Love, Alice

by Barbara Davis

  One thing was certain, it was going to be quite a week. With Dora coming to stay, and the gala just six days away, her plate was full, and then some. And to top it off, she still needed to find a dress. Which reminded her, she was supposed to be picking her mother and sister up in an hour.

  Just the thought made her tired. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to spend time with them. It was that she was exhausted, and the last thing she wanted to do was to spend the day dodging questions about her love life. At least Robin would be there to run interference. If there was one thing her socially adept sister knew how to do—aside from having babies—it was handle their mother. She could do this. She could be pleasant, find a dress, have some lunch. The whole thing would be over in a couple of hours. She hoped.

  An hour later, she pulled into her mother’s driveway and honked the horn. She felt an unaccustomed pang of nostalgia for her childhood home as she sat there waiting. The porch was decked out for fall, a wreath of sunflowers and autumn leaves hanging on the front door, porch steps brimming with colorful gourds and potted yellow mums—her mother’s handiwork.

  Suddenly, she was reminded of her mother decorating the house the day after their father left, arranging garlands on the mantel, fussing to get the ribbon just right. Dovie had wanted to slap her. How on earth could she worry about garlands when her husband had just walked out on her? It wasn’t until Dovie realized her mother was quietly weeping that she understood. It was about keeping up appearances—for the neighbors, and the children, and perhaps even for herself—because that was what Southern women did. They took their blows, squared their shoulders, and simply got on with life. Not everyone would understand that kind of strength, the kind that bent but never broke. Dovie barely understood it herself. But she admired it.

  She was surprised to find herself blinking away tears as Rowena Larkin came down the porch steps and made her way down the drive. She looked lovely in a cranberry-colored pantsuit and matching scarf. On impulse, Dovie leaned over and dropped a kiss on her cheek as she slid into the passenger seat.

  “Well, now,” Rowena said, surprised. “What was that all about?”

  “I’m just glad to see you, that’s all. You look wonderful, by the way.”

  “Thanks. It’s last year’s, but I’ve never worn it.”

  Dovie watched her fumbling to fasten her seat belt, a crease between her neatly penciled brows. “Is everything all right, Mother? You seem a little flustered.”

  “It’s your sister. She isn’t going to be able to join us today. Her ankles startled swelling yesterday, and her blood pressure’s up. The doctor’s put her on bed rest.”

  “It’s nothing serious, though, right? I mean, they’d send her to the hospital if it was.”

  “She says it’s just a precaution, but who knows? I offered to go over and stay with her, but she says she’s fine and that we should go shopping.”

  Dovie smiled. “That sounds like Robin. God forbid we put off shopping. So, where should we start?”

  “For an evening gown? Christian Michi, I think. And if we don’t have any luck there, we’ll hit Evaline’s. If all else fails there’s Saks.”

  “I’m going to wear this dress once, Mother. I don’t need to drop a month’s salary on it. We’re talking about a fund-raiser for work, not the Oscars.”

  “I distinctly remember you telling me this was the most important project you’ve ever overseen, and that every detail needed to be perfect.”

  “It is. And they do.”

  “Well, then, you need to be perfect, too. And since this little hoedown is next week, I suggest we start with the shopping. When we’re through, I’ll take you to Magnolia’s for lunch.”

  Two hours later, they had settled on a compromise, a simple sheath of lustrous teal taffeta with strappy silver heels and a braided rope of iridescent glass beads. As they locked the car and walked the half block to Magnolia’s, Rowena chattered about earrings and updos. Dovie hated to admit it, but it was turning out to be a pretty good day.

  Magnolia’s was buzzing with lunchtime patrons, but they managed to get a table near the window. They each ordered a glass of chardonnay and the fried green tomatoes to share while they looked over the menu.

  After a quick glance at the specials, Rowena set her menu aside and spread her napkin in her lap. “According to the papers, this shindig of yours is going to be a pretty big deal. But then, with Gemma Tate involved, you can count on there being plenty of press coverage. Such a lovely woman, always so elegant and tasteful. But that son of hers, she’s going to have her hands full keeping his face out of the papers. Quite a playboy, that one.”

  Dovie closed her menu and reached for her wineglass. “Austin’s not who people think he is. In fact, the money the Tates gave us for the new wing was his idea.”

  Rowena’s brows shot up. “Austin, is it? We’re on a first-name basis, then?”

  Dovie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “He’s the point person for the gala. We see each other from time to time.”

  “See each other?”

  And . . . here we go.

  Dovie smothered a sigh. “In meetings, Mother. Planning meetings. Mrs. Tate hasn’t been well, and someone had to approve the details. That someone was Austin.”

  “How’s that been going?”

  Dovie could hear the skepticism in her mother’s voice, and felt an inexplicable need to defend Austin. “It’s been going well, actually. The media harps on the playboy angle, but there’s a lot more to him once you scratch the surface.”

  Her mother set down her wineglass, dabbing her lips with her napkin. “And have you . . . scratched the surface?”

  “Mother.”

  “You brought it up, sweetheart. I’m just asking the follow-up.”

  “It isn’t like that.”

  “What’s it like, then? Because the last time I saw your face that color, Brian Marshall had just asked you to the prom.”

  “Brian Marshall? Good Lord, have you memorized the names of all my boyfriends?”

  Her mother’s smile faded. “There haven’t been that many, Dovie.”

  “What’s your point? As if I don’t already know.”

  “Only that the clock is ticking, and neither of us is getting any younger.”

  “Robin’s about to spit out grandchild number three. You don’t need any more.”

  “I wasn’t talking about babies, Dovie. I was talking about years passing and you getting more and more comfortable being alone, about letting life pass you by until it’s too late to do anything about it. Honey, I just want you to be happy.”

  “And you think Austin Tate is the answer to my problems?”

  Rowena seemed to consider that but after a moment shook her head. “No, I suppose not. Not with his track record and that mess a few years back.”

  Dovie’s fork stopped short on the way to her mouth. “What mess?”

  “You know. The accident.”

  “No, I don’t know, but Theda mentioned something the other day about Austin’s name being in all the papers.”

  “Well, of course. Don’t you remember? There was a terrible accident, and his wife was killed. I guess it’s been about ten years ago now.”

  Dovie set her fork down in what felt like slow motion. “Did you say . . . wife?”

  “Her name was Monica or Monique, or something. It was pretty big news. How do you not remember?”

  “You know I don’t pay attention to that stuff. I didn’t even know he was married.”

  “Well, I can see you missing that part. Apparently, they eloped. No one seemed to know much about the girl. Anyway, she was driving out on Highway 17 one night and wrapped her car around a telephone pole. It was raining like anything, but I think she must have been speeding, too, because from the pictures there wasn’t much left of that car.”

  Dovie felt
a strange numbness creeping up her legs, and a pain that started somewhere just south of her breastbone. He’d never mentioned a wife, let alone a fatal accident. But then maybe he assumed, like everyone else, that she’d seen it in the papers. She could understand him not wanting to talk about it. “He must have been devastated. Was he in the car when it happened?”

  “From what I understand, she was alone. And I’m sure he was devastated. They’d been married less than two years when it happened. Maybe that’s why he’s the way he is. With women, I mean. Always dashing around town with a new one on his arm. Maybe he’s compensating for a broken heart.”

  “I have no idea,” Dovie said, careful to keep her voice even. “He’s never mentioned it.”

  But maybe he had. “I hurt people—maybe without meaning to.” Was that what he meant when he said he would wreck her? Had he been thinking of his wife’s death and somehow been blaming himself? The thought made her head spin. She had been mystified by his insight about her guilt over William’s death. Now, suddenly, she was beginning to understand. It wasn’t just psychobabble, or a lucky guess. He had lived it.

  She managed to fake her way through the remainder of lunch, nodding at her mother’s anecdotes, even managing a few syllables between bites of salad, but all she could think of was getting home to her laptop and finding out more about the accident that had killed Austin’s wife.

  As it turned out, there wasn’t much to find. A brief marriage announcement in the Post and Courier gave the bride’s name as Monica Lynne Mullins of Indianapolis, Indiana, and reported that the marriage had taken place at an undisclosed location in Palm Beach, on July 12, 1993. News about the accident was equally vague.

  November 1, 1994. Charleston, S.C.—Monica Tate, wife of Austin Tate, daughter-in-law of Mr. and Mrs. Harley Tate, died last night when the car she was driving spun out of control and struck a telephone pole. The investigation into the accident is still ongoing, but it is suspected that Mrs. Tate’s car was traveling at a high rate of speed when the crash occurred. Weather is also thought to have played a part in the accident. The victim’s remains are to be cremated and flown back to Indianapolis, in accordance with the family’s wishes. A memorial service is scheduled next week for friends and family at First Congregational Church.

  Dovie shut down the laptop and rubbed her eyes. The few articles she had managed to find had been almost identical, but then she supposed the facts were the facts. It did seem strange that she hadn’t been able to find much of any follow-up to the initial story. There had been a flurry of coverage in the days following the accident, and then . . . nothing. Nothing more about the investigation, or the coroner’s findings, not even a photo taken at Monica Tate’s memorial, which felt odd in and of itself, since the Tates could scarcely eat a meal in public without it appearing in print somewhere.

  She scanned the article again. Cremated and flown back to Indianapolis in accordance with the family’s wishes. That explained why there was no grave for Monica in the Tate family plot. What she didn’t understand was why, with all the times her grief for William had been a part of their conversation, Austin had never once let on that he’d experienced a tragedy of his own.

  In the kitchen, she peered into the refrigerator, trying to decide if she was hungry, or just restless. Probably a little of both, since she’d left most of her lunch on her plate. She was reaching for a container of leftover kung pao when she saw the flashing blue light on the phone. Her mother’s voice filled the kitchen as soon as she hit the button.

  “It’s me, sweetheart. I guess you’re not home yet. I just wanted to thank you for a lovely day. Oh, and I forgot to ask if you ever lined up a date for the gala. Anyway, that’s it. Have a good night.”

  Dovie deleted the message but stood staring at the phone. The absolute last thing she needed right now—or wanted—was a date. But what if her mother was right? She knew Jack was bringing his wife. Would she be the only one going stag? A wallflower, as her mother had so succinctly put it?

  Abandoning the kung pao, she wandered back to her bedroom. The black vinyl garment bag hung from the closet door, the name Evaline’s emblazoned across the front in florid gold script. She tugged at the zipper, running her hands along folds of shimmery teal taffeta. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn anything so feminine—or the last time she’d been out on a date. Did she even know any single men anymore?

  Against her will, and certainly against her better judgment, her eyes slid to the cell phone on her dresser. It didn’t have to be a big deal or anything. He had to be there. She had to be there. Where was the harm in going together? She’d just pick up the phone and see what he was up to, and if there happened to be an opening in the conversation, she would suggest they attend the gala together. As companions, of course. Business companions. Platonic business companions.

  Her fingers felt stiff and clumsy as she pulled up his number and hit DIAL. She closed her eyes when it started to ring, scrambling for something to say. She must be out of her mind. He’d already given her the brush-off once. Why ask for it again?

  Hang up! Hang up before it’s too—

  “Dovie? What’s up?”

  Damn. Too late.

  “Not much,” she said, trying to match his tone. He sounded so casual, as if the kiss had never happened, though she supposed he’d had plenty of practice shaking off unwanted females. “I was just . . .” You were just what? What? Say something! “I just wanted to know how your mother liked the painting.”

  “She loved it. In fact, the first thing she asked was if you picked it out. So, if she happens to walk up to you at the gala and thank you, that’s what it’s all about.”

  Dovie squeezed her eyes tight, the way she used to when teetering at the edge of the high dive. “So, about the gala . . .”

  “You know, I’m actually looking forward to it. Black tie isn’t usually my style, but it looks like it’s going to be a great night. I think my mother’s really going to enjoy herself.”

  “Well, I was thinking, since we both have to be there, I was wondering if you maybe wanted to go together.”

  There was a sudden burst of noise, of voices and laughter, and what sounded like glasses clinking in the background. She could hear his hand covering the phone. “I’m sorry, Dovie. I couldn’t hear. What did you say?”

  God, was he really going to make her say it again? “I said maybe we should go to the gala together, since we’re both going anyway.”

  “Oh, wow. I’m sorry. I’m sort of . . . spoken for.”

  Dovie froze for a moment, wondering how on earth she hadn’t expected this. Of course he was spoken for. “Oh, sure. Hey. No worries. It was just a thought. I really just wanted to know how the painting went over. I’m glad she loved it.”

  “Dovie, I—”

  “Have a good night,” she blurted in a too-cheerful voice, before ending the call. She didn’t need to hear the rest. She got it. It might have taken her two kicks in the teeth instead of one, but she got it. Flirting might be Austin Tate’s favorite pastime, but when it came to anything serious, he wasn’t interested.

  Of course he’d already lined up a date. And there she’d be in her shimmering teal taffeta—on no one’s arm. God. Maybe it was time to give Brian Marshall a call and ask if his wife would consider letting him escort her, because at the moment she couldn’t think of anything she dreaded more than looking like a wallflower while Austin escorted one of his champagne blondes around under her nose.

  On impulse, she picked up the phone again, scrolling through her contacts until she found the number she was looking for. Before she had time to change her mind, she dialed.

  “Bloom,” came the elegant voice after two rings. “How can I help you?”

  “Kristopher, it’s Dovie. I was wondering . . . are you still up for that drink?”

  FORTY-ONE

  It had been three days since
Dora was discharged from the hospital. Three straight days of blowing rain that already had half of Charleston’s downtown streets underwater, which was why Dovie now found herself addicted to the Weather Channel. She stared at the radar, willing the green blob stalled over the South Carolina coast to shift. North, south, she didn’t care. It just needed to move out in time for Friday night, or Charleston’s wealthiest art patrons might just decide to stay home.

  “You do know listening to them say the same thing over and over isn’t going to make the rain stop?” Dora pointed out as she spooned up more of her tomato soup. “Why don’t you do something to take your mind off it—like eat your lunch?”

  Dovie looked down at the tray on her lap, her grilled cheese sandwich barely nibbled, her soup growing cold. “I just keep thinking about how much work I put into this event, and now it might all be for nothing if this silly storm doesn’t move out.”

  “Your boss can’t hold you responsible for the weather, Dovie.”

  “It isn’t that,” she said, peeling the crust off one side of her sandwich and folding a bit of it into her mouth. “It’s about proving he didn’t make a mistake when he recommended me for the promotion. I was so proud of how I pulled everything together, and on such short notice, too. And now we might have to cancel if it keeps on like this. We can always reschedule, but everything’s already booked through the holidays, so it would have to be after the first of the year. And by then people are tired of parties, so response could be low.”

  “Maybe you could read something,” Dora suggested, peering over the glasses Dovie had finally retrieved from lost and found. “Might take your mind off your troubles.”