Love, Alice

by Barbara Davis

  Dovie eyed Dora shrewdly, knowing exactly what she was hinting at. “And what about your troubles? You know what happened the last time I read you one of those letters. You wound up in the hospital the next day. Maybe we should wait until you’re stronger.”

  Dora’s eyes flashed with impatience, a sure sign that she was feeling better. “Ending up in the hospital had to do with my lungs, not what was in those letters. Now, you promised you’d read me some more when I was out of the hospital. Here I am.”

  Dovie sighed. “One,” she said, holding up a single finger. “I’ll read you one.”

  FORTY-TWO

  9 East Battery Street

  Charleston, South Carolina

  July 18, 1967

  Dearest one,

  I almost wrote little one, but caught myself in time. I keep forgetting you’re not a baby anymore. It’s hard, sometimes, to remember that for you time hasn’t stopped, that somewhere in the world you’re growing up without me. I can’t blame you for that. It’s what children do. But I can blame myself—and do.

  My search so far has been a futile one. I’ve written letter after letter, contacted every agency I could find, and I’m still no closer to finding you. Because none of the agencies will help me. There are rules, it seems, put in place to protect adoptive parents. But where are my rights? They say I have none, that I gave them up when I gave you up, that all ties between us have been irrevocably severed. But how can that be? The bond between mother and child—the bond of flesh and blood—cannot be severed with ink.

  I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this letter to be a sad one. It’s only that Austin has just turned five, and it’s made me realize how quickly the time is passing—and how badly I miss you. We had a party for him on Saturday, and what a party it was. The house was full of cake and noise—and far too many overdressed women. Anyone would have thought it was the social event of the season, rather than a child’s birthday party.

  I was put in charge of the children’s games while Gemma mingled with the other mothers, most of them women from her club, all powdered and shellacked in their hats and little white gloves. I know most of them by name, but little more. I’m always careful to remember my place when they’re here, to not appear too familiar. It would be awkward for Gemma to have to explain our friendship. The women in her circle would never understand her befriending her son’s nanny—black or white.

  For the most part, I’m invisible to these women, but there are times when I feel their gazes lingering on me, curious and critical, because in their eyes I’m not what I should be. But there’s one in particular whose disapproval I feel most—Mrs. Melanie Sue Bowles, who actually hails from Baltimore, though she hates anyone to remind her of it. It seems there’s a bit of confusion here in Charleston about whether Maryland is truly part of the South. It’s her eyes that always linger the longest, whose little pug nose always seems to lift just a little when I catch her looking.

  She was at the party yesterday, with her baby-doll daughter, huddled in the corner of the dining room with the rest of her snooty little hens, whispering and sending me one of her glares, when I heard her say in her carefully cultivated Charleston drawl that she wondered if Gemma ever worried about Austin getting too close to his nanny.

  “I mean, it must be awfully confusing for the boy, her being white and all. She wouldn’t have to worry about that if she’d hired a colored woman, like I told her to—or about that little English tart forgetting her place, either.” She paused to sip her lemonade, giving me another long look. “Yes, sir, that one will be trouble before it’s over, mark my words. Imagine, sticking something like that under Harley Tate’s nose. Poor thing. Half of Charleston’s talking about it, for heaven’s sake. Either she’s blind, or she’s a fool.”

  Hate is an ugly word, one Mam never allowed me to use, but at that moment I hated Melanie Sue Bowles. Yes, and the women who nodded knowingly as she continued to spew her well-meaning venom. I hated them, too. I turned away, my cheeks prickling with anger and shame. Not for my sake, but for Gemma, who had overheard the remark—as she was almost certainly meant to.

  Her gaze found mine over the perfectly coiffed head of Joanne Spivey, an apology in her soft brown eyes. I wanted to tell her she had nothing to apologize for, that the slight had been intended for her and not me. For women like that, there is no sport in hurting me, someone who’s little more than a maid in their eyes. But Gemma Tate, the beautiful and elegant wife of one of Charleston’s most prominent men, must have seemed a worthy target indeed.

  Gemma must have read my thoughts, and been afraid I might act on them. She forced a smile and gave her head a little shake before turning to speak with another of her guests. She’s rather good at putting on a brave face, but I could see that the words had cut more deeply than she cared to admit, even to me. And as I thought of the day Harley Tate had come into the nursery and put his hands on me, I couldn’t help wondering if the remark had cut Gemma so deeply because she didn’t believe her husband capable of what they were insinuating, or because in her heart she knew he was.

  I’ve never let on about that day, and I never will. I’d sooner cut out my tongue than hurt my friend. And no matter what she pretends, it would hurt her. She loves him, though I can’t fathom why. Yesterday, at breakfast, he announced without blinking that it was time for Austin to go away to school. And not just any school. A school in Virginia where the boys live in dorms and only come home on holidays. Austin pushed out a quivering lip, his face screwed up and splotchy red as he stared down the table at his father. There was a moment of silence as he gathered a deep, shuddering breath, followed by a long plaintive wail that rang like a siren off the papered walls of the dining room. Poor Gemma looked as if she’d just had her heart cut out, her eyes wide as saucers, her cheeks the color of chalk. And yet she said nothing. She was used to holding her tongue when her husband made up his mind. But I couldn’t hold my tongue.

  I know a little something about the ache of loving a child from a distance, of having the thing you love most torn away from you, and would not wish it on an enemy, let alone a friend. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been thinking just a little of myself, too, when I told him that sending his son so far away would be barbaric. Not because I would no longer be needed, but because I have come to love Austin almost as my own. He will never be a substitute for you, my angel, but he has been a kind of consolation, a way to fill the empty places the sisters left when they took you. To lose him now would be like losing you all over again, and I don’t think I could bear it.

  It was a terrible scene. So terrible poor Austin was sent to his room without his breakfast. I believe Harley would have strangled me on the spot if Landy hadn’t been close by. Instead, he settled for a look so black I found myself backing away before he finally stormed from the breakfast room and out of the house. I could see the relief on Gemma’s face when the door slammed behind him. I was relieved, too, especially when a week passed and I still hadn’t been sacked. Gemma says she smoothed it over, but wouldn’t tell me what that meant. She says I don’t ever need to worry about being let go, that as long as she’s alive I’ll have a home with her. But part of me is still uneasy. Because I know I’ve made an enemy of Harley Tate. And because I know if he ever gets the chance to pay me back he will.

  I still don’t know what I’ve done to deserve Gemma’s kindness, but I’m more grateful than I can say. There’s only one place I’ve called home since leaving England, and that’s here, with Austin and Gemma. Where would I go if I were suddenly slung out? Certainly not back to Sennen Cove. Perhaps I’m being hard, even cruel, but there’s nothing left for me there. Nothing, and no one.

  There, I’ve done it again, gone and gotten all gloomy. I don’t mean to. I just seem to be so tired these days, perhaps because my cough has returned, especially at night when I try to sleep. I’ve done my best to hide it from Gemma. She has enough to manage without worryi
ng about me. So long as I can keep up with my duties, there’s no need to alarm her. I will close for now, and rest a little, if I can, and promise to be sunnier the next time I pick up my pen. Sweet dreams, my darling, wherever you are.

  All my love,

  Mam

  FORTY-THREE

  PERFORMING ARTS CENTER

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  NOVEMBER 8, 2005

  Dovie pirouetted at the foot of the bed, giving Dora the full show, complete with strappy heels and a sleek little silver clutch. She couldn’t remember when she’d taken so much time getting dressed. She had barely recognized herself when she looked in the mirror.

  “You look like a princess,” Dora said, smiling. “All you need is a tiara.”

  “I feel like I’m playing dress-up. Do you think the rhinestone clips are too much?” She turned to peer in the mirror again, fiddling with the clips holding her updo in place.

  “I do not. But that jacket is. You’re much too lovely to hide yourself under that frumpy thing.”

  “It isn’t frumpy,” Dovie threw over her shoulder. “It practical. This isn’t the prom, it’s a work thing.” On impulse, she undid the black velvet cape, letting it slide off her shoulders.

  “Better,” Dora pronounced, startling her. “You shouldn’t hide your light under a bushel.”

  “It wasn’t my light I was trying to hide,” Dovie said dubiously, scowling at the creamy swell of flesh above the neckline of her gown. “Are you sure you’re going to be all right by yourself? I hate leaving you. What if you have a relapse while I’m gone?”

  “That’s hardly likely, is it? You’ve been hovering for four days and I’ve been fine. Besides, I’m not planning anything more strenuous than a little telly.”

  “Promise me you’ll call if you need anything. I left my number by the phone.”

  Dora sighed. “Yes, you did. Along with the number for the doctor, the hospital, the fire department, my pills, my inhaler, a glass of water, a box of tissues, a pot of tea, and a brand-new package of digestives.”

  Dovie did her best to look menacing. “Promise you’ll call.”

  “All right. If you promise to stop fussing and have a good time. How soon before your young man comes for you?”

  “He isn’t my young man, Dora. Just a friend. And he should be here any minute.”

  Dovie pulled back the bedroom curtain, breathing another sigh of relief that the storm had moved out in time. The rain had let up sometime yesterday, leaving a watery sunshine in its wake. A bit later than she would have liked, perhaps, but it would do. As long as they wouldn’t need an ark to ferry people back and forth to their cars.

  She was about to let go of the curtain when Kristopher’s rental appeared in the drive. “Here he is now,” she told Dora, making another hasty scan of the room, checking for anything she might have forgotten. “So you’re going to call.”

  “No, because I won’t need to. Go have a good time, for heaven’s sake. And forget about me. And stop fussing with that silly cloak.”

  Dovie felt like a princess as she entered the ballroom on Kristopher’s arm. She could feel heads turning as they crossed the room, and she couldn’t blame a single one of them. In his black-tie attire, Kristopher looked as if he had stepped right out of GQ—tall, dark, and handsome, and not a hair or crease out of place. She scanned the room, wondering if any of those heads belonged to Austin. As far as she could see, none of them did.

  She felt Kristopher’s eyes follow hers and then return to her face. “Is he here?”

  “He?”

  “Whoever you’re looking for. I’m assuming it’s a he?”

  Dovie felt her cheeks go pink. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Don’t ever play poker in Vegas.”

  “God, please don’t ask questions.”

  “You have my word. You look stunning, by the way. Whoever he is, he’s either remarkably lucky or remarkably stupid.”

  “Let’s go with stupid.”

  He threw her a wink, followed by a devastating smile. “For the record, I think so, too.”

  They spent the next half hour circulating, sipping champagne, and chatting with guests. Now and then, she posed for photos with prominent guests, and was silently grateful that her mother had insisted she buy a dress for the occasion. She felt herself relax as she looked around the reception area. Turnout was looking good, and Jack was clearly pleased, but she could tell by the way his eyes kept sweeping the room that he’d feel better when the guest of honor finally appeared. As it turned out, they didn’t have long to wait.

  Dovie followed Jack’s gaze to the main doors where a small commotion had arisen, and the crowd had begun to part. She stiffened when Austin’s dark head popped into view. He was dressed to perfection, smiling and nodding like a movie star on the red carpet. It was all Dovie could do not to stand on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of whatever lemony confection he had chosen for the night’s festivities. Instead, she feigned indifference, continuing to nibble her crab puff and sip her champagne.

  There was a flash of red satin as the crowd parted, the cool glint of gold and diamonds on a slender wrist, a heavily jeweled hand tucked into the crook of his arm, and then, finally, a perfectly coiffed brunette head.

  Gemma.

  Spoken for. Of course.

  “I take it that’s him,” Kristopher said under his breath. “Not bad. Not bad at all. Sadly, something tells me I’m not his cup of tea. Appears to prefer the well-heeled menopausal type.”

  “His name is Austin Tate,” Dovie hissed near his ear. “And she isn’t his date. She’s his mother—and the guest of honor.”

  Kristopher’s brows shot up. “You’re competing with mater?”

  Dovie waved the words away. “Stop it. It’s nothing like that. Her husband died a few months ago, and she hasn’t been well. He could have his pick of half the women in Charleston. Instead, he’s escorting his mother.”

  “I’ll tell you something,” Kristopher said over the rim of his champagne glass. “He could have his pick of almost as many men were he so inclined.”

  Dovie shot him a sidelong glance. “He’s not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “C’est la vie,” he said, feigning a sigh. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

  “Look, I know you find this enormously amusing, but I need to go say hello. Can I trust you to behave yourself?”

  With a discreet nod, Kristopher tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “You wouldn’t have called me if you thought otherwise.”

  “Touché.”

  Gemma was chatting with a grizzle-haired lawyer type when she spotted Dovie moving in her direction. She smiled as she broke away, taking Dovie’s hands as they met at the center of the room. “It’s good to see you again, Dovie. Everything looks beautiful. Just lovely.”

  Dovie pasted on a smile, pretending not to notice Austin staring at her over his mother’s shoulder. “Thank you, but none of this would be possible without your generosity. We’re so grateful for everything you’ve done.”

  “It’s my absolute pleasure. You remember my son, Austin. Well, of course you do. And who is this?”

  Dovie blinked a moment, then realized she must be talking about Kristopher. “Oh, I’m sorry. This is Kristopher Bloom.”

  Gemma offered a hand. Kristopher took it, bowing smoothly. “A pleasure to meet you. Dovie tells me you’re the guest of honor tonight. And if you aren’t, you should be in that gown. You’re fabulous.”

  Dovie watched, fascinated. Any other man attempting a line like that would have come off as smarmy, even groveling, but Kristopher had pulled it off with aplomb. He positively oozed charm, the kind that made women weak at the knees. And unless Dovie’s powers of observation were on the fritz, Gemma was far from immune. The woman had just turned s
eventy, and there she stood, blushing like a schoolgirl.

  “Actually, I think it’s the museum we should all be honoring tonight. But that’s kind of you to say. You don’t sound like you’re from Charleston, Mr. Bloom. How do you happen to know Dovie?”

  Dovie felt a moment of panic. She hadn’t thought about what she’d say if anyone asked about their relationship. As it turned out, she needn’t have worried.

  “Please. Call me Kristopher.” His smile was utterly disarming as he dropped an arm about Dovie’s waist. “Actually, Dovie and I go way back. We met through a mutual friend and were literally shocked to learn how much we had in common.”

  The moment was so absurd Dovie nearly laughed out loud, and probably would have if Jack hadn’t appeared at her side. “Time to go in to dinner,” he announced with a flourish, before leaning close to her ear. “I switched the place cards. You’re sitting at the grown-up table tonight.”

  Dovie felt as if she’d just had a shot of Novocain. “With the Tates? Why?”

  “For starters, you deserve it. You’ve done an amazing job pulling this thing together. And because you seem to have Gemma Tate eating out of the palm of your hand. Enjoy the night. You’ve earned it.”

  Dinner was delicious, but tense. Fortunately, Gemma and Kristopher kept the conversation flowing, chatting about places they had traveled, bistros they’d dined in, museums they’d visited. Now and then, Dovie chimed in with anecdotes from her art studies abroad while Austin sat chewing mechanically, eyes glued on Kristopher. It was a heady feeling, seeing him glare across the table, and thinking he might be a little bit jealous. Or maybe it was just the champagne. Perhaps it was time to switch to water.

  As dinner wound down the orchestra began to play, a sinuous, jazzy number that conjured thoughts of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra.