Love, Alice

by Barbara Davis

  And Mrs. Tate—or Gemma, as she now insists I call her—is only too happy to share her son with me, better I’m sure than I would be about sharing you with someone else. Yesterday, we were out in the gardens, where she spends most of her afternoons, pruning and weeding in an old straw hat. Austin and I were on a blanket in the shade. I was reading aloud from one of his favourite storybooks when he scrambled up onto his chubby legs and tottered across the grass to his mother. By the time I put the book down and went after him, he had traded his teething biscuit for a fistful of dirt and was preparing to make a snack of it.

  I was expecting to be scolded for not watching him closely enough. Instead, she looked up at me, her brown eyes shiny with laughter, and said, “What are we going to do with this boy of ours, Alice?”

  This boy of ours.

  I think they just might be the kindest words anyone has ever spoken to me. But then, Gemma is always kind. She doesn’t put on airs, or even dress the part of a fine lady, unless she’s off to some tea or luncheon, which she is far more often than she cares to be. In fact, I think she’s happier in her garden than just about anywhere else, up to her elbows in the Carolina soil. Except for the time she spends with Austin, of course. That’s when her heart is fullest, and it shows—as if every time she picks up that little boy is the first time.

  We’ve grown close, Gemma and I, despite the difference in our ages, as if some unseen connection has always existed between us. The rest of the help see it, too, and dislike me for it. I can’t say I blame them. I’m treated more like a sister than an employee, adored, even coddled at times, as if she’s trying to make up for the things I’ve been through, for Blackhurst, and for losing you, my darling.

  Things have changed a little, though, since those first early days when I came to work here. Gemma’s husband—his name is Harley—is back from Chicago, where he’s been working for the last few months on a big real estate project. He’s so rarely at home, and then usually shut up in his study, that it’s easy to forget he lives here at all, so that when we did come face-to-face one night on the stairs, I was actually startled to see him there. And he was no happier to see me, glaring at me like I was some kind of intruder. In all my life, I’ve never seen a man with a colder pair of eyes.

  I could have excused his coldness if it was only directed toward me, but it isn’t. He’s insolent to Gemma one moment, then condescending the next, and barely acknowledges poor Austin, unless it’s to find fault or shoo him away. I wouldn’t have thought it possible for a man to be so impervious to his own flesh and blood, but I’ve seen it for myself. Gemma makes excuses—he’s tired after such a long trip, and has a lot on his mind—but there’s no mistaking such obvious disdain, or excusing it, either.

  Luckily, I don’t have to see him very often. I’m usually in the nursery with Austin, or out in the gardens with Gemma. And when I’m finished with my duties, I have a large bright room just down from the nursery, with a little writing desk where I sit down at least once a week and write another letter, in the hope that someone somewhere will help me. I think sometimes about asking Mrs. Tate for help. Surely she has connections, the kind of people who might be able to make more successful inquiries. But those same people might make other inquiries. They might learn that I ran away and am still underage, and might force me to go back to Mam and Sennen Cove. But that isn’t the only reason I’m reluctant to mention my promise to her. I’m afraid to tell her that my real motive—my only motive—for being here is to find you and get you back. If she thinks I might leave my position, she might not want to keep me on. And for now, at least, I’m happy here.

  No more iron beds and tasteless porridge. No more sewing, or laundry, or forced prayers to a deaf God. For now, at least, I have resolved to make my way in this new place, and with this new set of people, and to content myself with looking after Gemma Tate’s little prince, who has, little by little, begun to melt my heart. I was uncertain at first that I had it in me to care for another woman’s child, to be reminded daily of what the Sisters of Mercy took from me, but I find I can bear it almost cheerfully, because he helps me remember you, my angel, and to keep the promise I made to you burning brightly.

  Though sometimes I fear it burns a bit too brightly. Everywhere I go—to the park, or the market, or for a stroll along the Battery—I find myself looking for you, searching the face of every child I pass, hoping for a glimpse of your father’s eyes. I would know you if I saw you. I’m certain of it. And so I will keep looking, though it scares me at times to think what I might do if I did find you. I haven’t forgotten—will never forget—that brief but terrible moment when I contemplated snatching poor Austin away. It was a kind of madness—temporary, but mad just the same. In a very short time, I have come to realize that a mother will do almost anything—lie, cheat, even steal—for the sake of her child.

  I wonder sometimes if it’s quite normal to miss a child I’ve never once laid eyes on, because it doesn’t always feel normal. Sometimes, when Austin looks up at me with one of his dimply smiles, I think again how easy it would be to simply take him and disappear. Those are the times I wonder if Blackhurst has left me warped in some way, and if I’m fit to be looking after a child at all. Perhaps not, but I’m too fond of him now to leave. Besides, where would I go? This is the only home I have now—until I find you, little one. And I will find you.

  All my love,

  Mam

  THIRTY-FOUR

  MAGNOLIA GROVE CEMETERY

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  OCTOBER 26, 2005

  Dovie did her best to study Dora’s face without appearing to. This morning’s letters hadn’t been as hard on her as some of the others. While they had been far from happy, there had at least been a measure of comfort in them. After months of struggle, Alice had landed in a safe place where she was treated well, and perhaps even loved.

  But for Dovie, the most intriguing details had to do with the little boy in Alice’s care. The letters had provided a grim glimpse into Austin’s childhood, stirring memories of their conversation at McCrady’s, when he had casually confessed that his father never loved him. At the time, she had just assumed he was being glib. Now, based on Alice’s words, it looked as though the remark had been more fact than fiction.

  The realization came with a deep pang of sadness. What must it be like to live your whole life knowing you weren’t loved by one of your parents? At least Gemma had made up for it. That she had adored him was clear. And she had loved Alice, too, enough to share her most precious possession—her son.

  “She had a friend,” Dora said, as if reading Dovie’s thoughts. “Mrs. Tate. She looked after my girl, took care of her when I couldn’t. Would she see me, do you think? So I can thank her?”

  Dovie gnawed at her lower lip, not at all certain that was a good idea. That Gemma and Alice once shared a special relationship seemed clear. What was less than clear was whether that relationship had been intact at the time of Alice’s death. She thought about the rumors—decades old now—that had been resurrected with Harley Tate’s death. Rumors of infidelity with a young woman in his wife’s employ. Alice had clearly held no fondness for Austin’s father, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t managed to seduce her—or worse. If he had, it would have certainly severed the friendship between the two women. It would also account for Gemma’s rather abrupt retreat when Alice’s name had come up in conversation the day Dovie had dropped off the folder.

  “Dora,” Dovie said gently, determined to sidestep any mention of the rumors. “I’m not sure Mrs. Tate is up to visitors just now. She hasn’t been well lately. It seems she’s taking her husband’s death pretty hard.”

  At the mention of Harley Tate, Dora’s face went stony. “That old tosser? Why should she give a snap about him? Good riddance, I say!”

  Dovie reached for her hand, patting it gently. “I know. He doesn’t seem like a very nice man, but she’s enti
tled to her grief, the same as us.”

  Dora nodded grudgingly. “I suppose.”

  “We need to go soon. Are you ready?”

  Dora’s gaze strayed to the stone angel several yards away from their bench. “Can I just have a few minutes? I’d like to have a word. I know it’s silly, and she can’t hear me, but I’d like to just the same.”

  At Dovie’s nod she stepped away, crossing the path to the place where her daughter lay buried. She stood there a moment, staring up into the stony, tearstained face, her expression so rife with grief that Dovie felt a knot rise in her throat. She was so lost in the moment that she didn’t notice the shadow that had fallen across the bench.

  “Well, now,” Josiah said. “I wasn’t sure I’d be seeing you much anymore.”

  Dovie smiled up at him. “I didn’t come for me. I brought a friend.” She pointed across the path to where Dora stood. “We’ve been reading some of Alice’s letters.”

  Josiah shot Dovie a long, sideways look. “I asked you once if you’d lost your mind. Now I know you have. What in the world were you thinking, bringing that poor woman here? Look at her standing there, nothing but skin and bone, blubbering after her dead girl. You can’t drag old folk to a place like this and read the kind of stuff that’s in those letters. You just can’t do it.”

  “She asked me to, Josiah. I tried to talk her out of it, but she wouldn’t listen. She might be skin and bone, but she’s stubborn as anything. I knew if I didn’t bring her, she’d just come on her own. This way I’m with her if something happens.”

  Josiah sighed, a long, heavy sound that meant he was going to leave it alone. “I don’t know. We all have our own way of dealing with grief. Guess butting into this poor old lady’s life was yours. And who knows? Maybe this will help her find some peace.” He paused, jerking his chin in the direction of William’s grave. “You see the flowers?”

  Dovie nodded. “His mother and I had a little chat.”

  “Wasn’t her,” he said, in a way that made Dovie turn to look at him. “Was a tall man dressed all in black. Came last night, just before sunset. Stayed a long time, too. Just stood there all by himself. Never seen him before.” He paused a moment. “You have, though, I reckon.”

  Dovie nodded.

  Josiah nodded back. “Thought as much. You best go now, and see to Mrs. Tandy.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Dovie did her best, on the drive home, to shake off the image of Kristopher standing vigil over William’s grave. He was back, apparently, just as he said he would be, to attend his sister’s wedding and presumably crate up The Agonies for shipping back to New York. She had expected to feel something like jealousy, tiny echoes of the instinctive possessiveness she had felt the first day she saw him. Instead, it felt right somehow. The torch had been passed. He would take her place now—albeit, from a distance.

  It was almost noon by the time she got home. She dropped her tote on the kitchen counter and made a beeline for the remote, flipping to ESPN in hopes of catching the last few minutes of Game Day. If she hurried, she could get the nachos into the oven and still have time to change before kickoff.

  She’d just opened the fridge when the phone rang. She made a face when she saw her mother’s number pop up on caller ID. She wasn’t in the mood for chitchat right now, wasn’t interested in which of her friends had had a tummy tuck, or whose daughter had just run off with the gardener’s son. Right now she was in the mood for beer, nachos, and a little college football.

  “Gamecocks Central,” she answered brightly as she picked up the phone, a subtle, or maybe not so subtle, reminder to her mother that kickoff was less than twenty minutes away.

  “You sound like you’re out of breath, honey. Were you exercising or something?”

  “No, I wasn’t exercising.” Tucking the phone under chin, she moved about the kitchen, pulling salsa, cheese, and sour cream from the fridge. “Kickoff’s in a few minutes, and I’m trying to get the nachos in the oven.”

  “Are we playing Clemson?”

  We? Who was we? Her mother didn’t know a tight end from a split end. As far as Rowena Larkin was concerned, there were two teams in all of college football—South Carolina and Clemson. And the only reason she knew those was that Dovie’s father had played for the Gamecocks—and had hated the Tigers with a white-hot passion.

  “No, Mother. Clemson was two weeks ago. We play Florida today, in fifteen minutes, as a matter of fact, so I’m a little rushed.”

  “All right, then, I won’t keep you. I just called about lunch next week. It’s been so long since we had a nice long chat. We could hit Magnolia’s and then do a little shopping.”

  “It’s not a good time for me right now, Mother. You know I’ve got that big fund-raiser in a few weeks, and I’m up to my ears getting ready.”

  It wasn’t exactly true; the majority of the details had been finalized last week. But it was as good an excuse as any to avoid what would almost certainly begin with an inquisition into her love life and end with a shopping spree for things neither of them needed and would probably never wear.

  “Can we do it another time?”

  “I suppose we could, but have you given any thought to what you’ll be wearing to this little shindig? And, more important, to who’ll be escorting you?”

  The platter slipped out of her hands and onto the counter. “Escorting me?”

  “Yes, escorting you. You can’t show up to something like that without a date on your arm, sweetheart. It isn’t done.”

  “I don’t need an escort. I’ll be working.”

  “Working as in pouring drinks and passing out crab puffs? Or working as in schmoozing potential donors? There’s a big difference, honey. I learned that the hard way, when I did all those charity dinners for your father. You’re definitely going to need a new dress—and a date. You can’t show up looking like some wallflower.”

  Dovie stifled a groan as she shoved the platter of nachos into the oven and set the timer. She wasn’t sure which terrified her more, the idea of shopping for a gown or finding someone to drag to this affair. “I don’t need to go shopping, Mother. I’m sure I have something in my closet that will work.”

  This brought a snort from her mother. “I’ve seen what’s in your closet, honey, and no, you really don’t.”

  “I’ll borrow something from Robin,” she said, heading down the hall now to change. “God knows she’s got a closet full of ball gowns, and she isn’t likely to need them with a belly full of baby.”

  “Dovie, since when have you been able to wear anything of your sister’s? For one thing, she’s a good three inches shorter than you. Not to mention, as you have been pointing out to me since you were eight, you do not do ruffles. Face it, honey. You’re going to have to bite the bullet and go shopping. We could all go together. You, me, and Robin. She says she hasn’t heard from you in a couple weeks. It would be nice for us to all catch up.”

  “Fine. The three of us,” Dovie agreed. At this point, giving in seemed to be her only hope of getting off the phone and back to the kitchen before the nachos caught fire. “We’ve got a night game next week. I can do it then. Look, I hate to cut this short, but I’ve got food in the oven. I’ll touch base with you later in the week to firm up a time. I promise.”

  She had just dragged her T-shirt over her head and flipped to CBS when the doorbell rang. Fabulous. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear there was a conspiracy afoot. Then she remembered telling Austin she’d be home after noon. And of course, here he was, right on time, just as the Gamecocks were coming out of the tunnel.

  He stood there smiling as she opened the door, looking tanned and boyish in faded jeans and a navy blue Windbreaker. It was a new look for him, and definitely a good one.

  “You did say noon, didn’t you?” His eyes lingered a moment on her bare legs and feet, before sliding up to meet hers. “I�
�m meeting someone later this afternoon, so I thought I’d come early and get it out of the way.”

  There was something vaguely annoying about the remark, as if she was something to be checked off a list before he could actually begin enjoying his day. “Well, then, let’s—” Before she could finish, the oven timer cut her off. “Sorry. Give me a minute, and I’ll be right with you. The paintings are on the desk if you want to start looking them over.”

  She returned a few minutes later to find him standing in front of the desk, arms folded, head tilted to one side, as if listening to song lyrics he couldn’t quite make out.

  “His name is Ivey Clark,” she said, coming to stand beside him. “There are already several of his pieces hanging in your mother’s study, so I think you’re safe no matter which you choose. She loves his work, like I do. It’s so . . . palpable.”

  Austin lifted his brows, clearly out of his depth. “Palpable?”

  “It means substantial, physical.”

  “If you say so. Like I said, when it comes to this stuff, I’m hopeless. I do know paintings have names sometimes. Do these?”

  Dovie dragged her eyes from the TV, where Florida had just won the toss. “They do, in fact. I’ve got them in my planner, along with the prices. Let me get them for you.”

  She felt a moment of panic as she reached into her tote and saw the envelopes from this morning’s outing with Dora. Austin would have no way of knowing what they were, of course, but it was a strange reality to be faced with, having the subject of those letters standing in her living room. What would he say if he knew what she’d been up to? Poking around in his family’s business, reading letters that didn’t belong to her, obsessing over the woman who had been his nanny.