by Molly Harper
“I don’t like working at the funeral home. Compromises with yahoos aside, I don’t think I’m good at it. And if I stayed, I’d resent you and this place and the family. I’d rather leave on a good note and find something that makes me happy—and help you on the rare occasion you really need it.”
“Are you sure this is what you wanna do?” E.J.J. asked. Marianne kissed his cheek and nodded.
“But I just got you back in the office,” Bob protested. “Everything runs smoother with you there.”
“Uncle Bob, you’re doing all the work, not me. I think you’re just bored and lonely. Maybe listen to audiobooks or something while you’re back there. Take some coffee breaks with Aunt Leslie to parcel out your day.” E.J.J. cleared his throat, and she added, “and by that, I mean your approved twice-daily fifteen-minute breaks.”
“Okay,” Bob said with a sigh. “But I’m still gonna call you when things get out of hand or when I need you to look up those web sites for me.”
“I will be happy to help,” she promised. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to catch up to Mr. Pritchett before he makes it to his car. I have something I want to discuss with him.”
8
LIKE SO MANY moments when her life seemed to be smack in the middle of an eight-way crossroads, Marianne sat at the end of the dock, staring over the water. The lake was oddly calm and quiet for a warm afternoon. Or maybe Marianne was just feeling quiet inside.
Mr. Pritchett had been more than happy to hire her on as his legal assistant. She would start the next week, unless his voice mail filled up again sooner. If it worked out, Marianne intended to make this her full-time, permanent job.
Calling the law school to defer her placement was much easier than she’d anticipated. For the first time in months, possibly years, she felt at peace with where she was, where she was going. For now, she was content. Maybe, one day, if she ever felt the need, she could pursue law school. Helping the Trinkitts settle their problems with Mr. Burt had given her a feeling of accomplishment that she hadn’t felt, well, ever. She had a purpose in Mr. Pritchett’s office, in a way that she’d never felt at her family’s business. A purpose on her own terms.
But she was not going to embrace Frankie’s whole estate planning idea. Because she was pretty sure having those few miles of separation between her office and the mortuary was necessary for her sanity.
She also needed some space from her mother. While Junior and Donna had both accepted Marianne’s withdrawal from law school with grace, even enthusiasm, pulling her mother outside for a private conversation hadn’t been as productive. Donna failed to see why Marianne was angry with her. After all, if Marianne had called more often, she would have known about her father’s medical tests and been kept up to date.
“You can’t do that,” she’d told her mom, pacing the dock behind E.J.J. and Tootie’s house. “You can’t use guilt to push me around when giving me the truth would have worked better and faster.”
“Well, if you’d just come home instead of avoidin’ us because of some boy, this wouldn’t have been a problem,” Donna shot back, in a sterner tone of voice than Marianne had ever heard her use.
“He wasn’t some boy and it didn’t— You know what? This isn’t about me. This is about you and your repressed emotions turning you into someone I don’t even recognize. You need to talk to someone, Mama. Because right now, I’m havin’ a real hard time forgivin’ you.”
“Well, pardon me if that’s not a big worry for me when I’m carin’ for your sick daddy,” Donna called after her as Marianne stomped into the house.
Marianne was gonna have to get her own place soon.
The radio in the Snack Shack switched from an old Patsy Cline song to “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” her favorite Elvis love song of all time. She and Carl had spent hours arguing over whether it was better than his favorite, “Love Me Tender,” which Marianne had always found vaguely whiny.
Marianne could really use fewer cosmic messages from Elvis in her life right now.
She sighed as she heard boots clomping down the wooden slats behind her. “Duffy, I don’t care what Aunt Leslie says, I’m not going to eat deep-fried Kool-Aid.”
“Well, that sounds disgustin’.”
She turned to find Carl standing behind her, backlit by the sun. Pig was sitting on his haunches, rubbing his head against Carl’s knee. “Hey.”
“Car parts are here and I got started this morning,” Carl drawled. “I’ll have it done by next week. I thought you’d wanna know.”
“Great,” she said with little enthusiasm.
“So I guess that means you can just drive on back to school anytime you want.”
“About that,” she said. “I’m probably not gonna be leavin’ for a while . . . a good while.”
“What?” He sank onto the dock next to her. Pig took this as an invitation to crawl into Carl’s lap and lick his face.
“With Daddy being sick, there’s just too much goin’ on to leave right now. I got a job working for Mr. Pritchett in his office this summer.”
“But what about law school?”
“There’s a paralegal program at UGA. I can apply some of my undergrad credits and get my certificate in less than a year. Mr. Pritchett said I could keep my job at his firm while I’m in school and take on paralegal duties when I qualify.”
“Is that what you want?”
“I think it is,” she said, nodding. “I think I would be happy doing that. I like the work. And I can do it now rather than waiting three years until I’m qualified,” she said. “And . . . you’re here. And if you’re interested, after we spend more time together and work out what I’m sure are a lot of issues still hangin’ over our heads, maybe we can talk about datin’ again. If you’re interested, that is.”
He smiled. “Well, of course, I’m . . . Naw, naw, I won’t accept that. I know you’re not staying just for me, but in a year or two, I’m gonna want to marry you all over again. And you’re gonna get antsy. You’re gonna get scared and feel trapped and you’re gonna blame me or your family because you didn’t go. And I can’t take you leavin’ me again. Or worse, stayin’ and hatin’ me. I’d rather not have you at all than have you leave now.”
“It’s not because I’m scared. It’s because I’ve seen the outside world and I know I can live without it. I don’t think I can live without you or this place or the time I have left with my dad.”
“Well, we ain’t gettin’ married right away. You’re living here for a while on your own, to make sure you can stand it. And you’re not going to turn down law school, you’re going to do one of those deferment things, so if you decide you want to go in a few years, you can.”
She lifted her eyebrows and he added, “Duffy told me about it.”
“Okay,” she said. “I have already decided to defer, but thank you. I will stay here. And when you’re ready, I’m gonna marry the hell out of you.”
He chuckled, kissing her lightly. “Sounds good.”
“Wanna go to Deer Tick Bay and do some ‘fishin’?” she asked, nodding to Duffy’s boat.
He smiled at her. “Yes, I believe I do.”
“And if we’re gonna get married, you’re going to have to move up your renovation schedule, because I insist that my house have floors.” She stood, pulling him up to his feet.
Pig barked sharply and put his paws on Marianne’s thigh. Again, she suspected that Pig was actually trying to push her off the dock due to canine jealousy. She was going to have to start keeping beef jerky in her pockets.
“Are you going to be picky about every little thang?” Carl asked, helping her climb into the boat. Pig barreled in behind her.
“Just about floors. And ceilings and indoor plumbin’.”
Duffy came ambling out of the bait shop and startled at the sight of his sister and best friend stealing his boat.
“Hey, what are y’all doin’?”
“Should we tell him?” Marianne asked.
“Naw, he punched me in the teeth senior year when he realized I’d ‘deflowered’ you. My jaw still aches when it rains. He’s got this coming.”
So Marianne just waved at her brother while Carl started the outboard engine. Duffy jogged along the dock, yelling, “Carl! Do not take my sister to Deer Tick Bay! It’s indecent! It’s against the Bro Code! Manny! Resist his charms! Do not defile my boat!”
“Tell Daddy I’ll be back after dinner!” she yelled.
“Manny!”
Carl laughed as he steered the boat toward the sunset. “This is gonna be fun.”
Read on for a sneak peek at
SWEET TEA AND SYMPATHY
A Southern Eclectic Novel
Available in November from Gallery Books
1
MARGOT CARY LEANED her forehead against the warm truck window as it bounced along the pitted Georgia highway. She closed her eyes against the picturesque landscape as it rolled by. Green, green, green. Everything was so effing green here.
GREEN WAS NOT HER LUCKY color. It certainly hadn’t blessed the opening of the botanical garden’s newly completed Wesmoreland Tropical Greenhouse. Maybe it had been a mistake to carry the green theme so far. Green table linens, green lanterns strung through the trees, down to emerald-green bow ties for the catering staff. Weeks later, she still remembered the terrified expression on one waiter’s face when she caught him by the arm before he carried his tray of crudités into the party space.
Despite her glacial blond beauty, the younger man practically flinched away from her touch as she adjusted his tie. Margot would admit that she’d been a bit . . . demanding in organizing this event. She had taken every precaution to make sure that this evening’s black-tie opening was as smooth as Rosaline Hewitt’s recently Botoxed brow. She’d commissioned a silk-leaf embroidered canopy stretching from the valet station to the entrance to prevent the guests’ hairstyles and gowns from being ruined by the summer rain. She’d researched each invitee meticulously to find out who was gluten-free or vegan and adjusted the menu accordingly. She’d arranged for two dozen species of exotic South American parrots to be humanely displayed among orchids and pitcher plants and a flock of flamingos to wade through the manufactured waterfall’s rocky lagoon.
She was not about to have all of that preparation undone by a cater waiter who didn’t know how to keep a bow tie on straight.
“Go,” Margot said, nodding toward the warm, humid air of the false tropical jungle. He moved silently away from her, into the opulently lit space.
Margot turned and tried to survey the greenhouse as it would appear to the guests, the earliest of which were already filtering into the garden, oohing and aahing. Calling it a greenhouse seemed like an understatement. The glass-paneled dome reached four stories into the sky, allowing the tropical plant specimens inside plenty of space to stretch. Carefully plotted stone paths wound through the flower beds, giving the visitor the impression of wandering through paradise. But knowing how much Chicago’s riche-est of the riche enjoyed a nice soiree, the conservators had been smart enough to add a nice open space in the middle of the greenhouse to allow for a dance floor. She’d arranged elbow-high tables around the perimeter, covered in jewel-tone silk cloths. Gold LED lights cast a hazy sunset glow over the room, occasionally projecting animated fireflies against the foliage. And since society’s ladies would never do something so inelegant as visit a buffet, the waiters had been informed to constantly circulate with their trays of canapés in a nonobvious, serpentine pattern around the enormous shrimp tower in the middle of—
Wait.
“No,” Margot murmured, shaking her head. “No, no, no.”
She snagged the next waiter to walk through the entrance and took his tray. The sweet-faced college kid seemed startled and alarmed to have the chief planner for this event grabbing him by the arm. “You, get two of your coworkers and very quickly, very quietly, very discreetly get that shrimp tower out of here. If anyone asks, just tell them that you’re taking it back to the kitchen to be refilled.”
The poor boy blanched at the brisk clip to her tone and said, “But—but Chef Jean was very specific about—”
“I don’t care what Chef Jean was specific about,” she said. “Get it out of here now.”
The waiter nodded and pulled away from her into the gathering crowd.
Margot stepped forward into the fragrant warmth of the greenhouse, careful to keep her expression and body language relaxed. She was aware that, while professionally dressed in her black power suit, she was not nearly as festive as the guests in their tuxedos and haute couture gowns, but she was perfectly comfortable. She’d attended hundreds of events like this growing up. She would not be intimidated by some plants and a pretentious wannabe Frenchman. She pressed the button of her earbud-size Bluetooth and whispered, “This is Margot. I need to speak to Jean.”
She could tell by the way her words were echoing in her own ear that the head chef of Fete Portable had taken his earpiece out—despite Margot’s repeated requests to keep a line of communication open with her—and set it on the stainless steel counter in the makeshift kitchen. She blew out a frustrated breath. Jean LeDille was not her preferred caterer for high-profile events, but the de facto hostess of tonight’s opening—Melissa Sutter, first lady of Chicago and head of the botanical garden conservators’ board—had insisted on using him. So far he’d been temperamental, resistant to the most basic instruction, and a pain in Margot’s Calvin Klein–clad ass. And when she was done with this event and had secured her partnership at Elite Elegance, she would have Jean blacklisted from every Chicago party planner’s contact list. Theirs was a close-knit and gossip-driven circle.
Someone in the kitchen picked up the earbud and said, “Ms. Cary, he says to tell you he’s unavailable.”
Margot gritted her perfect white teeth but managed a polite smile to the head of the opera board and his wife as they passed. Jean wouldn’t be able to get a job making a clown-shaped birthday cake by the time she was done with him.
“So I guess I’ll just have to make myself available to him, then.”
Margot’s assistant, Mandy, a sleek brunette who reminded Margot of a Russian wolfhound in four-inch heels, fell in step behind her. “Make sure that tower is gone. You have two minutes.”
“On it,” Mandy snapped, and peeled off after the hapless waiters.
Margot pushed through the heavy plastic curtain that separated the greenhouse from the kitchen tent. Far from the muted music and golden-green light of the greenhouse, the tent was ruthlessly lit with fluorescents and heating lamps. Jean’s shouts filled the air, demanding that the canapé trays be restocked tout de suite.
Jean was a stocky, balding man with thick, dark eyebrows and an unfortunate mustache. His chef whites were splattered with various sauces and he sneered—actually sneered—at Margot as she walked into his kitchen.
“What are you doing in ma’ kitchen?” he demanded in an exaggerated French accent. “I tell you before. No outside staff when I am creating.”
“Jean, would you explain to me why there is a shrimp tower in the middle of my venue?”
“I was overcome by the muse this morning. I decide to build you a shrimp tower. Only four hundred dollars extra. I do you favor, eh?”
“Wait. Is that shrimp salad on the crostini?” Margot asked, stopping a waiter before he left with his tray of appetizers. “Because we agreed on poached quail eggs. Mrs. Sutter, the hostess of tonight’s event, whom you’ve cooked for on several occasions, is allergic to shrimp. As in, she can’t even be around people who are eating shrimp because she might come into contact with the proteins. I wrote it on everything. Everything.”
Margot motioned to the field refrigeration unit where she had taped a neon-green sign that
read PLEASE REMEMBER THAT MRS. SUTTER IS HIGHLY ALLERGIC TO SHRIMP.
Jean waved her off. “I do not read the cards. My sous chef reads the cards.”
“Jean. Drop the French accent that we both know is about as real as that ridiculous hairpiece and tell me what you are feeding the mayor’s wife.”
The chef, whose real name was John Dill, shrugged and in his natural, Midwestern voice said, “The market didn’t have enough quail eggs, so I took the shrimp. It’s not a big deal. If she’s allergic, she’ll know not to touch it. People make too much of their food allergies anyway.”
“It’s just lovely to know that someone with that attitude is making food for innocent bystanders,” Margot snapped. She called out loud enough for the entire kitchen staff to hear, “Eighty-six the shrimp crostini. Throw them out and take the bags out of the tent. All of you wash your hands—twice—and any utensils that have touched the shrimp—also twice. I need one uncontaminated staff member to make a special shrimp-free plate of food for Mrs. Sutter so we can feed her tonight without poisoning her. Get it done, now.”
Jean was seething, but Margot didn’t give a single damn. Mandy popped through the plastic curtain, a stricken expression on her angular face.
“There’s a problem with the tower,” she said. “It’s too heavy to move. But they’re working on disassembling the shrimp trays to bring them back in before people notice.”
“I don’t care if it’s made of concrete. I need it—” Margot’s response was cut short by a strange honking ruckus from the greenhouse, followed by screams and crashing . . . and running?
One of Margot’s golden eyebrows rose. “What is that?”
Mandy grimaced. “Don’t flamingos eat shrimp?”
Margot dropped her clipboard and her headset to the ground and scrambled through the plastic curtain. “Oh, no.”
The flamingos were making a run at the shrimp tower, pink wings flapping, pecking at the waiters who were attempting to remove the shellfish. The guests were falling all over one another trying to get away from the shrimp-frenzied birds and in the process had knocked over several cocktail tables and the votive candles on top. Those candles had set fire to the tablecloths, which set off the greenhouse’s sprinklers and alarms. The parrots did not appreciate the clanging alarms or the sudden scramble of people. They broke free from their perches and were flying around the greenhouse, leaving “deposits” on the guests in protest. Oh, and Mrs. Sutter was purple and covered in hives.