Love, Alice

by Barbara Davis

  Dora’s gaze drifted away. “Anything is better than letting your mind fill in the blanks. You of all people should understand that. You’re right; hearing how my little girl died will break my heart, but no worse than thirty years of not knowing has done.”

  Dovie bit her lip, wishing now that she had waited until she was sure Gemma would or could help. The thought of having to come back to Dora empty-handed, of extinguishing the hope she had kindled in those tired eyes, was heartrending. Still, she needed to be honest. Better to tamp down expectations now than to crush the poor woman later.

  “Dora, there’s something I should have told you about Mrs. Tate. Something that could make talking to her a little tricky.”

  “Tricky?”

  “The Tate family is highly respected here in Charleston, not to mention very wealthy. So wealthy, in fact, that they just donated two million dollars to the museum I work for. The problem is, she’s been ill since her husband’s death a few months ago, which might make it difficult to actually meet with her. Her son has been acting as a go-between. His name is Austin. I spoke with him this afternoon.”

  “This Austin—he was the boy my Alice looked after?”

  Dovie looked at Dora’s face, lit once again with hope. “He was very young when she died, but yes.”

  “He remembers her?”

  “She taught him to tie his shoes and made him eat his vegetables,” Dovie said, repeating Austin’s words verbatim. “Beyond that, he wasn’t much help. As a matter of fact, he didn’t seem to want to discuss it. And since I’m not in a position to step on any toes at work just now—especially Tate toes—I couldn’t really push it.”

  “Why?”

  “Let’s just say we got off to a rocky start, and I’m in a bit of a spot with my boss.”

  “You’re in trouble at work—because of me?”

  Dovie sighed, then shook her head. “No, Dora. It’s got nothing to do with you. I was promoted last year. It was a really big promotion, one I’d been working toward for years, and then William . . . took the pills.” She shrugged as she picked up her mug, staring down into the dregs of her rapidly cooling tea. “Everyone was great about it—at first. Until I started doing things that freaked people out. I sort of checked out of my life, stopped seeing my friends, started hanging out at the cemetery. I even made friends with one of the groundskeepers—an eighty-year-old man named Josiah. And then—”

  Dora reached for her hand, giving it a pat. “And then I showed up and dragged you into my problems.”

  “You didn’t drag me into your problems, Dora. I involved myself. All I’m saying is I need to be very careful in how I go about asking one of the museum’s biggest donors about her son’s nanny.”

  “You can’t do it,” Dora said with a firm shake of the head. “I won’t have you getting sacked for a silly old woman and her sins. I’ve mucked up quite enough without adding your job to the list.”

  “But Alice . . .”

  “I haven’t the right to ask you to do this, no right to get you in a fix, no right to bother anyone—not after what I did. I meant well, but I was wrong. I didn’t want folks looking at my girl like she was rubbish. They looked at me that way once, when her father left me flat with a full belly and nowhere to go. I couldn’t bear for my little girl to go through that.”

  “Alice’s father refused to marry you?”

  She sighed, a heavy woeful sound. “He was gone almost before I finished telling him how things stood. I never saw him again, and my family washed their hands of me. It was terrible back then. No decent man would have you after that, and so I raised her on my own. All on my own. I worked three jobs and put away every cent I could so that she could go to school when it was time and have the kind of life she deserved.”

  She was crying now, her tears creating shiny rivulets along the creases on either side of her mouth. Dovie took her hands and let her talk out her grief.

  “By the time she came to me I had already guessed, and poor Johnny was dead, drowned in a storm. My girl was alone, just like I’d been, and I couldn’t bear it for her—the memories and the shame, the life she was about to throw away. And so I sent her to Blackhurst. I did it because I loved her. So she could get on with the life I had planned for her. I thought I knew best, but I was wrong. So wrong. I just thought if I could talk to her one last time, explain why I did what I did—so she wouldn’t end up like me—she might forgive me.”

  “She never knew about her father?”

  Dora shook her head. “I told her he died before she was born—a lorry accident. I was too ashamed for her to know the truth—that I’d been a fool. But I would tell her now if I could, no matter what she thought of me. Anything to make her understand that I only wanted her to have a better life than I had. Even when she was threatening to leave I wouldn’t tell her. Because I was too proud. I didn’t think she’d really go.” She paused, taking another swipe at her cheeks. “I’ve always been proud, much, much too proud—and it’s cost me everything.”

  Dovie felt her heart squeeze, aching for this woman whose life had gone so terribly wrong. “I can’t promise anything, Dora, except that I’m going to do everything I can to find out what happened to Alice. Gemma Tate was Alice’s friend. She’s also a mother. She’ll want to help.”

  “I can’t let you risk your job, Dovie. Not for me.”

  “I won’t be doing it for you,” Dovie said. “At least, not just for you.” She paused, groping for a way to explain without explaining. “I know what it’s like to live with questions, to agonize over things you should or shouldn’t have done, and wonder if there was some way it could have turned out differently. I’ll never know what William’s last hours were like, or why he did what he did, but if I can help you find your answers—and maybe help you find some peace—then I have to at least try.”

  Dora looked away. “There might not be time.”

  She wasn’t talking about her return flight to Cornwall, and they both knew it. There was no denying Dora’s precipitous decline since their first meeting. She was already more fragile, little more than a scarecrow, and growing thinner by the day. But far more alarming were the bouts of wheezy coughing that left her blue around the lips.

  “You’re sick,” Dovie said.

  Dora did her best to look stoic, an expression Dovie suspected she had perfected over the years. “A chest complaint, the doctors say. One that’s not likely to improve.” She heaved her shoulders, and the mask fell away, her sorrow stripped bare. “I don’t mind, really, only I’d hoped to set things right before I . . . what is it you Americans say . . . kick the bucket? But that can’t ever be.”

  Dovie felt tears scorching up into her throat. How had she lived with it all these years, with the unbearable weight of it always pressing on her soul? She’d made a mistake—a terrible, terrible mistake—but she had made it with her heart, and with a mother’s love. Because she hadn’t been able to see beyond her own scars, beyond the shame and isolation she had endured in bringing a fatherless child into the world. If only she had dropped her pride and told Alice the truth, things might have been different. There might have been no Blackhurst letters, no lost child, no broken hearts. But it was too late now. Those things existed. Dora Tandy had been living with them every day for thirty years, and for better or worse Dovie was living with them now, too.

  THIRTEEN

  Anyone who had lived in Charleston any length of time could point out the Tate home. The house at the end of East Battery was impossible to miss, with its sweeping brick steps and white-pillared porch.

  Dovie took her foot off the accelerator as she approached the long brick drive, still questioning the wisdom of what she was about to do. At the moment, she was inclined to agree with Theda; she was definitely insane. And yet the wrought-iron gates stood open, beckoning. Before she could change her mind, she turned up the drive, cut the engine, and climbed out
of the car, grabbing the manila folder from the passenger seat.

  She had phoned Jack earlier to let him know she’d be a few minutes late. Her excuse? She was dropping off some paperwork in order to save Austin a trip to the museum. Which was true. He had seemed pleased that she was taking the initiative, going out of her way to coddle the Tates and their two-million-dollar donation. Probably because she’d left out the part where her good deed included a surprise visit to Mrs. Tate’s home, and a handful of embarrassing questions.

  It was hard not to be awed as she stepped onto the neat slate path that led up to the front steps. The place seemed even larger than it had from the street, and more breathtaking, if that was possible, like something right off the back lot at MGM. Even the door knocker was over-the-top, a massive brass shield emblazoned with a stately lion’s head. She rapped it tentatively and held her breath.

  Crap on a cracker! What am I doing?

  Theda was right. If Jack knew the real reason she was here, he’d fire her on the spot. For one panicked moment she thought about tearing back down the steps and beating a hasty retreat to her car. And then the door was opening and there was nothing to do but stand there with a plastered-on smile.

  She was startled when Gemma Tate appeared in the doorway. She’d been expecting an employee of some kind, a maid or butler. Do people even have butlers anymore?

  It took a moment, but she managed to find her voice. “Mrs. Tate, I’m Dovie Larkin, from the museum. I just stopped by to drop off the folder I’ve been working on for the gala. If you’ve got a few moments I’d love to go over some of the venue choices, and maybe discuss the guest list.”

  Gemma Tate gave a vague shake of the head, as if trying to rattle some loose thought back into place. Her hand was still on the doorknob, giving Dovie the impression that she was using it to steady herself. “I’m sorry. Did we have an appointment this morning?”

  “Well, no. I just thought I’d save your son a trip and drop the information off on my way in this morning.”

  “Well, then, come in. I was just having coffee.”

  Dovie felt vaguely disoriented as she stepped into the large octagonal foyer, keenly aware of the hollow tap-tap of her heels on the green marble floor, and the spicy floral scent wafting from the profusion of lilies blooming from the surface of an inlaid mahogany table. No doubt delivered fresh every week, and no doubt costing a fortune.

  A fresh wave of misgiving threatened as she contemplated the questions she’d come to ask. What right did she have to come into this woman’s home and dredge up old memories—possibly painful ones? And just months after she’d buried her husband? This wasn’t her business. Alice, Dora, Gemma—none of it had anything to do with her. It wasn’t too late to back out. She’d just do what she said she was here to do, discuss the venues and the guest list, and then be on her way.

  “If you’ll follow me back to my study, I’ll have Kimberly bring another cup. Or perhaps you’d rather have tea?”

  “Coffee will be fine,” Dovie answered as she turned to follow her hostess.

  It was hard not to gape as she trailed Mrs. Tate through a front parlor filled with gleaming antiques and lush Turkish carpets. She’d never seen so many beautiful things in one room, but there was a sense of gloom hanging over everything, too, a mausoleum-like quality that reminded her of the old Addams Family TV show. The drapes, deep green brocade trimmed with a heavy fringe and a braided satin cord, were still drawn, shutting out all traces of the morning sun. Was it a mourning thing, she wondered, like covering the mirrors? Or was it always like this?

  Whatever it was, it carried over into the study, where the curtains were also closed, the room cool and dim. There was a large writing desk in the center of the room, French and feminine in design. Gemma moved to it and clicked on a lamp, then picked up the phone to request a fresh pot of coffee and a cup for her guest. Dovie used the moment to scan the room, hoping to get a sense of the woman from her work space. Contemporary furnishings, cool, pale fabrics, good art on the walls.

  “You’re a fan of Ivey Clark’s, I see,” Dovie said, studying the painting nearest to her, an impressionist depiction of King Street awash in rain. “We have several of his pieces up at the museum. I love the way his work captures the feel of Charleston, the way he paints the light at different times of day, how it plays over the streets and buildings, muting everything.”

  “Do you paint, Miss . . . ?”

  “Larkin,” Dovie supplied. “No, I don’t. My mother used to paint, but the gene skipped me. All I can do is appreciate it.”

  “It’s apparently served you well at the museum. My son tells me you’ve just been promoted.”

  Dovie nodded, surprised that Austin would know that, or bring her up at all. “Yes, that’s right, although it’s been about a year now.”

  “Please have a seat,” Gemma offered, settling at one end of a buttery leather sofa. The door swung open as Dovie took a seat at the opposite end. A young woman appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray laden with china cups and a silver coffee service. “Thank you, Kimberly. You can set it here on the table. And take the other away, if you would.”

  Kimberly nodded and did as instructed, then left the room without making a sound. Dovie studied her hostess as she set out two cups and reached for the pot. Her hand shook as she poured. They had never met in person, had never even spoken on the phone, but Gemma Tate was hardly a stranger. Her picture was always in the paper, smiling graciously beside her husband at some dinner or other, always heading up some local cause. On occasion, she even made the national news. But the sparkling woman from the social section was nowhere to be seen today.

  She was beautiful despite her sixty-odd years, flawlessly turned out in a navy blue suit and smart two-tone pumps. But there was a fragile quality, too, beneath the carefully maintained sheen, like a fine bit of porcelain marred with invisible cracks, damaged but still lovely. For a moment, Dovie was reminded of her mother—a smile of iron and a backbone to match beneath all the finishing-school charm. Mustn’t let them see you flinch. It was a strange thought to have; they were nothing alike, and yet the comparison felt right somehow.

  Gemma spooned an almost invisible amount of sugar into her cup, stirring with dainty circular strokes. “Please, Ms. Larkin. Help yourself.”

  “Thank you, and please call me Dovie.”

  “Dovie it is. Now, you said you had a folder for me?”

  Dovie breathed a mental sigh of relief to be getting down to business. And that was all today was going to be about—business. There would be no interrogation, subtle or otherwise, no questions that might swamp this lovely and gracious woman in fresh waves of grief. Maybe at some point down the road, when the gala was over, and she was on better footing at work, she could try again, but not today.

  Dovie laid the folder open on the sofa between them, feeling lighter now that she had decided to abandon her quest. Austin wouldn’t like her being here one little bit. Of that she was certain. At least now she could tell him with some measure of honesty that her visit had been strictly gala related.

  “Mr. Livingston said you’d like to be involved in the planning stages, so I put together some information on the venues I think might work best, places we’ve used in the past that do a good job with large events. I’ve also included some sample invitations. You don’t need to decide right now, but we are a little crunched for time if we’re going to schedule before the holiday events book up. Take a day or two to look everything over, and please feel free to call me with any questions. My card is there, inside the folder.”

  Gemma nodded as she thumbed through the selection of brochures. “You’ve done a very thorough job. Thank you for all the information. I should be able to get back to you by Wednesday at the latest.”

  “Great,” Dovie said, beaming. “As soon as I hear back, I’ll get everything booked. That just leaves the guest list. We have
a master list of patrons that we’ll be inviting, of course, but I’m sure you’ll want to add some of your own acquaintances to that.”

  Gemma nodded as she reached for the coffeepot to top off her cup. “As a matter of fact there are a few. I’ve been working on a list. If you could just grab my planner off the desk there, I can give it to you now.”

  Dovie stood and moved to the desk, spotting the red leather planner lying open on the blotter. She folded it closed as she picked it up and was about to return to the sofa when she noticed a cluster of small silver frames scattered around the base of the desk lamp. Her eyes locked on one in particular, a young boy in school clothes—penny loafers, preppy plaid shorts, a dark blazer with a crested pocket.

  Even with the tussled hair and missing front tooth, it was impossible not to recognize Austin Tate, his boyish face already hinting at the rakish good looks he would eventually grow into. He was grinning in the photo, as if he’d just been told a secret, and Dovie found herself wondering when he had last smiled like that. He was gripping a lunch box with one hand, grasping the hand of a young woman with the other. Dovie stared at the woman’s features—dark doe eyes and honey blond hair—and felt a little flutter behind her navel.

  Alice.

  “My son,” Gemma said with the wisp of a smile. “He was six there. It was the first day of school.”

  Dovie managed a nod but couldn’t take her eyes off Alice. She was older here than in the photo Dora had shown her, and much thinner, the girlish fullness that had softened her face replaced by something sharper and harder.

  “Who’s the girl in the photo with him?” Dovie ventured, trying to sound offhand.

  Gemma’s spoon went quiet. “Her name was Alice. She was Austin’s nanny. Caused quite a stir, too. Perhaps you’ve heard?”

  Dovie kept her face blank, aware that she was being tested. “I’m sorry. I haven’t. But then, it was probably years ago.”