Blessing in Disguise (25 page)

Lord, let me get through this evening,
Cordelia prayed.

She turned to Netta, who stood at the far end of the dining-room table, folding napkins and arranging them in overlapping triangles by the plates and silverware. Dear Netta. Without her, this house would simply fold in on itself like the pink bakery box containing the cake that Cordelia held gingerly in her arms.

“Oh, Netta ...” She thrust the box at her loyal housekeeper. “Would you find some sort of platter for this? The silver ought to be big enough.” She gestured in the direction of the china closet, where she kept her wedding china and the antique Cristofle salvers with Great-Grandmother Clayborn’s crest. The platter she’d pointed to, its pierced rim embossed with birds and grape leaves, might offset some of the tackiness of the cake.

“Looks like it could use a flatbed truck.” Netta’s disdain was obvious ... but, then, with Netta she was never quite sure. Her dour middle-aged housekeeper brought to mind one of those Easter Island statues—blocky and imperturbable, with the kind of features that never seem to age, except to become somewhat blurred by the elements. The only time Cordelia had ever seen Netta cry—and even then it was only that her eyes had become very bright, like a pair of old pennies glistening in a jar—was last April, when Cordelia had given Netta and Hollis the deed to the guest cottage they’d occupied for the past twenty-five years.

“Why don’t you put it over there—on the sideboard, between those two flower bowls,” she told Netta, who looked stiff and uncomfortable in the alien black uniform and ruffled organdy apron—another bit of pretentiousness Sissy had insisted upon.

She felt a little insulted for Netta—a woman who’d nursed Grace and Sissy through mumps and scarlet fever, and who could fix a broken vacuum cleaner or unclog a pipe as quick as it took to call a repairman—to have been told what to wear for an occasion such as this one. How often had she spotted Netta on her way to church on Sunday, stepping along the cottage path that wound past the main house, fitted out in a stylish suit and high heels like no one who would ever need to apologize for who she was, or how she looked?

Annoyed at herself for having given in to Sissy’s demands, Cordelia offered Netta a sympathetic look, then stood back to give the dining-room table a last once-over. In the center stood a wide, shallow bowl in which a half-dozen gardenias floated amid fat, flickering candles of varying heights. At one end, her Rose Point silverware shimmered against the hand-embroidered linen tablecloth, and every plate gleamed. Should she have used her Havilland wedding china instead? No, the Limoges was just as pretty, and not quite so delicate. And, should a plate get chipped or broken, she wouldn’t be heartbroken by the loss.

As if her mother were still alive, carping at her from the next room, Cordelia was reminded of the time that Mother, noting a tiny chip in one of the Havilland finger bowls, had remarked dryly, “You know, dear, hired help is replaceable; family heirlooms are not.”

Watching Netta as she carefully slid the cake onto the platter, Cordelia knew that to be untrue. Despite half a lifetime of her mother’s trying to mold Cordelia in her image, Cordelia vowed she would never value any
thing
more than a person.

The doorbell chimed, announcing the first guests.

Cordelia felt her heart give an unpleasant little jump, and remembered all the reasons she was
not
looking forward to this party—Sissy, in her size-sixteen brocade, drinking too much, as she always did at parties; and Beech, loud and coarse, with his hearty salesman’s handshake, who would undoubtedly make some long-winded and embarrassingly flowery speech about the dear woman he was married to.

Hurrying along the narrow kitchen corridor that connected to the grander hallway by the front entrance, Cordelia wished she’d never stumbled upon Beech’s dirty little secret. Worse had been that little chat she’d had with Beech following her fruitless lunch with Sissy out at Mulberry Acres, before Sissy had developed suspicions of her own.

They’d been sitting out on the sun porch, where Sissy, off showing the boys a bird’s nest in the crepe-myrtle tree, couldn’t overhear them.

“Beech, I know what you’ve been up to.” Cordelia did not mince words. “And I want
you
to know I won’t tolerate it. For Sissy’s sake, for the boys’. This ... affair of yours has got to stop.”

“Who told you I was cheatin’ on Sissy?” Beech, his wide plank of a face flushed pink, managed to affect a look of outraged innocence that wouldn’t have fooled a simpleton. His piggy eyes narrowed. “Heck, me and Janet, it’s just
business.
She’s settin’ me up with some of her neighbors out in Mulberry Acres who might be lookin’ to buy a new set of wheels.”

“Janet? Janet O’Malley?” Cordelia said quietly, and waited for Beech to realize he’d stuck his big foot in his even bigger mouth. She’d met Janet O’Malley only once, over at Sissy’s, but Sissy was always talking about how her littlest, Beau, was such great friends with Janet’s boy.

“Why, I was only ...” He started to sputter, but she cut him off.

“In case it may have slipped your mind,
I
own the mortgage on your house.” For once, she didn’t bother to sweeten her tone in order to hide her disgust. “Or should I say
Sissy’s
house, since it’s in her name only. And I’m sure you also know that Ed Spangler is planning on opening a branch of his dealership up in Gaskin Springs. One
word
from me to Ed, and I have no doubt he would transfer you.” She watched him blanch at that. “Oh, don’t look so
grim.
You’d be able to drive home weekends. It’s only two hundred miles, and I’m sure it’ll go a lot faster when that new superhighway is finished. Of course,” she’d added pointedly, “you’d most certainly be too
tired
for any sort of extracurricular activities other than spending time at home with your wife and sons.”

“Now, Mother, you’ve got this all wrong!” Beech started to stand up, but she pinned him with a withering look that sent him collapsing back in his chair with a groan of wicker.

“One lying word out of your mouth. Beech Beecham, and I swear ...” She didn’t have to complete her threat, because now Beech was holding his big ham hands over his face.

“It didn’t mean anything,” came his muffled, seemingly agonized reply. “I swear on my granny’s grave. It was just that one time, and it was Janet’s idea from the get-go. I didn’t ...”

“I don’t give a hoot in hell
whose
idea it was. I just want it over and done with. Now”—she stood up, peering out the glass at the dense green of her garden—“where can Sissy and those boys have gotten to?”

Had
she scared some sense into him? Cordelia wondered as she paused to adjust a painting that was hanging a bit crooked. She hoped so ... but with Beech you never knew. She remembered a few years ago, her pulling him up by the short hairs for forging Sissy’s signature on a trust fund check in order to put a down payment on a new truck. He’d promised never to go sneaking behind his wife’s back again. But Beech was like a child, thoroughly chastised one minute and into the same old mischief the second you turned your back. Poor Sissy.

Cordelia sighed. Lord, why did she have to fret over
both
her daughters? One not smart enough to see what was going on right under her nose ... and the other too smart for her own good.

A sour taste threaded its way up into her throat.

Despite Gabe’s urging, she
still
hadn’t made up her mind about visiting Grace. Even with Win now insisting she stay at his apartment, where she could be on somewhat neutral ground and still see Grace and Chris. Yes, it
was
tempting. ...

Cordelia’s gaze picked out a framed portrait of Grace among a grouping of family photos on the wall opposite the staircase. Seven years old, with braids and a gap-toothed smile as wide as the Mississippi. She felt as if something sharp were piercing her heart. Would Grace truly be glad to see her? Or would she end up pushing her away as she had when she was a baby, kicking her legs and batting her little arms to free herself from her mother’s embrace?

I don’t have to decide right this minute,
she told herself.

Gabe thought she should go, but he didn’t necessarily know what was best for her. ...

Gabe.

She glanced at her watch. What if he didn’t show up? What if, at the last minute, he’d changed his mind?

She found herself hoping he hadn’t ... but at the same time, a small, mean-spirited part of her—the part that had rubbed elbows too long with her mother’s snobbishness—almost wished he would spare them both the discomfort of his presence here.

But that was silly, she told herself.
Of course
he was coming. Otherwise he would have called. And, despite any misgivings she might have about the reception he was sure to get from Sissy and her friends, she couldn’t wait to see him. And for him to see
her.

Cordelia, passing the gilt pier mirror at the foot of the staircase, gave her hair a final pat. Next time, she’d tell Linette not to go so heavy on the spray. But her dress, at least, was just right—a lovely wine velvet she’d driven into Macon to shop for, in the designer department at Macy’s. Cut on the bias, it nipped in at the waist and flared about her knees, making her feel years younger.

“Why, Cordelia, you look like you stepped out of a magazine!” her oldest friend. Iris, greeted her, handing her coat to Hollis as she stepped forward to kiss Cordelia’s cheek.

“Well, will you look who’s talking!” Cordelia cried. “You look pretty as a picture.”

Iris was too thin, of course, but then she’d always been that way, since they were in school together. As she hugged Iris, Cordelia could feel her ribs through her crimson satin blouse, tucked into a pair of smart black velvet trousers. Cordelia remembered, when they were girls, how they used to say to each other,
if we get old ...

Now we are getting old,
she thought with a ripple of amusement.

“I can’t imagine why.” Iris laughed breathlessly, smoothing a wisp of silver hair from her cheek. “We had an emergency at the Home, and I nearly didn’t make it. Priscilla Draper fell and broke her hip. She’ll be fine, but she needed a lot of hand-holding.”

“Something
I
never seem to get enough of from her these days,” chuckled Iris’s husband, Jim, reaching for his wife’s hand and giving it a squeeze. With his round face and nearly white beard, and his belly straining at the seams of a dinner jacket that had fit him better at their daughter’s wedding five years ago, he had the baggy, contented look of a well-fed Saint Bernard.

Cordelia remembered to thank Jim again for his company’s twenty-thousand-dollar donation to the library fund before they were parted by a wave of Sissy’s friends, shedding coats, bringing a gust of frosty air and mingled perfumes. Sissy, bustling in from the parlor, darted past Cordelia and threw her arms around each new guest in a way Cordelia found cloying.

Nor did she feel easy about Sissy’s high color, and the feverish glittering of her blue eyes. Clearly, Sissy had been more than sampling the champagne. Even her dress, which had looked festive on her in the store, now made her look overdone, with all those pearls heaped about her neck, and earrings hobbling like Christmas-tree ornaments.

Cordelia led the way into the parlor, where drinks were being served and trays of hors d’oeuvres passed. She was accepting a glass from a silver tray proffered by Hollis’s cousin Elroy, when behind her she heard, “You look lovely tonight, Cordelia.”

Gabe! How had he managed to slip in without her spotting him?

She felt herself flush, and turned to find him smiling at her, looking surprisingly elegant in a shawl-collared tuxedo that, though it appeared decades out of date, fit him perfectly. His weathered face, with its sun-reddened Indian cheekbones, set him apart from every man in this room, and yet it only seemed to make him more special.

“Can I get you some champagne?” she asked, feeling awkward and self-conscious.

“I have something even better,” he told her, holding up a bottle of clear greenish liquid that bore no label. His eyes sparkled, holding her gaze, not glancing about as hers had been, to see if anyone was looking at them. “Dandelion wine; I made it myself.” With a wink, he added, “Old family recipe. I brought it for Caroline, but I don’t suppose she’d mind if we took a sip.”

Cordelia, her heart throbbing, moved to the Dutch marquetry console that doubled as a bar. She left her untouched champagne on its marble top, and selected two cut-crystal sherry glasses from inside.

Moments later, as she sipped Gabe’s wine, more to ease the tense dryness in her throat than anything else, she thought,
Could it really be this easy?
Gabe fitting in, belonging here, in this house, among her friends.

As if for the sole purpose of dispelling such a notion, Sissy sidled over. “Mr. Ross, it was so
nice
of you to come,” she drawled with exaggerated politeness. “I do hope you’ll find a moment to say hello to my friends. You probably remember most of them from school.”

“I’ll do that,” Gabe said, seemingly unaware of the smirk Cordelia could see flickering at the corner of her daughter’s rosebud mouth before Sissy slipped away.

Cordelia felt herself stiffen. She’d heard the things Sissy and her catty chums used to say, and were still saying, about “Mr. Ross.” Just the other day, Sissy’s best friend, Peg Lynch, had come up to her in the Winn Dixie and asked her, in a voice laced with incredulity, whether it was
true
what she’d heard from Sissy, that Mr. Ross was coming to her party.

“Stay away from them,” Cordelia warned, laying a hand on Gabe’s arm and speaking with a candidness that surprised her. “She and her silly, puffed-up friends will probably try and make you look bad.”

Gabe raised an eyebrow. “Cordelia, I know exactly who I am and why I’m here. And if I choose not to be belittled, then I walk out the door the same man who walked in. Now,” he smiled, “you haven’t told me what you think of the wine. Too strong?”

“It’s delicious,” she told him, and meant it. Cool, and not too sweet, with just a trace of welcome tartness. She’d hardly know it contained alcohol except for the tingly rush she felt ... and her sudden, shocking desire to be away from this crowd, somewhere alone with Gabe. In that instant, she regretted her warning. Whereas Sissy’s childish jabs would have rolled right off Gabe,
she,
no doubt, had made him feel conspicuous. “Gabe, I apologize if I ...”