Love, Alice

by Barbara Davis

  Austin looked away, unwilling to meet her gaze. It was the closest she’d ever come to admitting she knew there were things he had neglected to share about his marriage to Monica, ugly things he had let go with her to her grave.

  “No,” he said, finally. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  It had taken three phone calls to get the Prescotts to agree to meet with Kristopher, and then only on the condition that Dovie be present. He would have thirty minutes to make his case, and not a moment more, after which he would accept their decision as final, leave their home, and never attempt to contact them again. The terms alone had Dovie convinced that they were wasting their time.

  Dovie managed a smile as she slid into the passenger seat of Kristopher’s rental car. “Time to get the show on the road, I guess.”

  “I can’t thank you enough for making this happen, Dovie.”

  “Nothing’s happened yet,” she reminded him. “I’ve gotten you in the door, that’s all.”

  “How does the old saying go? It’s better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.”

  Dovie cocked an eye at him. “That’s an actual saying?”

  “For my grandmother, it was. One of her favorites, actually. And in this case it’s spot-on. Any meeting, even a hostile one, is better than no meeting at all.”

  “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up. If Amanda Prescott’s tone was any indication, they’ve pretty much made up their minds already. They really don’t like you.”

  Kristopher’s jaw tightened as he shifted the car into reverse. “The feeling’s mutual.”

  It was an odd remark, given the fact that he’d never even met William’s parents, but Dovie decided to let it pass. At the moment, she had more important things to worry about, like making sure Kristopher didn’t say something that would get him tossed out on his ear. She just hoped the drive across town would give her enough time to do some coaching. For the next fifteen minutes, while Kristopher navigated the maze of Charleston’s downtown streets, she ran through the list of dos and don’ts. Keep your temper, no matter what’s said. Don’t let them draw you into an argument. Don’t mention the word suicide. And above all, under no circumstances refer to their son as Billy.

  She watched him as he pulled up the circular drive and cut the engine. He was staring at the house, a furrow between his dark brows. He must have felt her eyes. He turned, hands tight on the wheel. “I meant what I said earlier, Dovie. Whatever happens in there, I want you to know how much I appreciate what you’ve done. I see now why Billy picked you. You’d have been good together. You’ve got a big heart. So did he.”

  The unexpected compliment made Dovie squirm, as if some battle had just been lost, some precious ground yielded. She glanced at the clock on the dash. There wasn’t time to ask. “We’d better get going. You’ve got thirty minutes. You can’t afford to waste them sitting out here.”

  It was Tilda who answered the door, looking as dour and starched as ever in her light blue uniform. Her smooth dark face remained impassive as she showed them into the front parlor. The Prescotts were waiting, seated side by side on the sage green sofa, their intent, no doubt, to present a united front. Neither stood as they entered the room.

  Mrs. Prescott gestured toward a pair of wingbacks, then returned her hands to her lap. Dovie scanned the coffee table, bare except for a cut crystal bowl of creamy white roses. She had never known William’s mother to receive guests without a tray of refreshments nearby, but there was no tray today, no pitcher of iced tea, no clever little cookies from Blanc Pain—because they weren’t guests. This was business. So be it.

  Mr. Prescott tipped his head in Dovie’s direction, the barest of acknowledgments. Dovie recognized the gesture for what it was—an indictment. In arranging this meeting for Kristopher, she had chosen sides, though in what she still couldn’t say. What she did know was that she was suddenly determined that Kristopher would leave with what he’d come for.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Prescott,” Dovie began when everyone was settled. “The reason Mr. Bloom asked for this meeting is quite simple. William was working on a piece for him when he died, and he’d like to have it.”

  “So I gathered,” Harold Prescott said, raking cold eyes over Kristopher, “based on the messages he’s left on my phone. What I’m not clear on is why Mr. Bloom thinks I’d be inclined to give him anything.”

  Dovie stared at him. She’d never seen William’s father be anything but gracious. Where was all this hostility coming from? Hoping to find an ally in William’s mother, she shifted her gaze, but Amanda remained mute, an air of accusation lurking just beneath her well-polished surface.

  Perhaps if she approached it from a different angle. “Harold. Amanda. I know neither of you was happy when William decided to pursue his artwork as a career, but today isn’t about that. At least it shouldn’t be. What it’s about is doing what William would have wanted. He and Kristopher weren’t just business associates. They were friends. And the piece we’re talking about carries a great deal of sentiment. Which is why he—why we—came today. Because Kristopher would like something to remember your son by. Surely you can understand that.”

  The silence that settled over the room was brief, but uncomfortable. It was Amanda who finally broke it. “How dare you come into my home and lecture me about what my son wanted? You, of all people, who claimed to love him, and then let him do what he did? He wanted to throw his whole life away, to turn his back on his family and everything he was brought up to be. You were supposed to stop him. How in God’s name can you stand there and claim to know what he would want now that he’s dead when you obviously didn’t care enough about him when he was alive?”

  Dovie was too astonished to respond. Not once since William’s death had Amanda Prescott ever hinted that Dovie had been in any way responsible for her son’s suicide. Now, inexplicably, she had done just that, and in a way that made Dovie think she’d been holding her tongue for some time. From the corner of her eye, she saw Kristopher preparing to bolt up out of his chair. She shot him a quelling look. It was sweet of him to want to leap to her defense, but it wasn’t going to help his case one tiny bit. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  Knotting her hands in her lap, Dovie tried again, determined to ignore Amada’s tirade and finish what she started. “Mr. and Mrs. Prescott, the sooner we decide this matter, the sooner we can all just part company. That being said—”

  “Mr. Bloom,” William’s father said, clearly not interested in anything Dovie had to say. “What is this really about? You say you’re here because you want one of my son’s sculptures, but frankly, I’m not buying it. I’ve seen his work, and it’s hardly what I’d call art. So let’s get down to business, shall we?”

  Kristopher looked baffled. “Business?”

  “I can only assume this is some sort of shakedown. You made a meal ticket of my son, and now that he can’t help you, you show up on my doorstep. So, how much are you after?”

  It was Kristopher’s turn to look astonished. “You think I came here for money?”

  “I assume William gave you some idea of our financial situation?”

  “If you mean, did he tell me you were well off, then yes, he did. Though what you think that has to do with why I’m here, I have no idea. I don’t want a cent from you. All I want is what belongs to me—the sculpture your son was working on when he died.”

  “Come, now, Mr. Bloom, I wasn’t born yesterday. You don’t expect me to believe this is about a silly piece of plaster, do you?”

  “Mr. Prescott, the piece we’re talking about is done in clay, not plaster, which you would know if you’d ever bothered to take an interest in your son’s work. And I can assure you, I’m not after anything that isn’t rightfully mine. I asked Billy to do the sculpture last May.”

  Amanda peered at him over the tops of her glasses. “Who on earth is Bil
ly?”

  Dovie closed her eyes, bracing herself. Had he not been paying attention in the car on the way over?

  “Your son, Mrs. Prescott. I called him Billy.”

  Amanda’s eyes blazed. “My son’s name was William, Mr. Bloom. Use it, please.”

  Kristopher regarded her coldly but said nothing.

  Mr. Prescott, on the other hand, seemed wholly unconcerned with the use of his son’s nickname, and returned to the original thread of their conversation. “Did you pay William for this work?”

  “You mean, was it a commissioned piece?”

  “I mean, did you give him money in exchange for the work you requested?”

  “Well, no. It was supposed to be . . . a gift.”

  “A gift. I see. And how much do you think something like that might be worth?”

  “Worth?”

  “Worth,” Mr. Prescott repeated sharply. “How much would the piece sell for?”

  “I don’t . . . I have no idea. It was never meant—”

  “You’re an art dealer, and you don’t know how much a client’s work is worth?”

  Kristopher stared at him, clearly flustered. “Are you asking me to pay for the sculpture? Because I’ll be happy to pay whatever you ask.”

  Dovie held her breath, watching as Mr. Prescott regarded Kristopher with shrewd eyes, as if sizing up an enemy before the start of battle.

  “No,” he said, the word like a shot in the silence, cold and final. “I don’t want your money, Mr. Bloom. And I don’t want you here. Not now, and not in the future. Do you understand me?”

  Dovie cut her eyes at Kristopher, bracing for the inevitable outburst of righteous indignation. Instead, he looked beaten, his shoulders slumped, his face a weary blank. “Mr. Prescott,” she blurted, not ready to give up. “I’m asking you to reconsider. You said yourself that you never cared for William’s work, but this piece is important to Kristopher. And as he said, he’d be happy to pay whatever—”

  Amanda stood before Dovie could finish, her face impassive as she smoothed the wrinkles from her blue linen skirt. “My husband has made his decision, Dovie, and I’m asking you to respect it. I’ll call Tilda to show you out.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Dovie said stiffly. “I know the way.”

  She and Kristopher were already heading for the foyer when Amanda Prescott spoke again. “I don’t know what you hoped to accomplish by coming here today, Dovie. Or why you’ve taken up with the likes of Mr. Bloom. I always thought better of you. It appears I was mistaken.”

  Dovie turned, fixing her with a cool glare. “It appears we both were.”

  Neither of them said a word when Kristopher pulled into Dovie’s driveway. Kristopher, because he was either too miserable or too angry to speak. Dovie, because there seemed nothing appropriate to say. It had been a peculiar sort of afternoon. William’s father had been spectacularly unfair in assuming Kristopher’s motives had to do with money, and his mother had stopped just short of calling him a degenerate. Though neither came right out and said it, they seemed to see their son’s friendship with Kristopher as the root of all his problems, as if everything would have been fine if his talents had simply gone undiscovered.

  “You okay?” Kristopher asked, still hunched over the steering wheel.

  “Who, me?” Dovie reached for a smile but couldn’t quite manage it. She shrugged instead. “I’m fine. You’re the one who came away empty-handed.”

  “For what it’s worth, she was out of line back there. There was no way you could have known what Billy was planning. Hell, his own parents didn’t have a clue. Or like to pretend they didn’t. He was good at keeping things to himself. Too good. That was part of his problem—all of his problem, actually. Promise me you won’t let what she said get to you.”

  “It’s not like she said anything I haven’t said to myself at least a thousand times. But it was different somehow, hearing it from her, seeing that awful look on her face. There were so many things I wanted to say, questions I wanted ask. But it wasn’t the right time. I’m not sure it ever will be.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  Dovie stared down at her hands, at the narrow groove where her engagement ring used to sit, still visible after more than a year. “Things like, am I the only one who wonders if William chose what he did—I mean the way he did it—completely out of the blue? He took a bottle of his mother’s sleeping pills from the house, then downed half a bottle of his father’s favorite scotch. I mean, was that really just a coincidence? There was no note, but sometimes I wonder if he wasn’t leaving his own kind of message—one only his parents would understand.”

  Kristopher reached for her hand, squeezing it so hard she nearly winced. “You’re not the only one who wonders, Dovie. And I’d bet anything it wasn’t a coincidence.”

  Dovie glanced away, pretending to look out the passenger window. “It’s hard to fathom, you know, a parent squashing a child’s happiness because it doesn’t mesh with their idea of respectability. To be so ashamed of your own flesh and blood that you can’t just let him be who he is and live the life he wants.”

  “You don’t have to fathom it, though, do you?” Kristopher said with a terrible air of resignation. “You’ve seen it in action today. And you’ve seen what it does. They pretend it’s other things, that it hasn’t got anything to do with them—but they know. And it’s killing them. So they take it out on you, and me. Because it’s easier than pointing the finger at themselves.”

  “It must have been so hard on him—to be disapproved of by the two people who were supposed to love him no matter what. I’m glad he had a friend like you, someone who believed in him. They should have believed in him, too. I’m sorry, by the way, about the way they treated you. They had no right to say the things they did.”

  “Forget it. But thanks for trying. It means more than you know.”

  “You’ll go back to New York now, I suppose?”

  He shook his head, looking so very tired. “Time to get back to the real world.”

  “I won’t see you again, will I?”

  “Not unless you happen to be invited to my sister’s wedding next month. You’re not, are you?”

  Dovie managed a grin. “No, I’m afraid not. But you’ll be coming back?”

  “Just for a few days. It seems I’m giving the bride away. Sometime at the end of October. You have my card if you want to get together for a drink. No pressure, though. Something tells me after today you’re going to want to forget you ever met me.”

  Dovie laid her hand over his. “What’s that old saying? Any friend of William’s . . .” It was true, too. The thought of never seeing Kristopher again made her a little sad, as if she were losing William all over again. “Don’t be surprised if I call you someday and take you up on that drink.”

  Kristopher tried for a smile, but it didn’t take. “I’d like that. Go on, now. You look tired.” He dropped a kiss on her cheek as he leaned over and reached for the door handle. “Any friend of Billy’s . . .”

  Dovie stood on the front porch, watching, as he backed down the drive and pulled away. Right or wrong, she was still smarting from Amanda Prescott’s remarks. She had been ready for their hostility toward Kristopher, had even expected it. But nothing had prepared her for the venom William’s mother had hurled at her. It was pain, she told herself, the bitter rant of a mother who had lost her only son in the worst way imaginable. But there was something else nagging at her, some nebulous thought that had yet to gel. Perhaps it was something to do with William’s father, and the lack of anything like grief for his dead son. What was it about families that made it so easy to wound one another, that turned love to rage, that made it so hard to forgive?

  She thought of Dora and Alice, of the wounds that had festered for generations, grudges that had survived both years and miles, and felt the pull of Alice�
��s unread letters. It might be too late to mend the wounds in William’s family, but she still had hope that she could help Dora find the answers she so desperately longed for.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Riddle’s Boardinghouse

  Charleston, South Carolina

  January 4, 1963

  Dearest one,

  I’m here at last! I arrived two days ago, and have only just gotten settled in. I can scarcely believe I’ve made it all the way to the United States from tiny Sennen Cove. I would have come sooner, but I had to make travel arrangements, and it was difficult with the little bit of money I managed to scrape together. I don’t feel bad about taking Mam’s under-the-sink money. She said it was for me to go to school with, so I could have a better life, but the only life I want now is one with you in it. I do feel a little bit bad about taking her watch, though I suppose if I tried very hard I could justify that, too, since it would have come to me eventually. This is just sooner, and for a good cause. For the cause of you, my darling.

  I wonder sometimes, when I close my eyes at night, what your gram must have felt when she came to my room that morning and found me gone, if she was sad, or angry, or worried for me. I left no note, nothing saying where I was going, or why. I didn’t see why I should. I’d made it plain from the start that I intended to find you and raise you on my own, and as she wanted no part of you in the beginning, she’ll have no part once you’re found. And you will be found, my angel. I feel you each morning when I open my eyes, somewhere out there in this sprawling city of palm trees and church steeples, waiting for me to find you, and when I do, all the hardship will have been worth it.

  It wasn’t easy to keep my plans secret in a place like Sennen Cove, where everyone knows everyone’s business, and some old hen would surely let slip that she’d seen me down at the docks. Thank heavens for your father’s friends, who knew who I should talk to, and helped me make arrangements. Regular passage was too dear, but I managed to hire on as a laundress on a ship called the Carinthia II, which went to New York first, and then on to Charleston.