He let his gaze wander to the tearstained angel a few yards away, no less beautiful now than the day he had first laid eyes on her, and then down to the tarnished nameplate at her feet.
ALICE TANDY
Beloved friend
October 6, 1946–January 4, 1969
It should have said so much more.
He swore softly and looked away. He had promised himself he wouldn’t go there, that this time he wouldn’t let himself to be dragged down memory lane, and yet here he was, dredging up memories of the past.
The idea had been tabled at breakfast the morning of his fifth birthday. His father had coolly announced that if he was ever going to be a real Tate, it was time he went away to school. The announcement had been received by his mother with stunned silence. Alice, on the other hand, had committed the unpardonable sin of standing up to his father, listing all the reasons it was wrong to send a five-year-old boy away to school. By then he’d been sobbing so hard he’d been sent to his room without his breakfast. Later, Alice brought him a tray with a slice of birthday cake and a single candle to make a wish on. She became his champion that day—and a perpetual thorn in Harley Tate’s side.
The barest of breezes brushed the back of Austin’s neck, like cool fingers against his skin, reminding him where he was and what he’d come to do. He bent down, placing the peonies at the angel’s feet, then straightened, brushing bits of dried grass from his knees. That’s when he saw Dovie Larkin perched on a nearby bench—watching him.
He squinted to make sure he wasn’t seeing things, but no, it was her. She hadn’t been there when he came down the path, and he was pretty sure she hadn’t walked past him, but somehow she was there. Then he remembered—the sculptor fiancé. Perhaps he was buried here somewhere. God knew, half of Charleston was.
Was she holding . . . a sandwich?
Sandwich forgotten, Dovie watched as Austin Tate went down on one knee to place a bouquet of pink flowers at the foot of Alice’s grave. He was the last person she had expected to see when she came strolling down the path. In fact, she almost kept on walking when she first spotted him. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation, least of all with Austin Tate, which was why she had purposely left a message with his office that there was no need for them to meet again, and that she would just leave the folder of brochures at the front desk to be picked up at his convenience. And yet here she was, on her usual bench—playing the voyeur.
He was standing now, brushing at the knees of his khakis, and turned to lock eyes with her. There was a moment of recognition, followed by another of embarrassment. Dovie lowered her sandwich, wondering what he must think of a woman who ate her lunch in a cemetery. The same thing everyone else thought, probably.
Don’t come over. Don’t come over. Do. Not. Come. Over.
But she needn’t have worried. With the curtest of nods, Austin turned away, stalked down the north path, and disappeared.
Long after he vanished, Dovie continued to stare at the empty path, trying to digest what she’d just witnessed. At first glance, she assumed he had come to pay his respects to his father. But the flowers told a different story. For some reason, it never occurred to her that he might have known Alice, but after a quick calculation it was almost certain he had. He looked to be in his late thirties, which meant he’d been born in the early ’60s. According to the plaque, Alice died in ’69, presumably while still working for the Tates, which meant there had to have been at least some overlap. But Dovie didn’t really need the math. His body language as he placed the flowers on Alice’s grave was enough to prove he’d known her—and had been fond of her.
NINE
Dovie sipped her third cup of coffee as she waited for Theda Okona, head of the museum’s native cultures department, to look over the proposal she had labored on all weekend. Jack had given her an extra two days to polish it up, a generosity she hadn’t expected, given their last conversation. It was a good thing, too, since she had discovered three glaring errors on her final pass, hence the need for Theda’s eagle eyes this morning. She needed to be certain every i had been dotted, every t crossed.
Staying focused had been a challenge. So had sleeping. She couldn’t help thinking about Dora sitting all alone in room 12, waiting to hear from her, knowing that every day without answers must be fresh agony. She had been by the Palmetto Moon twice since that first day. The first time, to check on Dora’s state of health and leave her contact numbers at the front desk, in case Dora seemed unwell or needed anything. The second visit had been to deliver several bags of groceries from Harris Teeter, including canned soup, fresh fruit, copious amounts of Earl Grey tea, and three packages of chocolate digestives, which Dovie had never heard of until Dora requested them, but now couldn’t seem to leave alone.
Her stomach rumbled as she thought of the package of digestives stashed in her bottom desk drawer, a reminder that she’d skipped breakfast. She reached for them now, fishing out one of the chocolaty biscuits and beginning to nibble. It was hardly a proper breakfast, but she needed something in her stomach before her ten thirty with Jack.
“Give,” Theda said, holding out a hand. “Thanks, by the way, for hooking me on these things. Like my backside isn’t already big enough.”
Dovie smiled as she handed her a cookie. There was nothing wrong with Theda’s backside—or any other part of her, for that matter. Like most Gullah woman she knew, Theda was beautiful inside and out, a voluptuous warrior-goddess with a sharp wit and wisdom to match. But then, when you remembered what the Gullah people had been through—generations of slavery, oppression, and marginalization, followed by the daily fight to maintain their lands and their culture—it wasn’t hard to imagine where that mental toughness came from.
“This looks fine,” Theda pronounced, handing back the report. “But since when do you have me check your homework? It’s usually me coming to you.”
Dovie made a face behind her coffee mug. “Since Jack and I had a little talk the other day. He pretty much let me know I’m on borrowed time.”
“Because this report was late?”
“Because of everything. He was pretty bent about me not coming back from lunch the other day, and missing our meeting. The report was just the last straw. And it’s not like he’s wrong. I’m not dialed in. I know that. It’s been a year, and I still can’t seem to get it together—which is why I told Jack I’d resign if the fund-raiser didn’t go off without a hitch.”
Theda’s face went blank. “You what?”
“I said I’d resign. I can’t put Jack in a position to have to fire me. Not after he went to bat for me with the board.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
Dovie shrugged. “Maybe.”
“I thought you were getting better, that things were, you know, stabilizing.”
Dovie sighed and reached for her mug. Theda didn’t understand—no one did, except maybe Dora—but she did mean well. “I’m trying, Theda. Every day, I’m trying. It’s just . . . hard.”
Theda’s lips thinned as she weighed her next words. “I know you hate the idea, Dovie, but maybe it’s time to talk to someone. I don’t mean a shrink, necessarily, but maybe you could find a support group or something, other people who’ve been through what you have.”
“Let me think. Do they have support groups for people whose fiancés opt for suicide rather than marriage? I’ll just check the Yellow Pages.”
Theda’s chin lifted a notch. “That’s not fair, Dovie. You know I’m just trying to help. You’re not yourself, and I’m worried.”
Dovie felt a pang of shame. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go all passive-aggressive. I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days.”
“Well, I do. You need to get out, instead of holing up on your back porch. It’s time to rejoin the living, girl.”
“It isn’t that easy, Theda.”
“It is
. It’s as easy as going with me to the Rooftop after work tonight. As easy as sitting with a friend and having a drink.”
“Theda, I’m not really in the mood for—”
“Say yes.”
Dovie had to admit it was tempting. The Rooftop had always been their favorite after-work hangout, back when Dovie still had a social life—good food, cold drinks, and a view few Charleston bars could rival. But there was Dora, waiting alone in room number 12. “I wish I could, but there’s something I need to—”
“Say yes,” Theda insisted, cutting her off again. “And do whatever it is later. You need this, Dovie. You’ll see. It’ll do you good to get out with people—living people.”
It was becoming obvious that Theda wasn’t going to quit until she got her way. “All right, a drink at the Rooftop. And then I really do have something I need to do.”
“Great! I’ll meet you out front at—”
Theda’s eyes suddenly shifted to the open door. Dovie followed her gaze, praying Jack hadn’t been standing there for the last five minutes, listening to them talk about shrinks and support groups.
If possible, it was worse.
“Mr. Tate . . . ,” she blurted, tongue-tied at suddenly finding him in her doorway. Their awkward encounter at the cemetery was still fresh in her mind, and she had no wish to revisit it now—or ever really. “Was there something you needed? I did tell your secretary I’d leave the folder at the front desk. Everything your mother needs should be there. All we need her to do is look through the information and give us her preferences. If she has any questions—”
Austin ducked his head, looking almost sheepish. “Yeah, that’s the thing. I just stopped by the front desk and they had no idea what I was talking about, so they sent me back here.”
No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. She couldn’t have . . .
Dovie felt the tips of her ears go hot as she recalled placing the folder on her kitchen counter last night beside the coffeemaker—where it would be impossible to miss this morning. It would have been a brilliant strategy, too, had she taken the time to actually make coffee before dashing out the door to work.
Theda must have read the panic in her eyes, and took her cue to leave, swiping the package of digestives off the desk on her way out.
Traitor.
Dovie’s face flamed as she turned her attention back to Austin. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Tate. I was working on the folder at home last night, and I must have left it on the kitchen counter. I’ll definitely have it for you tomorrow. I can run it by your office, if that’s convenient.”
If Austin was peeved he gave no sign. “Tomorrow’s fine, and I can pick it up here. I’ll be by around lunchtime.”
Dovie breathed a sigh of relief as she watched him go. It could have been worse. It could be Jack she had to explain herself to. As it was, she’d have the folder in Austin’s hands by noon tomorrow, with no one the wiser. And this would be her absolute last blunder concerning the Tates.
“Ms. Larkin?”
Dovie started, nearly knocking over her coffee. She hadn’t heard Austin step back into the doorway. “Please, call me Dovie,” she managed with a pasted-on smile. “Was there something else you needed?”
“Actually, yes. There’s something I’ve been wondering about.”
Of course there was. You ran into people you knew at the grocery store, the post office, the movies—but the cemetery? “What’s that?”
“The other day at the cemetery, I could have sworn I saw you holding a sandwich.”
Dovie lifted her chin, a tiny show of defiance. “Smoked turkey on whole wheat.”
“Do you make a habit of eating lunch at the cemetery?”
“Every day, as a matter of fact. Why, is that odd?”
The unexpected quip brought a smile to his lips. “I was thinking more along the lines of eccentric.”
“Well, that’s a nicer word than most people use.”
“Your fiancé—” he said, the smile gone. “You told me the first time we met that he died. Is that why you go? Because he’s there?”
Dovie let her eyes drift to the sculpture in the corner, recalling Austin’s first visit to her office. “You might say I’ve developed a bit of an obsession. Or at least my family would. I go every day to sit near his grave and wait.”
She was hoping to creep him out, to send him scurrying from her office. Instead, he seemed to settle in, propping a shoulder against the doorframe. “What is it you’re waiting for?”
Dovie shrugged. “Answers, I guess. He killed himself two weeks before we were supposed to get married. No note. No warning. Nothing. So I guess I’m waiting for answers.”
“Have you gotten any?”
“No, and I won’t. But it’s kind of a habit now.”
“And that’s why your friend thinks you need to get out more?”
Dovie flashed him a look of annoyance. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s impolite to eavesdrop?”
“I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was coming down the hall and happened to overhear. And yes, I was told that. More than once, in fact. I’m not nosy, but I am curious. So?”
Dovie looked at him, not sure why she was participating in this conversation, or why she even cared what he thought. “Her name is Theda,” she said finally. “And she worries about me. She thinks I need to rejoin the living.”
“And what do you think?”
Dovie sighed, then shrugged. She was tired of the question, but even more tired of not having a good answer. “I’m not sure I know how—or if I even want to. How’s that for eccentric?”
“Sounds about right, given the circumstances.”
Something in his voice, a softness Dovie hadn’t expected, left her feeling off balance. She needed to change the subject, fast. “What about you? Why were you at Magnolia Grove?”
“I was bringing flowers to a friend of my mother’s on her birthday. She normally goes herself, but she hasn’t been feeling well, so I offered.”
Dovie fought to conceal her surprise. She needed to tread very lightly. “Alice and your mother were friends?”
Austin’s face remained stony, but something like wariness had kindled in his eyes. “She came to work for my family when I was a kid, and she and my mother became close. Why are you so interested in Alice Tandy?”
Nice going, Dovie. So much for treading lightly. “No reason. I’m just curious, like everyone else in Charleston.” There was no use pretending she hadn’t heard the rumors. Everyone had. And Harley Tate’s death had only refueled them.
“It isn’t true,” he said flatly. “What they say about my father and Alice—it never happened.”
“So you remember her?”
“She was my nanny.”
Dovie blinked at him as she digested this snippet of information. Dora’s daughter had been Austin Tate’s nanny. She hadn’t seen that coming, though she supposed it shouldn’t come as a shock that one of the richest families in Charleston would have an English nanny. “How old were you when she died?”
Austin eyed her with open suspicion now. “Seven. Eight. Why?”
“I was just thinking that it must have been hard on you. Were you close?”
Austin shoved his hands into his pockets, offering a halfhearted shrug. “She taught me to tie my shoes and made me eat my vegetables.”
The halfhearted answer didn’t jibe with the emotions she had witnessed at Magnolia Grove. “Do you remember how she died?”
“No.”
Again, Dovie was less than convinced. His answer had been too quick—and too harsh—as if he had suddenly drawn the shutters down over his emotions. Or maybe little boys didn’t get attached to their nannies. If she could just get him to open up, she might actually have something to tell Dora when she visited later on.
She was still trying to formulate a fresh approach wh
en Theda appeared behind him in the doorway, pointing frantically at her watch. Oh God. Her meeting with Jack. She had exactly three minutes to get her notes together and get to the other side of the building.
“I’m sorry to rush off,” she said, standing abruptly, “but I’m about to be late for a very important meeting. I’ll be sure to have that folder out front for you tomorrow before noon.”
TEN
Dovie adjusted her sunglasses as she gazed out over Charleston Harbor. She hadn’t been to the Rooftop in over a year, but the view was just as spectacular as she remembered, all sun and sky and dark sparkling sea. And the breeze off the water was perfect, soft and balmy against her bare arms.
The bartender wasted no time making his way to the end of the bar. He was handsome almost to the point of pretty, and clearly knew it. “What’s your pleasure, ladies?”
Theda ordered her usual: margarita, no salt. Dovie opted for a Tanqueray and tonic.
Theda shot her a look. “Going for the hard stuff, I see.”
“If there was ever a day when I needed the hard stuff, it’s today.”
“Jack still giving you a hard time? I thought the proposal looked great.”
“No, the meeting was fine, and Jack was happy with the proposal, though not so much with having to wait for it. It’s just been a muddle of a day, that’s all. First, I leave the folder of stuff I’ve been working on for Gemma Tate sitting on my kitchen counter, and don’t remember it until her son is standing in my office. Then Austin and I end up in this very weird conversation about the dead people in our lives, during which I’m pretty sure I managed to piss him off by asking too many questions. And finally, to top it all off, I left him standing in my office because I forgot I had a meeting with Jack. Thanks, by the way, for saving my tail.”
“You talked about dead people with Austin Tate?”
“Yes, but he started it.”
“What are you, five? What do you mean, he started it?”
“I mean, he was the one who started asking questions—about me, and why I eat lunch in the cemetery.”
Love, Alice Page 8