by Gwen Hunter
Jas bent and stepped between the rungs of the fence. "What did he do to you? What?"
I stepped back, but Jas stopped me, taking hold of my injured arm and hand, probing both with practiced fingers. Her eyes were on my face, intent and as searching as her fingers. Her eyes asking the question for her. Imploring. Did he rape you?
I opened my mouth to answer and the truth fell out, truth I would have spoken to another adult, to a friend, not my baby. "He tore my clothes. He. . . ." I swallowed. "He touched me . . ."
"The sonofabitch," Jas hissed, her eyes flashing, teeth bared.
"And then he threatened to . . ." I took a deep breath. ". . . to rape you, Jasmine."
Jas snorted, sounding much like her horses. She was angry, not afraid, and I laughed, a short bark of sound, startled. What had I expected? Hysterics? This was my daughter, not my mother. I paused, surprised. Not my mother. Not Josephine, who had been protected from reality for years, protected by my father, protected by me, insulated from the problems and ugliness of life. This was my strong, independent, self-confident daughter. I reached up and brushed the errant hair back into place, watching her as she watched me, reading my thoughts. I had always treated her with kid gloves, protecting her, when she needed it even less than I. My daughter. Not my mother. I nodded, coming to a lot of conclusions at once. "You move about in the county, so you make a better target than I do. So, you don’t leave the farm at all. Understand? And you don’t talk about it on the phone. Wicked thinks our phones might be tapped." Jaz cursed again, startling me, and I laughed. "Do we have a deal?" I asked. Truth. Honesty. Not mollycoddling. Just the real, blatant, unabashed truth. This was the baggage I had carried from my youth, learned at my parent’s knee. Fear of truth, fear of sharing the realities of life. Giving them subterfuge and lies cloaked as tactful evasions and—
"Deal? Hell no," she spat.
"It’s that or I have Wicked pack you a bag and drag you to the beach and handcuff you to the TV set," I said, fighting a smile. How’s that for honesty and blatant truth?
"Jeeez, Mom, it’s like I’m being punished or something."
"Take it or leave it, Jas," I said firmly.
"So, I’ll take it," she said, instantly, her voice only mildly sulky.
I narrowed my eyes at my daughter. She smiled ingenuously and lifted her brows. "I said I’ll take it." From the start of the conversation Jas had been willing to negotiate on the small points—like living on restriction—so long as she got to stay home. And I realized then that even with all the truth and honesty and the great revelation I had experienced in the midst of this conversation, Jasmine Leah had gotten her way. Again.
Sometimes great revelations aren’t what they’re cracked up to be. I still hadn’t won. But then, I was new to this idea of brazen honesty and adult conversation with my child. Maybe with practice . . .
My visit with Nana and Aunt Mosetta was no more productive than the one with Jas had been. The two older women were bickering when I entered the old Chadwick farmhouse, their garrulous voices carried on the warm air.
There was something special about old farmhouses—even refurbished, renovated ones. Sunlight streamed in through ancient blown glass panes forming irregular patterns on wide pine plank floors, picking out the grain in the aged wood, reviving the worn patina. Diffuse beams fell gently on vintage, hand crocheted pillows, cozies, doilies, and lace tablecloths, brightened faded upholstery on plump armchairs, softened sturdy side-chairs. Even the smells were old house smells. Camphor, cedar, coffee, fresh bread, and lemon wax. Everything radiated warmth and comfort, even the cracked, grizzled voices coming from the kitchen.
"You knowed better than to talk to Jasmine Leah. That girl her mama’s problem, not yours."
"Her mama would let Jas get away with murder. And Ash will never tell her about the problems. I had to say something."
"I’m not seen’ where you done too good wit’ her yourself. She done tol’ you no, she ain’t leavin’."
"She’ll come around. You wait and see."
"You puttin’ in too much flour. You biscuits be hard as rocks."
"My biscuits are always just fine, Mosetta Chadwick. If you want to criticize, get up out of your rocker and make ’em yourself."
"My arther’itis actin’ up in my hands. You know I can’t be making no biscuits."
"Drink some whiskey."
"That your cure for everythin’. Drink whiskey for a cold. Drink whiskey for a fever. Drink whiskey to make you sleep. Give whiskey to poor ol’ Ashlee in the bath and plague-on-it ’bout drown dat chile."
I laughed at that one and stepped into the kitchen. Flour was scattered across wax paper on the hundred-year-old work table, a kettle steamed gently on the stove and fresh coffee gurgled in the drip pot beside it. Aunt Mosetta sat in a rocker in a shaft of sunlight, her gnarled hands in her lap. Nana stood in front of the biscuits, white to the elbows, a frown on her face.
"You could’a rung the bell. I nearly jumped outta my skin, my girl," Nana said.
"Huh. You neve’ jump for nothin. Jesus come back not make you jump. You jist scairt ’cause you got caught talkin’ is all," Aunt Mosetta said.
I laughed again and Nana’s frown grew sharper. "Yes, ma’am. I heard. But if it makes you feel any better, Jas let it slip first." I crossed the room and hugged my nana, though she stood stiff as a dime store Indian in my embrace. "It’s okay, Nana. I’ve never minded you talking to Jas. You fixed so many things that my own mother did wrong, I figure you’ll help fix my mistakes with my own daughter."
"Huh. You give that ol’ woman a big head ever’ time you come down here. Dantucket, she hard enough to live with as it is," Aunt Mosetta mumbled. But she had a smile on her face, and she looked pleased at my words. A compliment to one Chadwicks was a compliment to both.
Nana unbent enough to kiss my cheek, a rare gesture for the hard-bitten woman. Words had always been easier for Nana than physical contact. "Your mother was always making mistakes, my girl. I had no choice but to butt-in unless I wanted you growing up just like her, cold and malicious and catty as a she goat."
"She goats not catty. She goats jist mean," Aunt Mosetta said.
"Like I said," Nana agreed, rolling the dough over once. It landed stiffly and flour flew.
"Well, Jas isn’t going to the beach," I said.
"Why that is? You her mama. You say she go, and she gots to go."
"Jas pointed out that if we separate, we may be better targets. Someone could get to her first. Probably easier at Surfside Beach than if she’s here."
"Huh. That chile jist conjured you, Ashlee Chadwick."
I always loved it when one of these fine women called me a Chadwick. They could say anything, tell me anything, and still make me smile.
Nana nodded. "I don’t suppose she mentioned what Wicked said about hiring them a bodyguard to look after them at the beach."
I sat on the bench that ran along one side of the worktable. It was an old textile mill bench, a long log split in half, flat side turned up, rounded side toward the floor with peg legs inserted in holes. The wood was worn slick and smooth from countless bottoms, as familiar to my fingers as the contours of my own face.
"No," I sighed. I remembered the look Jas had given me at the end of our conversation, when she knew she had won. Had she mentioned the bodyguard or had I thought of hiring one myself, there would have been no argument about her safety at the beach. I could have shipped her off and known she would be fine. Bodyguards. What a strange concept for one who lived in the security of farm country.
There was, however, a bright side to Jas winning the argument. "She didn’t mention bodyguards. But I admit, part of me is satisfied to have her close by where I can keep an eye on her. If we decide on a bodyguard, he can protect her here easier than at the beach where there’s ten thousand other kids to get lost among."
"Huh. Pitiful argument, my girl. Jas just got around you is all."
"Gots her way around both of you, seems
like to me," Aunt Mosetta chuckled.
Nana dusted off her hands and reached for the glass with which she would cut perfectly shaped biscuits. "Mind your own business, Moses."
"Jas wasn’t the reason I came out to see you." Even to my own ears I sounded guilty.
Nana set down the glass. "What nonsense are you getting into now?"
I took a deep breath. This was woman’s talk. The part of my plan I didn’t get around to describing in the meeting. "I don’t mean to worry you, but besides running DavInc, I’ve decided to . . . ah . . . reenter society. I know it isn’t proper so soon after Jack’s death, but—"
"But you figure to make a complete spectacle of yourself, draw out this person and then stop him," Nana interrupted. "As if going into business isn’t a big enough attraction for all concerned. You’ll hang yourself out like bait on a hook every which way but Sunday."
"Well . . . Yes, ma’am." My face flushed. It had sounded more workable in my mind than it did coming from Nana. Yet, Nana’s tone wasn’t totally censorious.
"Well, you do what you want, Ash. You pretty much always do. And you know I never cared a hoot about what the society types thought. But you work out an ending to your plan before you go attracting attention. You figure out how you’re going to recognize this person before he gets to you, and how you’re going to stop him. You hear me? Don’t get sloppy."
"Yes, ma’am," I said. But I knew I wouldn’t. I had looked at this thing from every angle. There was no way for me to be prepared. I’d just have to hope I could handle whatever happened when it happened.
Nana shook her head and went back to her biscuits. "You never could lie worth a toot."
From her rocker Aunt Mosetta chuckled, "But she got spunk, your girl. She got spunk."
The phone rang, thankfully putting an end to the gossipy little chat. Nana dusted off her hands and picked it up. "I’ll never get these biscuits baked."
"They gonna be hard as rocks anyway," Aunt Mosetta said.
"Hush Moses. Hello." After a moment of silence, Nana said, "Yes, Macon. She’s here. You heard the rest of this half-baked scheme of hers? She’s going to re-enter society to flush out the persons responsible for this mess." After a moment Nana grunted and looked over at me, a half-grin on her face. "Yep. She is that. And more. Ashlee, Macon wants a word with you."
Those cryptic statements might be taken several ways. I took the phone. "Macon?"
"Ash, you wanted to take over the business, here’s your chance. It looks like there’s some trouble out at Davenport Hills."
A short flare of fear shot through me. "What kind of trouble?"
"Bret McDermott from the bank, a representative for some of the investors, and Rolland Randall the Third are out there sticking their noses into everything, asking questions, getting in the way of the workers and the heavy equipment, and generally being pains in the butt, to quote Peter Howell. He wants some official backup and he wants someone to answer their questions."
Bret was at the development? Why? After a moment, I asked, "Are your ready to provide any answers? You haven’t had long to look at the books."
"I’m game if you are. The main thrust of our response will be that you are in charge. We may not know all the answers, but we are working through all the problems."
I looked down at myself. My work boots had been left at the front door. Otherwise, I was in old, worn jeans, an old flannel work shirt over one of Jack’s old T-shirts, and no makeup at all. Come to think of it, I looked like I belonged on a construction site. How would Bret react to seeing me there? I’d have to watch his face. . . . "I’m on my way." I looked at Nana as I replaced the receiver. Whatever I was feeling must have shown in my face as wide-eyed terror, because she chuckled. She was white to the elbows again and the cookie sheet was neatly lined with thick rounds of dough.
"You’ll do just fine, my girl. Just fine." She looked at me slyly, a grin showing a silver strand of dental work on one side. "As long as you don’t pretend to be your mother and shove a cookie in everyone’s mouth."
I smiled back. "Point taken, Nana. I’ll call you when I get back. Let you know how I did."
"Better than that. Come to supper. Bring Jas and Macon and that Wicked boy. We’ll have us a little party to celebrate your reentry into society." She put a little bite into the last three words, as if she was giving me a warning or trying to prepare me for something. And she was right. The next few hours wouldn’t be easy, nor would the next few days.
In the south, it was still proper to mourn a loved one for months, a lost husband for a year. I had broken all kinds of social taboos just returning to work and being out in public again. The tongues would wag off at the roots when the Dawkins County gossips discovered I had been out at Jack’s job site, thumbing my nose at the world and throwing my weight around like a man. But the Dawkins County gossips would be no competition at all for my mother. It took little effort to imagine her dismay, her consternation, her very horror at the thought of my going into public again. My Mother was the last of the die-hard Southern ladies, the kind who grew up wearing white gloves to church and social functions, wide brimmed hats in summer, girdles all year round. The kind who stood by her man through thick and thin, who affected a demure and helpless stance, and yet ruled the roost with a manipulative and pitiless hand. It would be a safe bet to say that I was scared witless of Mama’s reaction to my decision. But then perhaps I could discover and disarm the threat to my family before she discovered I had put aside my mourning.
When I got back to the house, I washed off my work boots at the spigot by the screened porch. The mud had been nearly ankle deep and the wet made leather look nearly new. Inside, I listened to the personal line’s answering machine as I applied a bit of lipstick and powder, combed my hair and raided Jack’s half of the closet for a jacket. Monica had called, inviting me to a luncheon with friends. I could think of nothing so boring as a luncheon with Monica and her society pals. I found a navy blazer I liked and slipped it on, putting Monica out of my mind. The weather had turned cool again, and as the sun set, I would need some extra warmth.
Jack had been a tall man, but slender, and with the cuffs rolled back three turns and the collar turned up against the chill, I looked the part I wanted to play. A bit vulnerable, a bit delicate, but ready to work and prepared for the world of business. If I also managed to look like a twelve year old playing dress-up in Daddy’s closet, well, I’d just have to live with it.
Macon met me in the office doorway, scanned me from head to foot and gave a shout of laughter. I lifted a brow and said, "We’ll take the Jeep. It’ll speak to the workers and subs, something about who’s in charge and pays the bills. And Macon," I tapped my chest, "I’ll drive."
"Yes, Ma’am. Whatever you say ma’am. And I suppose it could be worse. You could have worn a ponytail and popped bubble gum."
I grinned unrepentantly, wondering if I showed molars on one side like so many Chadwicks. I grabbed Jack’s briefcase.
"They’ll never know what hit ’em, Mrs. D. Your Nana herself couldn’t have dressed for the part any better." It was the first time anyone ever called me Mrs. D. I quite liked the name. It fit the new persona I had put on with the jacket and the work boots. A new name for a new life.
CHAPTER TEN
It was a short drive to Davenport Hills. Just a few miles north on I-77, I saw the first dignified billboard, if one could call a real estate advertisement the length of an 18-wheeler dignified. It showed a view of a golf course, a lake, a palatial home and two happy, tanned, and fit forty-somethings acting like love birds, heads touching, watching a sunset. Typical advertising, no gimmicks, no slogan, just a description of the amenities and the price range, the happy couple doing the rest to lure the interested. Jack had hated paying for advertising, even though the industry relied heavily on it to attract the better paying moneymakers of society.
Seeing the sign brought my first pang of fear, making me remember my own emptiness. My widowed isolation. Th
e coarse, bitter taste of being utterly and completely alone. The feel of Jack’s jacket against my body only made it more difficult to keep my eyes free from tears and my mind sharp. I was afraid. And I wondered if the men I would be meeting would be able to tell.
It was acceptable to look a bit vulnerable at first glance, another thing altogether to make my first appearance at the development shaking and in tears. Gripping the wheel, I drove in silence, breathing deeply, flooding my system with oxygen, searching out a calm place inside myself. I thought sleeping in a house with no husband and no Big Dog to protect me was difficult. This bearding the lion—and the subcontractors—in their dens was much worse.
Macon turned pages beside me, his eyes intent on the figures of cost sheets and the wording of contracts, constantly speaking to inform me of some fact he thought I might need to know in this showdown with the investors. Taxes, amenities, utilities, and road surfacing were only a few of the topics he touched on. I was grateful for his steady conversation and the opportunity to calm myself. As Macon talked, the sun slid behind a cloudbank, darkening the world. A front was moving in, promising more rain. At least it was coming from the south and would leave warm temperatures. This unexpected cool spell might be good for killing off insects at night, but I was ready for the heat of summer.
I-77 rolls through miles of timberland, farmland, and pastureland, broken by mobile homes with tires on their roofs, the rare evangelical church in desperate need of a paint job and an access road, and rarer intersections offering fast-food, gas, and textile outlets. It was far from the crime of inner-city housing projects in either Charlotte or Columbia, and yet close enough to both to make the commute bearable. Davenport Hills was an attractive locale to transplanted Yankees looking for a safe place to live, one with the comforts of city life in a protected, country setting. It was a secure community for the wealthy, carved out of the rural South.
We turned off the interstate just inside the county line, Macon still talking about his files, and solutions to problems. I listened as I drove the country road past a cattle farm, soybean fields, and acres of newly planted cotton to Davenport Hills. Macon was deeply buried in the files and folders in his lap and on the floor around his feet, and didn’t look up to view the bucolic setting.