Baroque and Desperate (4 page)

“So,” she said, adding an extra scoop of vanilla ice cream to Tradd's cobbler, “do you have any older brothers?”

“Mama, please,” I hissed.

Mama turned and gave me a wide-eyed, innocent look. “Not for you, dear, for me.”

Tradd grinned, sending roaches three blocks away scrambling for the cover of darkness. “No, ma'am. Just two younger brothers. Harold's married and Rupert is—”

“Spoken for!” C.J. looked like she was ready to tussle it out with Mama in the remains of the pork roast and mashed potatoes.

I wanted to die. “Ladies,” I wailed, “you're embarrassing the man.”

Tradd waved a bronze hand. Considering the weight of the gold tennis bracelet around his wrist, it was a wonder he could lift it at all.

“No, ma'am, I'm not embarrassed. I hear this
kind of thing all the time. Guess it goes with the territory.”

“Is that so?” I crammed a spoonful of cobbler in my mug before I could say anything that would jeopardize my participation in the ridiculous treasure hunt his grandmother was hosting. It was no wonder Pretty Boy drove a convertible. A regular car couldn't accommodate his swollen head.

 

Three hours in a convertible may sound glamorous, but it is guaranteed to produce a month of bad-hair days. Thank heavens my dark hair is short, and reasonably manageable under normal circumstances. Poor C.J. was cursed with fine, dish-water-blond hair that she keeps shoulder length. Even by the time she arrived at Mama's she looked like she'd dipped her head in oil before sticking her finger into a light socket.

All that sun and wind is not kind to one's skin either. C.J. was as red as the ink on my bank account, and I could feel my own skin coarsen by the mile. I was beginning to entertain the possibility that Tradd Maxwell was really a sixteen-year-old boy under that tan, and Susan was on to something.

As for Dmitri, the poor dear had taken refuge under the seat before leaving Mama's driveway, and was clinging to the floorboard for dear life. Either that, or he had jumped out unnoticed, and was already soliciting a new mistress. I didn't have the nerve to check.

“Would you mind putting the top down, dear?” I wasn't about to look like a California raisin five years in advance of my fiftieth birthday.

“What?”

“The top!” I shouted. “Would you please put it down?”

Tradd grinned, shrugged, and pressed the pedal even closer to the metal.

It was pointless to argue. I cinched my seat belt even tighter and prayed that Jaguars didn't have airbags on the passenger side. I ate all my fruits and veggies as a child, so it is not my fault I am vertically challenged.

Just before we got to Georgetown, about six miles south of the junction of federal Route 701 and state Route 52, Tradd turned left onto a dirt road. The land was low and flat, the earth sandy. All around us were woods, predominantly pine, but with a notable sprinkling of magnolia, cherry laurel, and oak. We were still miles from the ocean, but already I could smell a change in the air.

The Jaguar slowed and conversation became possible for the first time since leaving Rock Hill. Tradd Maxwell was due an earful of words.

But before I could open my mouth, Tradd opened his. “I used to hunt in these woods,” he said wistfully. “Deer, squirrel, possum—you name it.”

“Bear?” C.J. asked.

“Well, not bear. But just about anything else.”

“I hunted bear with my daddy.”

“Killed her a bear when she was only three,” I said.

C.J. poked me with an unnaturally strong finger. “How many points was your biggest buck?”

Tradd smiled, and the sun temporarily dimmed. “He was a twelve-pointer. Bagged him on my eighteenth birthday. How about you?”

C.J. clapped her hands in delight. “Sixteen points!”

“Damn! I didn't know they got that big. What kind of gun?”

It was time to jump back into the conversation, even though I know nothing about guns. “Shot me a twenty-pointer when I was only ten,” I said. “Or was that a ten-pointer when I was twenty? At any rate, do you realize just how dangerous it is to drive that fast? Especially in a convertible?”

Tradd laughed. “Ah, that's just insurance hype. A convertible is just as safe as any other car.”

“It's pickups that are really dangerous,” C.J. said solemnly. “My Uncle Elmer, Aunt Mabel, and their seven kids died in the back of a pickup.”

I turned to look at her. There were tears in her eyes.

“I'm sorry to hear that, dear. You never mentioned that before. Rear-end collision in Shelby?”

“Oh, no. They were hitching a ride in a pickup along the Broad River when there was a flash flood. They drowned when they couldn't get the tailgate down.”

Fortunately for C.J. the estate of Mrs. Elias Burton Latham III was now visible through the trees.

T
he Latham estate was built by slaves. It began as a rice plantation, a labor-intensive enterprise, and a 1790 census shows that Col. Elias Latham owned two hundred and eighty-five slaves of African origin, and four indentured servants from Wales, three male, and one female.

Colonel Latham was a particularly vicious man who raped scores of his female slaves, and the female servant, Mary Elizabeth Williams. When the latter became pregnant, Colonel Latham married her in the local Episcopal church, on New Year's Day. It was a short marriage, however, because on their way home from the church the couple was ambushed by a small band of slaves and the colonel was pierced through the heart by a wooden spear. The new Mrs. Latham was left unharmed, and much to the ire of her neighboring planters, did little to punish her slaves. To the contrary, it is said she ordered extra rations to be given all the slaves that day, and on the anniversary of that day for the rest of her life. At any rate, six months after her husband's death, Mary Elizabeth Latham gave birth to a son, Jonathan Elias Latham.

Two years after inheriting the colonel's estate, Mary Elizabeth Latham married one of the estate's white male indentured servants, Albert Burton. Rumor had it that she was pregnant again. Eight months after her second wedding Mary Elizabeth was delivered of twins, Elizabeth Louise, and George Albert Burton.

The two brothers were reasonably close, and Jonathan Elias Latham is said to have had an unnaturally close relationship with his half sister. Elizabeth Louise never married, but the foundling child her twin George and his wife took in, is said to have been hers. At any rate, in succeeding generations the Latham and Burton branches of the family tree have become more tangled than Rapunzel's hair.

This, then, is the American origin of the proud Latham-Burton clan, at least according to Mama. Apparently the Low-Country mavens are fond of reciting this family's history whenever scandal threatens their own. But despite—maybe even because of—the Latham-Burton's checkered past, folks look up to them. It is almost as if the colonel's clan has set a standard of eccentricity that society is still trying to live up to. The fact that the family has money is quite incidental, I'm sure.

 

The white plantation house sits on the left bank of the Black River. This body of water gets its name from its colalike water. The peculiar color is a result of tannin produced by the cypress trees that grow along the river's banks, and in some cases, well into the river itself.

“Ooooh!” C.J. squealed, “I always wanted to live in a house like that. How many rooms does it have?”

Tradd frowned. “Not enough. It looks larger than it is. You two are going to have to share a room, I'm afraid.”

I prayed that my sigh of relief wasn't audible. I had
assumed
Tradd knew better than to presume upon my good character. Just because I am a divorcée, does not make me a tramp.

“That's okay,” C.J. said, “even though Abby snores.”

“I do not!”

“But you do—you sound just like a cement mixer.”

I glared at her. “Who are you to talk?”

“But, of course, you can't help it, Abby. Lots of people who drool in their sleep snore as well.”

“C.J.!”

Tradd pretended to ignore our tiff and gallantly opened our doors. “Well, ladies, shall we disembark? Grandmother is undoubtedly waiting for us in the drawing room.”

C.J. and I tumbled eagerly out of the car. It felt good to stand again—although frankly, I was the only one who didn't need to stretch his or her legs. C.J. did a curious one-legged hop, followed by a series of jumping jacks, and ended by swinging her arms in circles like propeller blades. Tradd, on the other hand, stretched and yawned just like a cat.

“Oh, my gosh! Dmitri!”

I dove under the front seat and was rewarded for my heroism by a hiss. I recoiled in shock. My beloved fur ball has never scratched, bit, or hissed at me. His vet, however, is missing a pinky nail.

A few seconds later I tried again. This time he not only hissed, but the claws on his right paw grazed the tip of my nose.

Although not in physical pain, I was nonetheless
deeply hurt. “Don't you take a swipe at Mama! Do you hear me?”

Dmitri growled.

I stood up, baffled and defeated.

“Anything wrong?” Tradd asked gently.

“I think you traumatized him by driving too fast,” C.J. said before I could stop her. But she was absolutely right.

Tradd grinned. “Sorry. You think he'll be all right?”

I shrugged. “Does your grandmother have dogs?”

“Not a one.”

“Any in the neighborhood?”

Tradd waved his arms at the surrounding woods. “I wouldn't think so.”

“Then I'll just let him be for a while. Give him a chance to calm down.”

“You sure?”

I was pretty sure. Cats might act like they're not paying attention most of the time, and they're certainly less responsive than dogs, but they have a sixth sense that is positively uncanny. I wouldn't be surprised if Dmitri was able to find his way back to Charlotte, even though he hadn't laid eyes on even an inch of road. Certainly he was capable of following my trail to the house. Or was he? Any animal that chases his own tail has got to be spatially challenged.

“We can check on him frequently,” C.J. said and patted my arm.

I left a handful of cat treats beside the seat and poured some Evian in his bowl. “See you later, guy.” I turned to the others. “Well, I'm ready.”

“Then, let's go,” Tradd said and offered us each an arm.

I am ashamed to say that for the next few minutes I forgot all about Dmitri. If only I hadn't agreed to bring C.J.

“Ooooh, look at all these cars,” she squealed. Believe me, the woman drools just as much as I do.

I looked. Parked beneath spreading, moss-draped oaks, were a Ferrari, another Jaguar, a Cadillac, a Mercedes, and a Rolls-Royce.

“I guess we're the last ones here,” Tradd said, rubbing his golden chin. He sounded disappointed.

“Who drives the Ferrari?” C.J. asked shamelessly.

“That would be my brother Harold. His wife Sally drives the blue Jag. She claims Hal drives too fast.”

“Perhaps it's genetic,” I mumbled.

“Excuse me?”

“The Caddie, dear. I was talking about the Caddie. My ex-husband Buford gets a new one every year. Trades it in at Arnold Palmer Cadillac in Charlotte.”

“Yeah? Well, that old clunker belongs to my cousin Alexandra Latham. It's got to be at least five years old.”

“You don't say! Well, personally I'd go for that pearl-gray Mercedes over there—I mean if I had the money. It's almost the same color as that clump of Spanish moss hanging above it.”

“That belongs to Albert Jansen, my brother-in-law. My sister, Edith, had her own, but she wrapped it around a palm tree on a miniature golf course at Myrtle Beach.”

“Was she all right?”

“Fine as frog hair. Not a scratch on her—but the car was totaled. The owner of the course bought it and left it right where it was. Now when you want
to play the ninth hole you have to putt around the damn thing.”

“Which leaves the Rolls,” C.J. said. “Your grandmother's?”

Tradd laughed. “Actually that belongs to Flora, Grandmother's maid.”

“Get out of town,” I said, borrowing Susan's phrase.

“Yeah, well, Grandmother doesn't drive anymore, and Flora does all her errands. I guess it makes sense. Anyway, it's Grandmother's money.”

“For sure. Believe me,
when
I come into money again, and if I live to a ripe old age, I'll dispense my goodies as I so please. My children are both sound of body and mind, and as such, need to make their own way in this world. I certainly don't expect to inherit Mama's money.”

The truth is, I had no idea what the total of Mama's assets might be. Daddy was a traveling salesman for a Rock Hill clothing mill, and couldn't have made a whole lot of money. Mama, I know, has never worked outside her home a day in her life, yet she seems relatively comfortable. When I got home I was going to have to ask her about her finances. For her sake, mind you, not mine.

“Well, ladies, shall we?” Tradd asked, and gestured toward the house.

We followed him up the leaf-strewn walk to what looked like Tara on stilts. The Latham mansion, like many in the area, sits well off the ground, an accommodation to floods and the periodic hurricane. In the old days the space under the porch would have offered shelter to chickens and dogs, maybe even slaves, in a thunderstorm. Now it was home to a rusted old Chevy, which had once been
the color of asparagus soup. Call me a snob, but
that
car sure didn't fit the picture.

“That's cook's car,” Tradd said, reading my mind. “Grandmother insists she park it out of sight.” He rang the bell with a golden thumb. “I hope y'all like planter's punch,” he said with a wink.

The door swung open immediately to reveal a young woman in full maid's uniform. I took an immediate dislike to her. For one thing, she was a lazy, bottle blonde—inch-long licorice roots betrayed her. For another thing, she was far too made-up for that hour of the day. Even a geisha wears less foundation, for crying out loud. And those cheeks! The bright pink circles dusted on them looked like they'd been put there by a clown—either that, or she was burning up with fever. Furthermore, she was one of those types whose legs don't quit until they hit the armpits. The woman's inseams were longer than me!

“Hey, Flora,” Tradd said.

“Hey, yourself,” she replied.

Tradd ushered us past Flora without introductions. The entrance hall ran almost the full length of the house, and was as wide as my living room at home. Pairs of narrow, straight-backed mahogany benches flanking the walls faced each other. Above them hung portraits of ancestors who seemed more angry than inbred. A trio of threadbare carpets, lying end to end, were the only ornamentation. I guessed from the uncommon use of bottle green that they were Kazak rugs from Turkey. Still, it was an austere decor, more befitting a Mennonite innkeeper than a Low-Country aristocrat.

At the end of the hall Tradd pushed open a
heavy wooden door and I gasped. There, in front of my wind-dried eyes, was the finest collection of eighteenth-century English furniture I had ever seen in one room. No doubt the colonel had it all shipped over from the old country when he built the house.

“Pinch me,” I whispered to C.J.

She obliged.

“Stop it!”

“Abby—”

“What!” I snapped.

C.J. was rolling her eyes like bingo numbers in a tumble wheel.

Then I noticed that several of the pieces of furniture were occupied by people. I gasped again. Funny that I should have noticed the antiques first, even though one of the room's occupants was almost as old as the chair upon which she sat.

“Grandmother,” Tradd said, inclining his golden head slightly, “I would like you to meet Abigail Timberlake and Jane Cox. Abigail is going to be my date for the weekend, and Jane will be Rupert's. I spoke to you about them on the phone, remember?”

The men present rose to their feet.

Meanwhile, the grande dame and I gave each other the once-over. She had undoubtedly known God when he was a boy. Her skin was paper thin, and where it wasn't pulled tight and translucent against bones, it hung in neat folds, like Mama's parlor drapes. What remained of her white hair was brushed in wisps toward the center of her head and tied with a black velvet ribbon that matched her black velvet dress. No doubt she had once been a very tall woman, because she was tall even now in her dotage, her posture ramrod
straight. Her eyes, however, were timeless. They reminded me of the parrot my Aunt Marilyn used to have—glittering buttons that hinted at intelligence, but when the head turned became flat and inscrutable.

“Hello,” I said, and took the old lady's hand. It was as light and dry as a biscuit.

“Hey,” C.J. said, and did a silly little curtsy.

Mrs. Elias Burton Latham III had a voice like gravel in a tin cup. “Welcome to Latham Hall Plantation. I trust my grandson didn't scare the wits out of you entirely by the way he drives.”

“Grandmother!”

The old lady pointed a bony finger at Tradd. “That boy's a menace on the roads. I've told our sheriff not to look the other way, just because he's a Burton. A little time in jail might do him some good—well, never mind all that now. I suppose Tradd has already told me, but where are y'all from?”

“Rock Hill, ma'am.” I felt like I was in fourth grade again.

“I'm from Shelby, North Carolina,” C.J. said proudly.

Mrs. Latham frowned. “Some things can't be helped, child. Anyway, I want y'all to meet the rest of the family. This—” she patted the arm of a ravishing redhead beside her, “is my granddaughter, Alexandra Latham. They call her Andie, but don't y'all dare.”

“No, ma'am,” we promised.

“Hello,” Alexandra said softly. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

I, for one, wanted to gag. Alexandra was the perfect late-twentieth-century southern belle. Physically she was flawless, from her straight teeth to
the tips of her pedicured toes. Each auburn hair was in place, and her periwinkle eyes neither needed nor received any makeup to enhance them. The last skin I saw that smooth and white was on a baby's bottom.

From those few words she had spoken I could tell she had perfect diction, perfect manners, and no doubt carried within her ovaries the perfect eggs to produce the perfect children. Still, she wasn't married, was she, so how perfect could she be?

I smiled warmly. “Howdy, ma'am.”

C.J. curtsied again.

The old woman beamed with approval. “Now that”—she pointed to a woman across the room—“is my granddaughter, Edith Burton Jansen.”