Ashes To Ashes

by Gwen Hunter

  "Even better. Why don’t you join me?" I heard myself say. Oh my. What had just come out of my mouth? Two voices, one sounding like my mother, the other sounding like my Nana, both gasped inside my head. Mother’s was horrified. Nana’s was amused. I decided to ignore them both, these two quarreling consciences.

  "Better seats?"

  "Much better."

  "And you’ll promise to elbow me when I snore?"

  "Viciously."

  Alan laughed, the sound rising above the noise around us. "Done. And I must admit I’m glad of the company, Ashlee."

  "Me too, Alan." And I was.

  He dropped his hand from my elbow, and balanced on his cane. With his other hand he stuffed the tickets into the front of his tux jacket with that motion that is peculiarly masculine, totally male. A little flutter of black cloth and then that shove, shove, shove movement. We were walking now, propelled by the swarm of Carolina’s finest, crowded tightly together and pushed through the narrow doorways into the reverberant cavern that was the Blumenthal.

  As we passed through the set of double doors into the softly lit theater, I felt a sudden chill on the back of my neck. A feeling like the touch of dead flesh, caressing, like the memory of some primeval fear left over from ancient times, a primitive instinct or rudimentary sixth sense.

  Someone was watching me. The fine hairs along my spine rose stiffly.

  Quickly, I turned, my eyes darting, to find only a crowd of nameless strangers, none paying particular attention to me. And then, at the edges of the slow moving mass, back where the lighting was less distinct, a dark form turned away and vanished into the mob.

  A man. Medium height, dressed in a dark suit or tux. I hadn’t seen his face. His movements weren’t familiar, nor was his shape, but with his passing, my icy apprehension was gone. And then I saw Bret. While his face was indistinct in the semi-darkness, his eyes were on mine. I smiled. Bret nodded stiffly, his face unsmiling.

  Alan and I moved into the auditorium, where the sounds of instruments being tuned filled the air with sharps and flats and asynchronous riffs of melody. I shook my head and looked back once more. It was the usual, eclectic crowd. No threat, no menace. Just dozens of people in formal wear and business wear, and Bret, elegant in evening clothes.

  I was surely paranoid. It was foolish to think that anyone had been watching me in this crowded place, where no one expected me to be, tonight, so soon after Jack’s death. Nerves. Silly, female nerves. A case of the heebie-jeebies left over from the raccoon and the remembered feel of a knife at my throat. Unless Bret was involved somehow. . . .

  Determined, I put my fears from mind and found my seats. I could relax and enjoy this concert, or I could spend the entire evening jumping at every little thing. And since I was here, I decided on the music.

  It wasn’t as painful as I expected, sitting in our seasonal seats, seats Jack and I had shared for years. It was in fact, almost easy, with Alan sitting beside me, making soft little comments, his lips against my hair, the scent of his rose filling my nostrils. And if I enjoyed it a bit more than the average grieving widow, perhaps that mythical woman hadn’t found pictures of her husband, naked in bed with her best friend only weeks after his death.

  Alan was amusing, as only the well bred can be, his lips near my ear, offering up a soft and subtle commentary about the cellist’s hairpiece, the violinist’s torn petticoat and the guest conductor’s tendency to sweat copiously, staining his tux in black-on-black rings. He was so amusing in fact that I scarcely heard the music in the first half and was surprised when intermission was called.

  Fully half of the audience stood when the lights came up, making a long, tightly packed queue facing the entrance. It would be a madhouse in the ladies room, and since I didn’t really care if my nose was shiny, and it would hurt to move, I kept my seat. Alan did likewise, stretching out his long legs beneath the matronly woman seated in front of him. His shoes were as shiny as the cane which he had hooked around his seat arm. "I must admit I’m glad that’s over. Bach never did appeal to me. I’m sure I flunked the Bach portion of music appre’ in college."

  "Don’t be so certain," I said.

  Alan lifted his brows and cut his eyes at me. "No. Really. I do detest Bach."

  "Noooo." I sighed out the word in real anguish. "I mean, don’t be so glad it’s over. My mother and father and Monica Beck are on their way over here. And I can tell they intend to give you the third degree. I’m sorry. I mean really, really sorry. Especially about my . . . friend." I didn’t know what else to call Monica, but perhaps Alan understood. His brows went up higher, with alarm, amusement, or some less identifiable reaction. His lips, however, twitched. "I promise to be on my best behavior," he murmured. And then they were upon us as we both stood to face the onslaught. Pain caught my breath as I rose to my feet, and I held it until the electric agony passed and I could inhale again.

  "Ash! Ashlee, darlin’ I’m so glad to see you, and you look radiant. Simply radiant, darlin’. You’ve been workin’ out, I can tell, and the results are marvelous. You look almost as tiny as you did back in high school. You must tell me what program you’re on."

  I almost said, "It’s the grief diet, Monica, dear." Or, "It’s the manure diet from the workout I got each day taking Jack’s place in the barn, shoveling out poop and brushing down horses." But I didn’t. I just smiled and pressed my cheek against hers and fought back tears.

  "The girls promised me you would be here, and I must say, you look simply marvelous."

  "So you said," I responded, thinking about the mottled black and purple bruise on my shoulder. A spurt of anger washed through me, hot and sharp. But Monica was chattering on.

  "And who is this gorgeous man you have with you?" Her made-up eyes flashed down the length of Alan Mathison and back up again. "Oh, Ashlee, darlin’, you do seem to get all the best ones. Except for you, Emory, you know you’re the best, just the absolute best," Monica said, bestowing a kiss on his leathery cheek. Like me, Monica had married an older man, but in her case, her husband was a widower, alone and bereft and adrift on the world until Monica Schoenfuss entered his life. Emery Beck was wealthy and successful and firmly entrenched in Charlotte’s moneyed circles. And many years her senior.

  Rumor had it that Monica dallied with attractive men, having one affair after another on the side, but always careful to keep her marriage to the wealthy Emory Beck well protected. Her appraising glance raked Alan from mouth to shiny black shoes and up again, resting momentarily on the cane. I could have sworn the sight of it was an attraction in her eyes.

  "Alan Mathison at your service ma’am. You can only be the famed Monica Beck. And may I say that Ashlee’s description of you was both delightfully accurate and woefully inadequate? You are a vision, ma’am."

  It was my turn to raise my brows. I hadn’t said anything about the woman at all . . . had I?

  Monica giggled. I hate it when women giggle.

  "Oh, Mr. Mathison, I must say that, though it’s awfully early for Ash to be dating, I can certainly see why she fell for your charm. Oh, indeed I do."

  I jerked, my eyes moving from Monica Beck to my mother and back again. A flush started at my toes and rose on a tide of shock and horror. Oh God. Oh God, I prayed wordlessly.

  My mother, the elegant and wealthy Josephine Hamilton Caldwell, stood less than a foot behind Monica, sucking in every single word, her plucked brows raised, her surgically altered eyes wide open in stunned surprise. I think I might have groaned.

  "Mrs. Beck, although it would indeed be a delight to possess the interest of a woman of Mrs. Davenport’s caliber, I must confess that our relationship is strictly professional."

  "Oh?" Monica, my mother, and I spoke at the same time.

  "Yes. I owe Mrs. Davenport a great debt. You see," Alan bent close to Monica’s ear, though he didn’t lower his voice. "Ashlee saved my life."

  "No!"

  "Oh, yes. Really. There was a horrible accident," Alan faltered, on
ly for an instant, yet Monica leaned in closer and placed her hand on his black-clad arm. My mother leaned in closer as well. If she wasn’t careful, mama would have to have her big ears reduced and pinned.

  "My wife and my business partner . . . well, neither made it," Alan said, his voice husky and breaking.

  "Oh, you poor man." Monica took Alan’s hand with her own, just out of Emory’s line of sight. Her breasts thrust forward as she inhaled and she actually batted her lashes at Alan. I hadn’t seen anyone do that since Scarlett O’Hara flirted with Rhett Butler. My mother’s eyes darted from Alan’s hand in Monica’s to me, her expression dubious, her lips slightly pursed. Mother had full, pouting lips, created by a surgeon, paid for by Daddy during plastic surgery number two. Or was it number three?

  Alan patted the hand holding his own. "Yet because of, well, because of Ash’s heroic measures, I survived. Quite literally, I owe her my life."

  Didn’t anyone but me see the slapstick aspect of this dialogue—Monica as Mae West, me as the mousy school marm? And then it hit me. Alan was protecting my reputation. I almost laughed, but it might have ruined his performance. Instead I said, "Oh, no. It wasn’t really—"

  "It was exactly really," he interrupted.

  Alan, remarkably attentive to the reactions around him, smiled his easy smile and patted Monica’s hand with his free one before he pointedly pulled away. "And I must admit another debt of gratitude, that Ashlee allowed me to join her here. Her seats are far superior to mine." He used his free hand to expose the corners of his own tickets buried in his inside pocket. "I’ve never heard the symphony from the orchestra section."

  "Well." Monica placed her hand at her throat, calling attention both to her cleavage and to the Beck sapphires. The gesture was one my old chum had perfected in junior high school, when she had breasts before the rest of us. "I do hope you mean to attend the Patrons’ Party at our house after the concert. Everyone will be there, Alan. May I call you Alan?"

  "Of course. And, yes I’ll be there, representing Jerel Taylor, who was unable to attend at the last moment."

  "Wonderful. That’s lovely." And my hackles started to rise. I had heard that tone in Monica’s voice before, dozens of times, just before she got me in trouble. "And do you mind terribly bringing Ashlee in your car? I’m afraid Emory insisted on driving the two-seater. It’s his new toy, you know. And Ash would be dreadfully crushed."

  This was the first I had heard about a two seater, and Mama too. She turned her eyes on me. There was a spark of calculation in their green depths, and my heart did an odd lurch. Monica wasn’t making a play for Alan. She was matchmaking. For me.

  "You don’t mind, do you?"

  "Ash is perfectly welcome to ride with her family," my mother said. "As long as we are around, Ashlee will be well taken care of, I assure you."

  Oh yeah? Since when? I thought, bitterly. And then shame washed through me. It wasn’t as if my mother knew she was a poor parent. She simply never noticed that anyone else had needs. My father, ever the faithful follower, nodded. "Ashlee is our responsibility, Monica. I’m certain she shouldn’t impose on strangers when ready transportation is available."

  Their responsibility, my left foot! My parents had never worried about leaving me with others. I had been left with Nana every summer for years while they went gallivanting off to Paris or the African coast or Rio. This was a great time to be remembering their responsibility to me.

  I lifted my brows and pressed my lips together, only faintly aware that I imitated my mother. Around me there was the inevitable round of introductions. I tried to decide if it was worse to be subjected to my mother for the ten minute ride to Monica’s, or be thrust upon Alan.

  The decision was taken out of my hands in one of those maneuvers that had resulted in Monica’s high school nickname of Cat Woman. Monica made the decision for me, as she had made so many for us both, through twelve years of school. She paired me with Alan, deputized my mother and father to provide transportation for the sweaty, visiting maestro, and herded her little coterie away. I was mortified. Alan was chuckling as the intermission bell sounded.

  We sat down again, with me feeling outmaneuvered, exasperated, and provoked. Alan, however, was still smiling a little half smile. "Quite the despot, your . . . friend."

  It was said with the polite little pause I had used myself, and the comment brought an unwilling smile to my lips. "Is that a polite way of saying she’s pushy? Overbearing?" I rubbed my shoulder through the teal silk. I needed the sling I hadn’t worn because it was ugly and did nothing for my outfit but I had left it in the car, for use on the way home. What was that saying about vanity? My shoulder was almost broken and I was concerned about my looks.

  "Exactly."

  I had to force my thoughts back to the conversation at hand. What were we talking about?

  Alan’s lips stretched in a wider smile. "She’s also very generous."

  "Oh?" I had never in my wildest dreams considered Monica generous, so I must have missed a part of the conversation. However, I was willing to contemplate the preposterous. Aliens. UFOs. A government program to save taxes. Monica, generous.

  "Um. She gave me to you when she wanted me for herself."

  A small choking sound came from my throat and Alan laughed outright, a rapid ripple of amusement, his eyes on the mostly empty stage. "It’s okay, Ashlee. I’m not insulted nor do I feel put upon. In fact, I’m honored."

  "I’m so sorry, Alan," I said when I could find words. If I was a stronger woman, I’d never have let this happen. I’d have told Monica "No." Hmm . . . There’s a thought. No . . .

  Alan looked at me, and, reaching up, lifted a fallen rose petal out of my hair and placed it on my hand. "Don’t be. I truly am honored."

  Our eyes met and held a moment, until the house lights blinked and the curtain went up. Smiling his half smile, Alan settled back in his seat and lifted my injured arm up, resting it upon his own. It was as if he had read my pain and reacted to it, almost like a longtime friend . . . or a husband. The position was perfect, and for the first time tonight, the pain in my shoulder faded to bearable. And the pain in my heart disappeared entirely.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Patrons’ Party was a disaster. For a short while, Alan acted as a buffer between the curious, the cruel, the innocently unkind and me, until he was forced to plead exhaustion and find a place to sit. Either he was really in pain, as his pale face and tight mouth proclaimed, or he hated the synthetic camaraderie as much as I. Pleading discomfort, he slipped away, leaving me to the artificial affection of Monica Beck, and the treacherous hostility of my mother. I had once watched a documentary in which playful killer whales tossed a baby sea lion in a roaring surf prior to feeding. I felt like that baby sea lion, bleeding and menaced and dying. So I didn’t really blame Alan for finding a tranquil corner and leaving me to the carnivores.

  I avoided both women for an hour, as I waited for the presentation of the posthumous plaque. Mingling, I found refuge several times in the upstairs powder room, twice at the piano, where the sweaty, visiting maestro—whose name I never did pronounce correctly—flaunted his prowess, and once out in the Florida Room where shadows offered anonymity.

  I wasn’t handling the counterfeit consolations of my acquaintances any better than I had expected. And worse, every time someone innocently asked where Jack was, I had to fight back both a quick, rude response and tears. The Charlotte paper had carried only a small obituary for Jack, not the half page headline of the Dawkins Herald. Still, I would have thought gossip in this privileged crowd would have spread word of his death. These were the Patrons, for pity sakes. They were giving Jack a posthumous plaque. Didn’t they understand that meant he was dead?

  Several times after Alan left, I felt the cold touch of eyes on me, hostile eyes filled with malice. Yet when I looked around, there was only the usual crowd, or even a friend, smiling. Once, it was Bret McDermott, holding out a plastic stem of wine, his face unreadable, his
greeting just a nod. Another time it was Monica herself, calling me to the front door to meet some important personage whose name I immediately forgot. And finally it was Senator Vance Waldrop. He had no reason to be in North Carolina, one state away from his own constituents, rubbing shoulders with money makers who, for the most part, couldn’t vote in South Carolina. But Vance was a powerful man, welcome in circles that ranged far beyond the voting public. At least that’s how I consoled myself when faint alarms sounded in my mind at the sight of him. He shouldn’t be here, my mind whispered back, unconvinced. Too many of my husband’s business partners were gathered here, and Vance in particular did not belong. He should be in D.C, wheeling and dealing, or at home with his wife. Not at this party, searching me out. And I remembered that Vance himself had told me to contact Bret and the Becks and my mama. What was it he’d said? Something about old friends and family being the best in times like these. What had he meant by that? I hadn’t even known the senator and the Becks were acquainted.

  Paranoid. That was me. Paranoid and alone and in pain.

  Like my mother, whom I avoided with a practiced desperation perfected as a child, I eluded the senator successfully for the better part of an hour while Alan caught his breath and I satisfied the dictates of propriety by appearing to mingle—a thoroughly exhausting endeavor.

  Yet, even with all that, the night might have been bearable had my mother not cornered me at last, demanding explanations and apologies, and issuing accusations, all concerning Alan. A mother was supposed to be supportive and compassionate; mine had never understood the concepts, viewing the world and its people as things to be used as needed and otherwise ignored. I had learned to live with her warped outlook, but it still hurt. She hadn’t been to see me since the funeral. She hadn’t called. She hadn’t even sent an email. But then, that was my mother, selfish to the core. I was quite certain the thought of offering me support had never crossed her mind.