“How unpleasant for you,” he said.
There wasn't a trace of suspicion in the look he was giving her. She'd passed the first test! But the big one was still in front of her, because unless she could find out who he was and what he meant to Myrtis, she wasn't going to get past the chicken salad at lunch—or survive the rest of her stay in Beneville. She had to make him reveal himself.
Suddenly, she remembered the hours spent backstage with Benny Ritz and his stories about his days as the Great Otto the mind reader. “You gotta get the mark to tell you what you want to know without him knowing it,” Benny had said. “There's two tricks that always work. Keep him off balance, and keep him talking. If one thing don't make him open up, try another. And watch him like a hawk. Not just the eyes, watch the hands, the feet, everything. Eventually something you say is gonna hit pay dirt, and you'll see it in his body. Then you got to take the leap and go with it.”
Iva Claire eyed the stern middle-aged man who was standing in front of her and began to talk. “I'm sorry about the way we left each other the last time we spoke,” she tried.
His eyes narrowed. “It was unfortunate,” he said, through lips that were so tight they barely opened. He was really angry about something. Iva Claire thought back to her initial impression that he was a man who expected to be listened to. What kind of person felt like that? A preacher, she thought, and decided to take a leap. “I really enjoyed the sermon you gave last week,” she said.
He looked at her blankly. “The sermon?” he repeated. He wasn't a preacher! She'd leaped too far. Now what?
Don't panic. You can do this.
She made herself smile. She could feel the calamine cracking and thought the effect had to be grotesque. Mr. Jenkins was looking away again. Good. He wouldn't see the terror in her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she said. “That was a bad joke.”
His mouth tightened even more. “If you feel my attempts to give you advice are humorous—”
“Oh, no!” she said quickly. “Please let me explain.” But how? What would Myrtis say? “I've been under so much strain since Daddy passed. . . . But of course you were just trying to give me good advice.” Yes, that was it.
“I assure you, I have only your best interests at heart.” His mouth eased up. It wasn't a big improvement, but she'd take what she could get.
“I've been thinking about what you said,” she ventured. There was a softening in his eyes. “Maybe we can talk about it over luncheon.” He hardened up again. He didn't like talking, he wanted to be agreed with. She calculated his age and the fact that he had Myrtis's best interests at heart. An old family friend? Should she try another leap? A smaller one this time? She had to do something. “Daddy trusted you so much.”
“I take my position as your executor very seriously,” he said. She'd hit pay dirt! Myrtis had an estate; of course, there would be an executor who was in charge of it! She'd read about that kind of thing in novels. Myrtis had wanted to have control of her money so she could buy a house in London. But if Mr. Jenkins was her executor and he was standing in her way, wouldn't that explain the frightful rows?
“You were just trying to help me, Mr. Jenkins,” she said. “I realize that now.” He was still wary. She wondered if she should try to cry a little.
“You were listening to your friends. On the other hand, as a professional I have to be firm with you.”
A professional—what?
“I understand, you were just doing what you had to—as a professional,” she vamped.
He didn't pick up the cue.
Keep talking. There had been something in the way he said the word friends. Time for another leap. “I know you don't like my friends,” she said.
He sighed wearily; they'd had this discussion many times before. “I don't know your friends, Myrtis. Or anything about your life abroad. As you have pointed out to me, I am hopelessly provincial. But if the trustee of any bank in England would allow a young woman in your position to run through her money the way you seem to want to do, I'd call him damnably irresponsible.”
He was a banker! That made perfect sense. And he didn't like it that Myrtis lived out of the country. Time to give him the good news.
“You don't approve of my living abroad . . .” she began.
“I merely suggested that you might want to try your own country before you abandon it,” he huffed.
“I agree with you. That's why I won't be going back to England, Mr. Jenkins.”
He looking at her in disbelief. She'd told him too fast. In another second he was going to notice her full mouth and the fact that she was too tall.
Keep talking.
“I know I said I wanted to go back. But this is where I was born, and my family has a history here. . . .” She wasn't getting through. He was still looking at her like he'd never seen her before. Which he hadn't.
Don't think about that.
She made herself smile. “It's all your fault, Mr. Jenkins,” she said. “I've been thinking about all the things you've said to me. It must have seemed as though I wasn't listening because I've been so angry. But you know how sometimes even though you're fighting with someone, the words they're saying sink in? That's what's happened with me. And everything you said made so much sense, Mr. Jenkins. So I canceled my reservation on the Rex, and I won't be leaving,” she added desperately. She'd run out of things to say. All she could do was wait. And pray. It seemed to take forever, but he finally smiled at her—a big beaming smile with lots of teeth.
“I'm glad to hear this, Myrtis,” he said. “Very glad.”
Not half as glad as I am.
“Shall we go into the dining room, Mr. Jenkins?” she asked, a little breathlessly.
He wasn't half bad once he stopped frowning, and he really did seem to have Myrtis's best interests at heart. But, unlike Sally, he had known the Benedict family for years. And while Myrtis hadn't lived in Beneville for a long time, there had been vacations and Christmases at home. Iva Claire got through the chicken salad by doing a lot of smiling and nodding while Mr. Jenkins reminisced, but there were traps everywhere. She had to get out of town quickly. She broke the news to Mr. Jenkins over dessert.
“But why would you want to live in Atlanta?” he demanded. “A young girl on her own in that big city? This is your home.”
He had that disapproving look again, and she didn't want him getting angry.
Keep him off balance. Benny's voice came at her from the past.
It gave her an idea, a dangerous one. It could backfire on her so easily. And if it did . . . but she didn't want to leave Beneville without his approval. It would be so much easier if he was on her side. And besides, if she played her cards right, she'd find out what, if anything, Mr. Jenkins knew about Mama. And Mama's daughter.
Her hands were in her lap. She gripped them together so tightly she could feel the nails cutting into her palms, and said, “Mr. Jenkins, what do you know about the woman my father was supporting?” She lowered her eyes as if she was too embarrassed to face him, but she heard him draw in a sharp breath.
“I . . . don't. . . .” he stumbled.
“Daddy sent money twice a year to a woman. I found the canceled checks. What do you know about her?”
“Nothing,” he said, and she believed him. “I was never sure there was one specific—” He stopped short, embarrassed. “I mean, I knew there were withdrawals, but I never . . . I had my suspicions.”
“Well, there was a woman. I found out when I was going through Daddy's papers. All those years . . .” And suddenly she was crying—for real. It was partly relief, she knew that. But it was also grief. She was crying for Mama, and the years when the checks had kept them safe, and for Mama's sad little dreams. The sobs came up inside her, and for a moment she couldn't fight them back, until she felt the tears start to wash away the calamine mask. That stopped her. But the tears had had their effect. Mr. Jenkins looked like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.
“I want a fresh beginning,
Mr. Jenkins,” she said, calmer now, but with total honesty. “I want to get out of this town. Daddy died in a car with a woman. There were others, too—Lord knows how many—and everyone in Benneville gossips about it. Can't you understand why I want to start over?”
The statement didn't make much sense in terms of Myrtis and her life, but a new start was what Iva Claire needed with all her heart, and her feelings were so real that Mr. Jenkins was swept away. Like Benny always said, if you gave your audience something real and fresh, you'd get them every time.
It only took her two days to tie up the loose ends and get out of town. She took the house off the market on Mr. Jenkins's advice; she knew he was hoping she'd get over her prejudice against Beneville and come back home where she belonged. Sally was hired to keep the place running in her absence. Mr. Jenkins opened an account for her in an Atlanta bank. Her money, it seemed, was in trust and she'd receive an allowance every quarter. Mr. Jenkins mentioned the amount in passing and she was so shocked she almost gave herself away. She couldn't imagine spending a fraction of it. And when she was twenty-one she'd get control of her entire inheritance. She was relieved when Mr. Jenkins didn't say how much that was.
She packed up Myrtis's wardrobe, and a boy hired by Mr. Jenkins took a small mountain of luggage to the railroad station; her days of lugging heavy objects were over. But she did carry the suitcase with the swirling B monogram herself as she boarded the train for Atlanta. Where Tassie was waiting for her at the Georgian Palace Hotel.
Chapter Fifty-nine
AT FIRST THEY TRIED to pretend that everything was going to be fine, even though Tassie was going to leave Atlanta and Iva Claire was going to stay there, and visiting was out of the question.
“We only played the South once,” Iva Claire said, “but we were on the stage together for six years. If anyone who caught the act even saw us together now, it could ruin everything.”
Tassie nodded. She was trying not to let the tears in her eyes spill over. Iva Claire was fighting tears too.
“It's just for now,” Iva Claire went on. But they both knew better. It was going to take a long time before they could see each other face-to-face without taking an unspeakable risk. “We'll write all the time and we can talk on the telephone. We can afford the long-distance calls now.”
“That'll be as good as seeing you,” Tassie said. But of course it wouldn't.
“What will you do, Tassie?” Iva Claire asked.
“The only thing I know. Work in the business.”
“Honey, vaudeville's finished.”
“I'm going to go legit. I'm going to be an actress.”
“You want to go back to New York?” Iva Claire asked, trying not to sound worried. There were people in New York who knew them.
“I can't. The first time someone asked me about you and Lily and what happened to the act, it'd be over. I'm a rotten liar.”
Unlike me.
“The Sunshine Sisters never booked out of California,” Tassie said. “No one will know me there. I'll go to Hollywood and be a movie star.” She was smiling bravely, but Iva Claire knew what it was costing her. Tassie had loved New York from the second she got there. And she wasn't the movie-star type.
“There's a lot of work in moving pictures,” Iva Claire said, trying to be cheerful. “If Shirley Temple can have her name up in lights, why not me?” They both tried to laugh, but the tears in Tassie's eyes threatened to spill over.
“I'm no beauty,” Tassie went on, “but they always need second bananas.”
“And it's supposed to be very pretty. The weather is perfect.”
“Yeah, for growing produce. Can't you picture it? The second banana out there with all those oranges—a regular fruit salad.” The tears that had been threatening to spill over finally did.
“Tassie, if you don't want to go . . .”
“I'll be fine!” It took her a second, but she pulled herself together. “One thing. I'm changing my name back to Tassie Ritz.”
She didn't have to do it. They hadn't used the name Rain professionally in years, and it would have been safe for her to keep it. But she didn't want to. And after everything that had happened, who could blame her?
“Tassie, I'm so sorry. . . .”
“It's not your fault.”
But it was.
“I'll send you money, as much as you need. You can have a house with a swimming pool. And a new car. No more subways. No more hot water and ketchup soup at the Automat.”
Tassie frowned. “I don't want you carrying me.”
“Just as long as it takes for you to get on your feet.” Then, because Tassie still looked troubled, “Please. I know you don't want to live off the money we got . . . I got . . . this way. But please let me help you make a start. Mama would have wanted you to have a real chance.”
Tassie looked at her again. This time she nodded.
Tassie was leaving on the night train. Iva Claire had insisted she get herself a sleeper, and a taxicab was going to take her to the train station. Iva Claire wouldn't be going with her. There was no use in taking any dumb chances, Tassie said.
Her small suitcase was packed and sitting by the door of the hotel room.
“Iva Claire?” Tassie's voice was achy. “Are you going to miss the old days?”
“I'll miss you and Mama.”
“But not the Sunshine Sisters.”
She had to be honest. “No, I won't miss the act.”
Tassie nodded, but her eyes were full of pain. Iva Claire searched for the words that would explain—somehow—and make it easier. She wasn't sure if she was doing it for Tassie's sake or her own. “This is a terrible time, Tassie. Remember the hobo jungles alongside the railroad tracks when we were going to Indiana, and all the little kids begging every time the train stopped? And the bread lines back in New York? There are people who are trying to do something about all of that, and I've got money. Lots of it. I can't change the way I got it; I can never fix that. But maybe I can do something to make things better . . . and maybe if I do, it'll all be worth it. You, me, Mama, and—” She couldn't make herself say the rest, but she didn't have to, Tassie knew what she meant. “Maybe I can make up for it all, just a little. You understand?”
“Yes,” Tassie said. But Iva Claire knew she didn't. Tassie didn't want to change the world or do good deeds. She hadn't done anything horrible that she had to make up for. She just wanted to go back to the days when the Sunshine Sisters were on the road, getting their laughs doing five shows a day in the vaud-and-pic houses.
It was time for Tassie to go. She picked up the suitcase and started out the door. They'd already said good-bye too many times. But suddenly she turned and hugged Iva Claire as hard as she could. “You're a good person, Iva Claire,” she whispered. “What happened that night was an accident. Don't blame yourself.” And Tassie left.
Iva Claire moved to a big new apartment in a fashionable building north of Ansley Park and settled in. On her first night in her new home, she unlocked the water-stained suitcase with the swirling B on the side. There, where she'd crammed them on top of her old clothes, were her Sunshine Sisters costume and the sheet music for “Beautiful Dreamer.” She threw the clothes in the trash—she'd worn them when Mama was dying—put the costume and sheet music back in the suitcase, and hid it in the back of her closet.
Tassie settled in too, in her new home in California. She wrote long letters about her swimming pool and her new car, and the orange tree in her backyard. She didn't mention auditions, or acting, or the past. Then one day she called on the telephone. “I thought you should know. I decided when I get to be a great big star, Tassie Rain is gonna look better on a movie marquee than Tassie Ritz.” she said.
Until that moment Iva Claire hadn't known how much it mattered, but now it hit her. For a moment she couldn't talk. The gesture meant Tassie had forgiven her. And it meant that somewhere in the world, someone would still be using the name she couldn't claim. There was still a Rain working in show bus
iness.
“Iva Claire?” Tassie's voice came over the phone. “Did you hear what I said? I decided to go back to my real name.”
“Yes, I heard,” Iva Claire said. “Mama would be so happy about that, Tassie.”
“That's what I thought,” said Tassie Rain.
Chapter Sixty
MRS. RAIN
2004
IT WAS LATE, probably after midnight, and her hand had been clenched around the pen for so long she was afraid she wouldn't be able to move her fingers. She pried them open, slowly and painfully, and rubbed them until the feeling came back. She was a little light-headed too, and for a moment that scared her, but the dizziness passed and didn't come back. She was just tired, she told herself.
Her infant doctor would not approve of her nocturnal marathon, nor would her specialist, but a kind of euphoria was driving her. The relief of writing the story down, of seeing it on paper after all these years, was like the end of a low-level pain you weren't really aware you'd had until it suddenly went away.
She was going to need a large envelope. She'd used up all her personal stationery long ago and was now writing on the big yellow pad Essie used to make her grocery lists. Which was a good thing because the pages of Essie's pad were lined, and in the last few hours she'd had a tendency to run things together.
She picked up her pen again, then put it down. She'd written the dangerous part of the story; now came the part that was simply sad. And heartbreaking, really—as if her heart wasn't already dicey enough. Would Ms. McCready understand why she was doing this? Would this letter really give her the courage she needed? She picked up her pen again.
Laurel, I know you're afraid. That's why I want to tell you this story. You need to know that people are not always what they seem. You mustn't be scared of anyone. Don't let yourself be bullied. Do what you know is right. Myrtis couldn't, and neither could Peggy, but you can. I'm telling you this story so you can set things right for both of them.
The Ladies of Garrison Gardens Page 24