Love, Alice

by Barbara Davis

  With the requisite materials rounded up, Dovie settled for one of the conference chairs, relieved to at least have the desk between them again.

  “The first thing we’ll need to settle on is a date, which will depend on our choice of venue. There are three possibilities, at this point.” She paused, laying out several brochures for him to look at. “Unless, of course, there are other options you’d like us to consider? We’ll need facilities for about two hundred, I should think. CPAC—Charleston Performing Arts Center—is my personal pick. There’s plenty of parking, and the Silver Room has great acoustics, not to mention that beautiful ceiling.”

  She sat very still, waiting for some sort of response. Instead, she saw that his attention had wandered back to William’s sculpture.

  Fabulous. Not only passive-aggressive, but the attention span of a gnat.

  Exasperated, she sat back, folded her hands, and waited for him to notice she’d stopped talking. Eventually, he did.

  “I’m sorry. You said two hundred?”

  Dovie bit her lip, keeping her face bland. “I did. I also said I thought the Performing Arts Center would work well for our needs. Unless you or Mrs. Tate has other venues you’d like me to check out?”

  “No. I’m sure that will be fine. My mother—”

  He broke off when his cell jangled. Mouthing an apology, he fished the thing from his shirt pocket and took the call. Dovie was still trying to decide if she should remain where she was or give him some privacy when he held up a hand, motioning her to stay put.

  “Fine. Where are you now?” he asked whoever was on the other end. “All right. Stay there. I’ll meet you at the clubhouse in half an hour.”

  He was on his feet the minute he ended the call. “I’m sorry, but something’s come up and I’m going to have to cut this short and reschedule. Or, if you’d like, we can do it over dinner. Cypress has a great menu, and the wine list is incredible. Or McCrady’s is good.”

  Dovie stared at him, astonished. He had just dumped out of a meeting for an emergency at his club. Now he was asking her to dinner?

  “Thank you, no,” she said, getting to her feet. “I can’t . . . I mean, I don’t . . . I have very strict rules about keeping my business and personal interests separate.”

  Something about her response must have amused him, because the smirk was back. “Who said anything about getting personal? You can bring your brochures if that makes you feel safer. I just thought a meal might make the business more pleasant, but suit yourself. I’ll have someone call to reschedule.”

  Dovie drifted toward the door, ready for the meeting to be over. “It was nice to meet you,” she managed as she ushered him out into the hall. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  When he was gone, she sagged into her chair, eyes straying to the sculpture in the corner, to the slight hollow where Austin Tate’s fingers had lingered moments before. With any luck, his mother would soon be on the mend and today’s meeting would be her first and last encounter with the head of Tate Development.

  TWO

  Austin yanked his tie loose as he headed for the parking lot. I have very strict rules about keeping my business and personal interests separate. Yeah, well, so did he. All he’d said was dinner—a business dinner. How in God’s name had she made the leap to a date?

  But he already knew the answer to that. She made the leap because he’d wanted her to, because he’d goaded her into it. He wasn’t proud of it, but he knew himself well enough to know it was true. From the moment she walked into her office, fifteen minutes late and clearly flustered, he hadn’t been able to help himself. He had gone out of his way to rattle her. And it was clear that he had. Perhaps more than even he had intended.

  She’d looked so damn vulnerable, all harried and flushed in her crisp black suit and wilted blouse, sprigs of blond hair springing from her samurai-tight ponytail. She had been trying so hard to keep it together, though he’d be willing to bet his life she was two steps from unraveling. He knew that look. Knew it well, in fact.

  Austin shook off the uncomfortable thoughts as he slid behind the wheel. He was still bristling as he jabbed the key into the ignition and gave it a savage crank. Where the hell was all this coming from anyway? The woman was buttoned up tighter than a missionary’s wife, nothing like the women he usually dated—if you could call what he did dating. The women he saw socially weren’t looking for complications; they just wanted to have a little fun, champagne and dinner at the club, followed by the inevitable drive back to his place. And that was how he liked it. There was less chance of wrecking someone’s life if you limited your dates to women even more superficial than yourself. They were safe, but more to the point, they were the kind of women he deserved.

  Dovie Larkin was another animal altogether. She’d been anything but happy to find him waiting in her office. Perhaps she hadn’t heard what an important guy he was now that his father was gone. Head of Tate Development and overseer of the family fortune, portfolio, and real estate holdings. Yes, sir, he was a big freaking deal. Only those things didn’t impress someone like Ms. Larkin, or him, either, for that matter. They did at least have that in common. God knows, she wasn’t his type, in her tailored black suit and discreet diamond studs. No flash, just substance.

  Except for the shoes.

  Four inches at least, hiding beneath those neatly tailored slacks. A glimpse of patent leather, a shiny silver buckle—and hot pink polish peeking out at the toes. Unexpected to be sure, but then, they weren’t for him—or any man. Of that much, he was certain. She wore them for herself, a guilty pleasure kept carefully out of sight, like a box of truffles secreted away in a bottom desk drawer.

  Perhaps Dovie Larkin wasn’t as buttoned up as she pretended to be. Part of him thought it might be fun to find out. And he could do with a change. Candice was starting to wear out her welcome, getting a bit too comfortable on his arm. Yes, Ms. Larkin might be just the kind of change he’d been looking for. She’d be a challenge, though; she didn’t like him much. Not that he held that against her. He didn’t like himself much, either.

  Goosing the BMW out of the lot, he turned up South Street, forcing himself to focus on the call he’d just received from Ted Atkinson. He and Ted had started the Outlook Club two years ago to provide a place for kids who were struggling with home and family issues. It was by far the most rewarding thing he’d ever done, but there were moments when he seriously wondered what he’d been thinking—like now. Tyler Burns had run again, and his father was burning up the phone lines looking for his son. But Austin already knew where they’d find Tyler: the marina. The kid had fallen in love with sailing from the first time Austin took him out, something his father would know if he wasn’t so busy trotting his new trophy wife all over Charleston.

  Finding Tyler wasn’t the problem. It was what to say when he did. He knew all too well what it was like to have a father who forgot you were there most of the time. How was he supposed to look a thirteen-year-old kid in the eye and tell him everything was going to work out?

  THREE

  As always, Rowena Larkin was flawless, her silver-blond hair swept into a tasteful chignon, her deep coral suit carefully chosen for the Society of Southern Sisters annual charity luncheon. Dovie watched as her mother sipped her third vodka gimlet, then set her glass back down with exaggerated deliberateness.

  She was drinking more and more these days, starting earlier in the day, conveniently unaware of how many she’d put away, since she just kept topping off the glass she started with. In her mind that counted as one, but Dovie counted differently, and she was starting to worry that since her father’s death her mother had grown much too dependent on cocktails for company.

  A cloisonné cockatiel in shades of blue and green glinted brightly from her coral shoulder; one of her signature bird brooches. Birds were her passion. So much so that when her daughters came along she had named them after
two of her favorites—the robin and the dove. Dovie’s sister once teased that the only reason Rowena had agreed to marry their father was so she could change her name to Larkin, which had a distinctly avian air. Now, as Dovie sipped her sweaty glass of sweet tea and stared at the oversize pin on her mother’s shoulder, she couldn’t help thinking that she looked like a cross between a wealthy widow and a tipsy pirate. Still beautiful, though, at sixty-two, despite her well-powdered, well-coiffed grief.

  The room was abuzz with gossip and the clink of busy silverware, the air awash with scents of coffee and overcooked vegetables. Robin sat beside her; pretty, plump, and seven months gone with her third child. She was picking at a bit of fish in some sort of white sauce, pretending not to notice their mother slowly numbing herself across the table. She looked bloated and tired beneath the heavy layers of concealer she wore these days, but then with two toddlers and a husband to look after, that was to be expected. Not to mention the playdates, mommy groups, bake sales, and afternoon teas she dutifully orchestrated and attended.

  While Dovie had spent most of her adult years shunning the idea of a marriage, Robin had done it up right, managing, with her sorority-girl smile, to marry into an old Georgia family, with even older Georgia money. She had then produced a pair of grandchildren in rapid succession to seal the bargain and was raising them in a sprawling home in one of Charleston’s most desirable zip codes. Dovie, to her mother’s everlasting disappointment, had opted for a career and small house overlooking the marshes of Mount Pleasant, purchased with the money from her father’s life insurance settlement.

  A server in a pale pink uniform appeared with a pitcher of iced tea, topping off glasses as she made the rounds. Dovie placed a hand over her glass, and the girl moved on. She was already floating and wanted only to be away from the solicitous glances of her mother’s well-meaning friends. But even as the thought formed, Gladys Houser was making a beeline for her, under full sail in a dress of lemony ruffles and wearing an air of determination that made Dovie long to bolt.

  Too late.

  Pasting on a smile, she braved a cloud of White Shoulders and accepted the hand of the woman who had sponsored her mother’s membership in the club. “Mrs. Houser, what a divine dress,” Dovie gushed in her best Scarlett O’Hara, hoping to deflect the questions that were almost certainly coming.

  Gladys waved off the compliment. “Nonsense. The thing’s older than Moses. But tell me, honey, how are you these days? Your poor mama has been worrying herself to a frazzle since William’s accident. Why, just look at her, worn to nothing. She was so happy for you, so glad you were finally making a life for yourself. Such a wonderful match, and then . . .” She paused with a doleful shake of the head. “Such a terrible waste. Still, one must move on, mustn’t one?”

  Dovie nodded, steeling herself for what always came next. So, are you seeing anyone? It’s been a year, after all, and you’re not getting any younger. Ticktock. Ticktock.

  Mercifully, Robin came to her rescue. “Mrs. Houser, how is Michael these days? He should be about through with his residency, shouldn’t he?”

  Mrs. Houser was only too happy to pivot to her son, the brilliant and altogether selfless reconstructive surgeon. “He’ll be finished in June. Then he’ll be at Children’s Hospital in Atlanta. A heart of gold, that boy has, I swear. Anna will be glad to have him home, I think, with the twins on the way.”

  Dovie shot Robin a profound look of gratitude. Mrs. Grant-Adkins was at the podium, calling for the attention of the assembled ladies, ready at last to start the auction. With any luck, she’d be able to cut out in about an hour.

  The first article up for auction was one of her mother’s paintings, a small, unframed oil of a goldfinch perched atop a full-blown thistle. Dovie recognized it. It was the one she had finished just before Gerald Larkin left her for his twenty-nine-year-old receptionist. Her mother hadn’t painted a stroke since. She claimed it was because she had lost her muse, but Dovie suspected it was because she’d decided to devote every second to her husband when he finally returned, hat in hand, after being thrown over for a corporate attorney named Chet.

  The decision still galled Dovie. Not that her mother had quit on her art, but that she had quit on herself, abandoning what could have been a promising career in favor of a husband whose midlife crises had been the topic of conversation at every dinner table in Charleston. She had taken him back, and that was that. For her, at least. And even for Robin, who didn’t seem to understand that their father hadn’t just cheated on his wife but on his daughters as well. But Dovie had never forgotten—or forgiven.

  Watching her mother’s life grow smaller and smaller had at least taught her something. She learned that marriage meant sacrifice and broken promises, and that it was a short and slippery slope from I do to losing yourself entirely. Perhaps that was why she had always steered clear of the cataclysmic brand of romance her friends were forever tumbling in and out of, opting instead for relationships based on shared interests and mutual respect. Admittedly, there had been few.

  And then William had come along. Funny, easy, undemanding William, with his passion for art and his irreverent sense of humor. They had met at the Southern Sisters’ annual spring supper. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him, and eventually he’d caught her staring. Moments later, he appeared with the obligatory glass of punch. He was fresh out of school with an MBA from Cornell, while she had still been working on her master’s at Charleston Southern, which explained why they’d never run into each other.

  He was a wonderful conversationalist and laughed easily. He also had an uncanny knack for mimicry, and had most of the women in her mother’s retinue down pat. She had laughed until she cried, and then they had gone for pizza. They were inseparable after that, spending every free moment of that first summer together, haunting museums, swimming and playing tennis, cooking together, which they both enjoyed, gathering with friends for good food, good wine, and good conversation. There had been no fireworks, no soaring violins, no moment of impassioned declarations. Instead, the relationship had snuck up on them, not a torrid romance, but an easy bond forged between two people who saw the world the same way and didn’t want what everyone else did. It had been so easy, so comfortable and uncomplicated. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the insistence of William’s mother, they might never have gotten around to setting a date. On their part, at least, there had simply been no urgency.

  A smattering of polite applause startled Dovie back to the present. Across the table, her mother was beaming. Apparently, her goldfinch had fetched a tidy sum for the Charleston County ASPCA.

  The rest of the auction was a blur: tickets to some concert, a weekend spa retreat, a gourmet meal prepared by some celebrity chef, three months with a personal fitness trainer. Mercifully, it all went rather quickly. Dovie tried not to look bored as she waited for the final gavel to sound.

  The minute it did she grabbed her tote, scanning the room for a clear path to the door. She had no wish to run the gantlet of her mother’s matchmaking friends. She turned to Robin to say good-bye, then gave her belly bump a pat, a girl to be named Grace Elizabeth. “Take care of my niece. And slow down a little, will you? You look tired.”

  Robin cracked a grin. “I’ll be sure to give that a try. Not hanging around to mingle, I take it?”

  Dovie rolled her eyes. “Not for all the sweet tea in Charleston. I’ve got some errands to run before the game starts.”

  Robin’s eyes went wide. “Are we playing today?”

  “It’s October, and it’s Saturday. What do you think?”

  Robin was still searching for a sharp retort when Dovie spotted their mother, sidling around the table in their direction. She swallowed a groan, eyeing the door, but it was too late. Robin, however, had managed a clean getaway, leaving Dovie alone in the crosshairs. She’d be sure to thank her later.

  “Dovie, honey, you’re not going
already?” Her mother’s voice shrilled over the buzz of feminine chatter. “I want you to meet Katherine Darden. She’s a new member and has a son about your age. I thought you might know him.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama. I need to run. You know I have things to do. It’s Saturday. And Saturday is—”

  “Flower day. Yes, I know. How well I know.”

  Dovie scanned the room anxiously. “Please don’t start in, Mama. I’ve had a lousy week, and I just want to be by myself.”

  “No, Dovie. You want to be with dead people. In fact, they’re the only people you ever want to be with these days, and folks are beginning to talk.”

  “They’re not beginning to talk, Mama. They’ve been talking. And it’s none of their business how I choose to spend my time.”

  “Perhaps not, but it’s awkward. I never know what to say.”

  “Then don’t say anything.”

  “I can’t do that, Dovie. They’re my friends, and they mean well.”

  Dovie sighed. “No Mama, they don’t. They mean to be nosy. Now, I have to go.” She leaned in, dropping a kiss on her mother’s powdered cheek, then whispered close to her ear, “Please don’t have any more to drink.”

  She didn’t wait for her mother’s response. She didn’t need to. She’d seen it often enough: the petulant huff, the scowl meant to remind her that mothers lectured daughters, not the other way around. And maybe she had a point. She was the last person on earth who should be giving advice on how to handle grief.

  Saturday was flower day at Magnolia Grove, the day most families came to replace wilting bouquets with new ones, to visit their dead, and to pay their respects. Dovie had come to do the same. Clutching a fistful of sunflowers, she headed down the freshly mulched path. She waved to Josiah, bent on one knee several plots away, pulling weeds by hand. Groundskeepers didn’t work on weekends, but there he was, dutifully tending his charges. Because he had nowhere else to be. Neither did she, it seemed.