Love, Alice

by Barbara Davis

  Dovie tore off another bit of pastry and folded it into her mouth. It was an odd conversation to be having. Asking questions she should have known the answers to. Listening to answers she could never have given herself. She wasn’t sure she liked it. And yet there was a strange comfort in it, too, a fragile connection to something lost. They had cared about the same person. They missed the same person. Their pain was their bond.

  “I should thank you. You were a good friend to William.” She paused, surprised to find herself smiling. “I’m sorry, I just can’t call him Billy. To me, he’ll always be William.”

  “Billy. William. It doesn’t matter. He was a hell of a guy. Crazy, at times, but a hell of a guy.”

  Dovie chuckled as a memory flickered to life. “He was crazy. He used to do these voices. That’s how we met, actually. We were at this god-awful luncheon, and he started mimicking all the women there. He had me laughing so hard I nearly wet my pants.”

  “Talk about peeing your pants—try sitting beside him at the Starbucks drive-through when he orders a Venti triple-shot vanilla latte sounding like Donald Duck.”

  This was a new one for Dovie, but she could see it so clearly she threw her head back and laughed. And just like that, the tension between them seemed to evaporate, like clouds shredding after a storm.

  “And then, when he got the vanilla latte, he added even more sugar to it.”

  Kristopher smiled. “Four sugars, to be exact. He couldn’t drink anything unless it was sweet enough to curl his hair. I swear, I’ve seen the man add sugar to sweet tea. I seriously wonder how he had any teeth left.”

  It was true. William had had an insatiable sweet tooth, especially when it came to coffee or tea. And four sugars was precisely the number he added to his latte. She was surprised that Kristopher would remember that. But it made her like him better.

  “He had so many pet peeves and idiosyncrasies,” Dovie said wistfully. “I miss them.”

  “You mean you miss the way he’d go off on a tirade anytime someone used the expression irregardless?”

  “I swear, his eyes would roll back in his head.”

  “Or supposubly?”

  “That is not a word!” Dovie mimicked, doing her best William impersonation.

  “Are you going to help me with Billy’s parents?”

  The question brought Dovie back to reality with a bump. She picked up her mug, sipping thoughtfully. “I wasn’t going to, but now I think I might.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “I don’t know, really. Maybe your knowing how many sugars he took. Anyway, I said I might, not that I was going to.”

  “And what will it take to convince you?”

  Dovie studied him over the rim of her macchiato. His voice had been silky just then, almost seductive, and yet she’d never met a less available man. Perhaps he was married. He didn’t wear a ring, but that didn’t prove anything one way or another. Lots of married men skipped the ring. Or maybe he was just the kind of guy who had rules about mixing business with pleasure. She understood that. He’d come to Charleston on a mission, and he was hell-bent on seeing it through. “Tell me again why you want this sculpture.”

  Kristopher pushed back his uneaten bear claw and folded his arms on the edge of the table. “I want it because it’s the last thing he ever did, the last thing he’ll ever do. And I want it because it was supposed to be mine. I asked him to do it.”

  “It may not even be finished.”

  “I don’t care about that.”

  “I’ll do it,” Dovie blurted before she could change her mind. “I’ll help you. Because I think William would want me to.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was such relief in his voice that she felt the need to warn him. “Please don’t get your hopes up. I’m not sure the Prescotts will even know the piece you’re talking about. They took no interest in his work, other than to disapprove of it, so I’m not sure they’d want any more of it out there.”

  “I would never sell it. I’d make sure they knew that.”

  “Kristopher, I’m not even sure they’ll talk to me about this, let alone talk to you. They blame William’s art for what happened. And I’m pretty sure that means they blame you, too.”

  “But his art made him happy. In fact, it was the only thing that did.”

  Dovie stared down into her cup. “I used to think I made him happy. Apparently, I was wrong.”

  “He cared for you a great deal.”

  “Just not enough.”

  “Don’t do that, Dovie. Don’t make this your fault. He chose. Billy . . . William chose what he did. I never imagined he would do it. He was never big on choices. He was always too busy trying to please everyone. That’s what killed him. Not the pills. Not the bourbon. It was not being able to choose.”

  Dovie shook her head. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “It doesn’t matter now. I just want the sculpture. Help me get it and I’ll go away and never bother any of you again.”

  He was sitting up straight now, his body tight as a bowstring as he waited for her answer. “I’m just wondering,” Dovie said, still studying his body language. “Are you this passionate about all your clients’ work?”

  “Billy was more than a client. He was a friend. A best friend.”

  Dovie nodded with a sad kind of knowing. “He was that for me, too.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Austin used his key to let himself in, depositing the pair of framed prints he’d just picked up for his mother on the entry table. It was Sunday, which meant Kimberly wasn’t around to harass him about scratching the furniture. Not that anyone would be able to see a scratch if he left one. Why did his mother insist on keeping the place shut up like a tomb?

  Squinting through the gloom, he ran an eye around the parlor, eerie now in its stillness, like a theater set after the players had departed the stage and the lights had been switched off. The show had closed, at last, a flop by even the kindest critic’s standards. A tragedy. Or perhaps a farce. Annoyed, he shook off the thought. What the hell was wrong with him? All this bitterness and looking back was pointless, and yet he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was as if a door somewhere in his memory had been wedged open a crack, and he couldn’t keep from peering in.

  Peeling off his jacket and draping it over the newel post—another habit sure to drive Kimberly to distraction—he called upstairs to his mother. When no answer came he poked his head into the kitchen, then ventured down the hall to her study. Both were empty. Perhaps she’d gone out, but that was unlikely. She rarely left the house these days, and never alone.

  Finally, he caught the faint rattle of china and followed it out to the sunporch. He lingered in the doorway a moment, startled by the sight of his mother in this unguarded moment, without makeup and still in her robe, her hair loose about her shoulders, threaded here and there with strands of silver. For an instant, he was reminded of the days after Alice’s death, when she had slowly gone to pieces. A nervous complaint, the doctors called it, brought on by grief. They had prescribed heavy doses of Valium and Seconal, but nothing seemed to work. And then, when people began to talk, she was sent to the Groves—a spa-slash-sanitarium in the Carolina mountains. And he had been sent to school.

  He must have moved or made a sound, because she turned, her face suddenly brightening. “There you are. I wondered if you’d come by. I’ve been missing you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’m finding the crown a bit heavier than anticipated. I did manage to pick up the prints, though. I’ll hang them while I’m here if you know where you want them.”

  “Well, I thought I did when I bought them, but now I think I’d like to live with them for a few days first.” Gemma smiled up at him, patting the settee. “Come sit, and tell me what’s new in your world.”

  Austin pushed aside t
he stack of gardening magazines she’d been browsing despite the fact that she hadn’t set foot in the gardens in years. He watched as she poured him a cup of tea, noting the slight tremor as she passed it to him. Coffee was what he needed, the stronger the better. He’d been on the phone with Tyler Burns half the night, talking the poor kid off yet another ledge.

  His phone had gone off at quarter to twelve, midway through the third quarter of the Arizona game he’d been pretending to watch. He recognized Tyler’s number the minute it appeared, but the call had dropped before he could answer. Three minutes later, it rang again, this time with Tyler sobbing on the other end, blubbering that no one would even notice if he was dead. He’d finally managed to get the kid calmed down, but it was clear that the time had come to have a talk with the boy’s father, no matter how crowded the man’s social schedule might be. It would mean breaking his word to Tyler—a solemn vow to never breathe a word of their conversations to his father or anyone—but that was just too bad. When a kid started talking about dying everything changed, including promises.

  “You look tired,” his mother said, touching a hand to his cheek. “You’ve got circles under your eyes.”

  “A boy from the youth center,” he said over the rim of his teacup. “He called around midnight in a pretty bad way. I was on the phone with him most of the night.”

  “Then you should be home in bed, not here.”

  “Can’t. I’m taking him out sailing this afternoon. Besides, I promised to come by and see my best girl. I couldn’t very well go back on my word, now, could I?”

  She smiled, patting his cheek again. “You always were a charmer.”

  “How are you, Mother? You’re looking a little tired yourself.”

  Gemma rolled her eyes. “Nothing a little Estée Lauder won’t fix.”

  “Have you been to see Dr. Randolph lately?”

  “I have, as a matter of fact, and he says I’m fit as a fiddle, so you can take that look off your face. I’m not sick. I’m just starting to show a little wear and tear around the edges. I’ll be seventy next month, in case you’ve forgotten. That’s an awful lot of miles.”

  Austin nodded. She had a point. And Tate miles weren’t easy miles. “I just want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself. You are, aren’t you?”

  “You’re sweet, even if you do look like death on a Triscuit. Have you eaten, at least?”

  “Thanks, I think. And no, I haven’t. When have you ever known me to want breakfast?”

  “But it’s nearly noon. Let me fix you some eggs and toast. You’ll feel better.”

  Austin chuckled. “You mean, you’ll feel better. No, thanks. This is all I need.” He reached for a piece of biscotti from the tray and nibbled the end, doing his best not to make a face as he swallowed. It tasted like last week’s coffee cake.

  “Well, now that we’ve established that I’m not going to kick the bucket anytime soon, let’s hear what’s happening with you.”

  Austin set down his tea, hoping his mother wouldn’t notice the uneaten biscotti concealed between cup and saucer, then nudged the stack of magazines to give himself a bit more room. Frowning, he glanced down at several sheets of stationery imprinted with the museum’s distinctive logo.

  “Where did this come from?” he asked, holding up the sheets.

  “From the museum, just like it says at the top. Why do you look like you’re about to throw a tantrum?”

  “Because I told her,” he shot back. “I made it clear that from now on all details for the gala were to go through me, and that you weren’t to be bothered. And here she’s brought you something else.”

  His mother regarded him with wide, somewhat surprised eyes. “I assume by her, you mean Ms. Larkin, though I don’t understand why you’re upset. It’s just a letter confirming the venue and menu choices we discussed the day she came by. It arrived the other day, and must have gotten scooped up with my magazines. And why on earth would you forbid her to have contact with me?”

  “I just didn’t want her bothering you.”

  Gemma folded her arms, a sure sign that she was less than pleased. “Because I’m so frail, so doddering, that deciding between the chicken and the fish might give me a stroke?”

  “No. Of course not. I know how you feel about the museum, and how important this new wing is. That’s why I made the donation in the first place. But there’s no need for you to be sucked into all the tiny details.”

  “Austin, this isn’t about getting my name on some plaque. It’s something I care very deeply about, something I want to be involved in.”

  “I understand that. I just didn’t want her coming around and making a nuisance of herself. That’s why I told her to stay away. You’ve got enough on your plate without her loading you up with a bunch of questions.”

  Gemma seemed baffled at first, and then astonished. “Enough on my plate? Austin, I have nothing on my plate. You say I look tired, and I am, but I can promise you it’s not from having too much on my plate. It’s from having absolutely nothing on my plate. When your father was alive there were dinners, parties, benefits, something to do every night. Now I never leave the house. There’s nothing I’m supposed to do. Nowhere I’m supposed to go.”

  “You could start going to the club again. Have lunch with your friends, like you used to. And you used to play bridge. You could get the Wednesday group together again. Or maybe get back out in the garden.”

  Gemma sighed, shaking her head. “That isn’t what I mean. I mean I’m not useful anymore. Not . . . needed.”

  Her words hit home. “I’m sorry, Mother. I didn’t realize—”

  “Don’t be sorry, honey. It’s the way things work. We get old. The torch is passed. And I’m proud that it’s been passed to you. Someday some woman will stand beside you, the way I stood beside your father. At least, I hope she will. Until then, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop treating me like a piece of Waterford crystal. I’m not going to splinter into pieces if I’m asked to make a few decisions. Besides, I told you, I like that girl. She cares about what she’s doing, and she’s sweet. Beautiful, too, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Austin saw where this was going, and decided to stop it cold. The last thing he needed at this moment was a sales pitch on Dovie Larkin. “She is. But I’m not in the market for what you’re talking about. I don’t want my picture taken, but if I have to, I promise you I don’t need a woman standing next to me when I do.”

  “Yes, you do. Everyone needs someone standing next to them, honey. We’re just wired that way, to belong to something besides ourselves. And you’re not getting any younger. All I’m saying is maybe it’s time to give up the party girls and think about settling down. I wouldn’t mind a grandchild or two, you know. I’m not getting any younger, either.”

  “And what would you say if I told you I liked my life the way it is?”

  “I’d say your father’s dead, and it’s time you stopped trying to punish him.”

  Austin felt a muscle begin to tick in his cheek. He didn’t want to have this conversation now—or ever, really. “This hasn’t got anything to do with him.”

  Gemma lifted one unpenciled brow. “Monica wasn’t about your father?”

  “Monica was a mistake.”

  She sighed as she set down her cup and took both his hands, refusing to let go when he tried to pull free. “You married Monica because you knew she was the last woman on earth your father would ever approve of. You did it to hurt him.”

  “And all I did was hurt everyone else.” This time when he pulled away, she let him go. He stood, stalking toward the far end of the sunroom.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Austin. She had problems.”

  “And I sure didn’t help, did I? And now you’re suggesting I wreck someone else’s life? No, thanks. I’ve swallowed enough guilt for one lifetime.”

  “
It wouldn’t be like that, honey. You’d be choosing a partner this time, not a weapon. And I don’t mean one of those Barbie dolls you’ve been seeing. I’m talking about a woman you’d be proud to share your life with. Someone like . . . well, like Dovie, for instance.”

  He stared at her, incredulous. “That’s what all this is about? Setting me up with Dovie because you like her?”

  “Sometimes you get a feeling about someone the minute you meet them. You just know who they are, and what they’re all about. I just thought—”

  “She was asking about Alice,” he said, cutting her off. “You asked why I told her not to bother you. That’s why. She was asking about Alice.”

  His mother paled visibly, hands fluttering in her lap like a pair of startled birds. “What . . . what did she want to know?”

  “I don’t know. I stopped her before she could get very far.”

  “Do you think she’s heard the talk—about Alice and your father, I mean? Do you suppose that’s why she asked?”

  “I have no idea what she knows, but I’d say it’s a pretty safe bet that she has. I don’t think there’s anyone in Charleston who hasn’t heard the talk about my nanny and that bastard.”

  “Austin, please. Show some respect. The man was your father, and my husband.”

  “He might have been your husband, but he was never any kind of father to me. As far as I’m concerned, he was just a man who lived down the hall. He sent me away the first chance he got, because he couldn’t stand the sight of me. So please don’t sit there and tell me to show some respect. I can’t. Come to think of it, I don’t recall him being much of a husband, either, so why you’re always trying to make him out to be some kind of saint, I’ll never know.”

  He regretted the words as soon as they were out, but it was too late. He watched as his mother’s face drained of color, her hand to her cheek, as if his words had struck her there.

  “It’s always easy to throw rocks at someone else’s house, isn’t it?” she said softly. “To peer between someone else’s blinds and think you know what’s going on inside. But it’s not always that simple, Austin. There are things you can’t see, things people keep to themselves. Things that would change everything if you knew them. Or have you forgotten that?”