The damn suits protect their own. Know how they do it?”

  “No, Doodlebug,” said Maggie, “but maybe if you sat down—”

  “They can't cancel the coverage for everybody, because the Feds would come down on them. They get a tax advantage if they offer everyone health insurance.” Two days ago she wouldn't have known how to use the term tax advantage in a sentence. In spite of her anger she was impressed with herself. “But they can ask the workers to pay an enormous percentage of their premiums. As long as everyone is paying the same percent, it's legal. Of course, they jack up their own salaries
to cover the cost of their own premiums. Everyone else takes the full hit. People like Grace Marshall's mama drop their health insurance because it's gotten too expensive. Which is what Stuart and his friends wanted all along! Plus at the gardens, they're planning to lay off a thousand full-time employees—”

  “My God!” said Li'l Bit.

  “They can't run the gardens without a staff.” Maggie said.

  “They replace full-time employees with part-time employees. If you work less than forty hours a week, you're not entitled to any benefits at all.”

  There was a long silence on the porch as her two old friends took this in.

  “Human beings never change,” Maggie said at last.

  “Remember the old days. It's better than it was,” said Li'l Bit. But she sounded weary.

  “It's more subtle. But more insidious.” Maggie grumbled.

  “I haven't told you the worst stuff,” Laurel said. “The big boys all get bonuses—and we're talking in the millions—but the freebies are worse.”

  “Freebies?” Maggie asked.

  Laurel nodded grimly. “Chrissie calls them ‘executive perks'.” She ticked them off as she continued to pace. “Three times last year, Pete Terranova's wife hopped on the Garrison jet to go to Los Angeles. It costs six thousand bucks a trip. All the top execs have their kids in private schools, and a Garrison scholarship fund picks up the bill. The execs get special rates on their home mortgages, financed by guess who? Their SUVs are company vehicles, so they don't so much as pay for the goddam gas. Everything at the resort is free for them—the golf courses, the spa, the swimming club, the tennis courts, the restaurants—and they get huge discounts at all the shops. And if they need to get away from the stress of robbing everyone blind, they can go hang out in an apartment in Atlanta, which costs twenty thousand dollars a year, or a ‘bungalow' the size of a supermarket next door to the movie stars in Aspen.”

  And that was just the big stuff. The vice president in charge of food and beverages had charged hot-rock massages for his secretary, who—if the employee brochure was anything to go by—was considerably younger and blonder than his wife. The director of marketing had been reimbursed for the mouthwash he used, on the grounds that it was a professional expense.