Mad Girls In Love (11 page)

I lowered my head, trying to sort my feelings. Thinking of my mother's letter again, I got teary-eyed.

“Oh, sugar,” Daddy said. “Please don't.”

I wiped my face. “She'll be devastated.”

“Where'd you learn a big, old word like that?” Daddy smiled.

“On
The Young and the Restless
,” I started to say. Because it was true. One couldn't learn everything in a dictionary. Then I narrowed my eyes. “Stop trying to change the subject. Think about Mummy. She's counting on the two of you getting back together.”

Daddy's eyes widened and he leaned forward. “She said that?”

“No, not exactly,” I said, wiping my eyes again, “but you've visited her every single Sunday for the past few years. You haven't missed a day. Surely that means you still love her. That you care.”

“I do care. I will always care about your mother—well, in my own, special way I'll care. But I care about June Rinehart, too. Sugar, I didn't mean to fall in love.”

“Can't you fall out of it?”

Daddy looked at me a moment. “I want to marry June. Your mother may be ill, but she understands matters of the heart.”

“No, she won't. Not in a thousand years.”

“Give her some credit. Dorothy's not a stupid woman. And Bitsy, honey, just because I'm divorcing your mother and moving onward with my life, it doesn't mean that I'll stop being your father.”

“I know.” I gave a short, jerky nod, and a tear hit the table. “It's not me I'm worried about, it's Mummy. You're all she's got.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are. You're her whole world!” I cried. Again, everyone in the café stopped talking. Even the cooks were peeking through the kitchen doors. Violet and Aunt Clancy stood next to the cash register, whispering; Zach stood next to a palm tree, his eyes bulging. Even though the café hadn't been open long, I knew most of the customers, and they knew me. Little Bitsy McDougal, they called me, failing to add my married name, Wentworth. Little Bitsy McDougal, her daddy owns the five-and-dime, and her mama had a breakdown. They knew all about Aunt Clancy, too, and the customers left off both of her married surnames—Jones and Falk. They also knew about her dalliance with my daddy and how she'd abandoned Violet and run off to California with her no-good hippie friend, Sunny. People still whispered about Aunt Clancy taking Byron away from his wife and squandering his money to open this café. Crystal Falls was a town that thrived on knowing the most intimate, embarrassing details of your life. Nothing was sacrosanct. (A word I had memorized from the dictionary last week.) Me, I liked to keep a low profile—it was my only chance of ever winning back my daughter. Now the whole town would buzz about the McDougals and their long-awaited divorce.

Daddy ran his hand over his hair. “No, honey,” he said, “I never was her whole world. Not to be cruel, but neither were you. Dorothy worships the ground your brother walks on.
He
is her world.”

“That's not true.” I was tempted to show him her letter, to prove that she loved me. To prove that he could be wrong. But suddenly I felt so tired. I just didn't have the energy to fight him. I stood up, and Daddy reached out to grab my hand. I pulled away, and my hand went flying back, smacking firmly into the shoulder of a man at the next table. His arm cocked upward, and a spoonful of curried fruit shot into the air, hitting the neck of a chubby woman sitting across the room. She stood up, lifted a peach segment from her throat, and then began to shriek. Zach rushed over to the lady, offering his handkerchief.

“Let me get you dessert—on the house,” Zach was saying, his New York accent as strangely out of place as his food.

“Well, I don't want this canned fruit,” said the woman, taking the handkerchief. “But I might like to try the seven-layer lemon marzipan cake.”

“I can fix you a dessert sampler.” Zach's beautiful dark eyes opened wide.

“I'm thinking.” The woman tapped her chin. “I wouldn't mind. But could you put it in a doggie bag?”

“Certainly.” Zach stepped backward, shooting me a murderous glance.

“Now look what's happened,” I cried to my father. “And I've been trying so hard to be good.”

“Well, I'm sorry. But I just didn't think you'd react this way.”

“How am I supposed to act, Daddy?”

He was silent. Then he said, “I've already asked June to be my wife.”

“And I'll just bet she said ‘yes.'”

He blushed. “Miss Rinehart is a good woman. She sings in the choir at the Garden of Prayer First Born Church of the Living God.”

“Isn't that the church of choice for rednecks?”

“Don't be so judgmental.”

“But you're marrying a gold-digging Christian. Violet says they're the worst kind. Because they know not what they do—not a speck of insight into their own behavior.” I broke off, putting one hand over my eyes. My cousin really had said that; but coming from me, it didn't sound smart and witty. I sounded like a crackpot.

“She's not like that.” He swallowed, and his Adam's apple clicked. I stared at his lips, wondering if he'd kissed June Rinehart, and if she'd ever rubbed up against him in the storeroom. The very idea of my daddy being a sexual person filled me with embarrassment. Daddies weren't supposed to act that way.

“I can't help who I love, sugar,” he said.

My chin wove. Then I spun around and raced into the kitchen. The cooks watched in mute horror as I stripped off my big apron. Then I began to twirl it over my head, around and around, until the heavy white fabric made a snapping sound. When I let go, the ties hit the chains of the pot rack, setting it to swaying. The cooks released a collective gasp. I could just imagine them on the witness stand, giving testimony about my temper tantrum. No, Your Honor, she's too crazy to raise a child. Jennifer is better off with rich alcoholics and woman chasers.

“Shit,” said one of the cooks. “She's gone berserk.”

“Not yet,” Violet said, leaning into the kitchen. She lifted one eyebrow like Lauren Bacall. “But she's close.”

I pushed open the back door, letting in a wedge of sunlight. Then I stepped into the alley, trying not to gag on the stench of coffee grounds and cantaloupe rinds. I heard footsteps and whirled around. I thought it might be Violet, but it was Aunt Clancy. “Get your ass back inside,” she yelled. “No.”

I shook my head. “I quit.”

“You can't quit.” Clancy Jane laughed. “This is a family restaurant.”

“I'm bad for business,” I said.

“Maybe you just need a break. Hey, I know what. Why don't you and Violet go on an errand? You guys can take a caramel cake to my beloved's office.”

“What's the occasion? Is it Byron's birthday?”

“No, I'm just being wifely.” She shrugged, then laughed. “That's what he seems to want. So to keep the peace, I'll give him a piece. Think he'll appreciate it?”

 

Byron's receptionist cheerfully greeted me and Violet. “My, that looks delicious,” she said, eyeing the cake as Violet lifted it out of the box. I walked to the end of the hall and turned into Byron's office. Framed photographs were lined up on the edge of the bookcase, hiding the medical texts. I ran my finger over pictures of Byron's daughters, three blue-eyed blondes—two with dimples, one with braces. They didn't live in Crystal Falls anymore; they lived in Michigan with their mother. Byron never saw them.

Violet came up behind me and picked up a picture of Clancy Jane. In the photo, her mother was wearing turquoise leather boots and a long sweater. Her legs were small but curvy. Another picture, taken in a Las Vegas wedding chapel, showed Clancy Jane laughing and Byron hugging her from behind. Clancy Jane wore bell-bottom jeans and a gauzy white blouse with embroidered flowers. She had daisies pinned in her hair. Byron was wearing a striped golf shirt and shorts, and his nose was sunburned.

“They look happy,” I said.

“Well, they're not,” said Violet. “Come on, let's get out of here.”

We played hooky from the café and drove straight home. Violet got out of the car and flopped down in the hammock saying she was dying of thirst. She had grown up to be a natural beauty—high cheekbones, thick lashes that didn't require mascara, but she'd never cared about her appearance.

“Can you fix us something cool to drink?” she asked. Then without waiting for an answer, she said, “Go make us some frozen margaritas.”

“But it's the middle of the afternoon,” I cried. “I don't want to be like Miss Betty.”

“She doesn't drink margaritas, does she? Stop looking at me that way; I'm parched. Go inside and crush up the ice in the blender. And don't put in too many ice cubes or it'll be lumpy. Cut you a fresh lime. Then look in the bottom cupboard and get the Triple Sec and tequila. Don't forget to put salt on the glasses. Use the giant brandy snifters, okay? But rub the rims with the lime wedge and roll the rims into salt. Not just regular salt, but kosher or sea salt—”

“I
know
how to fix margaritas,” I said over my shoulder, then hurried into the kitchen before she could think of another command. My cousin would've made a good director. Or else a four-star general. Aunt Clancy always said that Violet had been this way since the day she was born. Personally, I thought college had turned her into a know-it-all. She was just a year younger than me, but she seemed older. Still, I couldn't fault her, because she was right most of the time. And I was mostly wrong.

I dug the Waring blender out of the cabinet and then ground up the ice, just the way Violet had instructed. Lord God, if Miss Betty could see me now, I'd never get custody of my daughter. I couldn't find but one brandy snifter. I held it up to the light. Violet had won it at the county fair; it had been a fishbowl with a blue fish swimming inside it. The rim squeaked as I rubbed it with the lime, then I rolled it in kosher salt. As I poured in the thick brew, I wondered how someone like Miss Betty—a closet alcoholic—could be considered fit to raise my child. Even though Claude had sole custody, I knew for a fact that Jennifer lived with his parents. And I was just worried sick that they'd set their house on fire with a cigarette or something.

I squeezed my eyes shut, then shook my head. If only I could get control of my imagination and stop thinking of what could go wrong. Besides, if I had custody of Jennifer, there was no guarantee that I could keep her safe. Just look what I'd done in Point Minette. At least the Wentworths hadn't left her on top of a car. I walked carefully into the backyard, past the gazebo, toward the hammock. After I sat down, I passed the huge glass to Violet.

“Don't I get my own glass?” She pushed out her bottom lip, then reached for the glass. “Hey, do you have any germs?”

“Honey, what I've got isn't catching.”

“Are you still upset over your daddy?” Violet tilted the glass toward her mouth and took a greedy gulp.

“Yes.” I nodded. “But not for long. Hurry up and pass me that glass.”

Violet wiped her mouth, then held out the snifter. “I'm sure it's hard for you to understand, but even old men like your daddy have urges.”

“I don't even
want
to understand.” I grabbed the snifter and took a swallow.

“It might not even be sexual.” Violet stretched out, wiggling her toes. “Maybe Uncle Albert needs somebody to take care of him. That's how his generation thinks. They need caretakers, not lovers.”

“I don't think my daddy has…well, a private part.”

“Then how'd
you
get here?” Violet laughed and punched me with her foot. “Listen, maybe he just wanted a good Christian woman.”

“My mother went to church every Sunday.”

“Yes, she went, but her thoughts weren't with Jesus.” Violet sat up and took back the margarita. “Maybe he thinks he can dominate a churchy girl.”

“Then he must be a fool. Have you
ever
seen a man dominate a Christian woman?”

“Well, not unless he had a whip in his hand.”

“My daddy would never do that.”

“All he'd have to do is quote Ruth—your people are
my
people, etc.” Violet laughed. “He couldn't do that with your mother. Aunt Dorothy wore the pants in your family, and don't try to deny it.”

“But look what happened.” I ducked my head, and a tear hit my hand.

“Jesus, don't go to pieces on me!” Violet leaned forward, sloshing her drink, and patted my arm. “Hey, I know what. Let's ditch these homemade margaritas and go barhopping.”

“You know I can't do that.”

“But this is an emergency. Uncle Albert is marrying a ninny.”

Finally we decided it was too much trouble to get up and get dressed. We just sat there, sipping the rest of our margarita, the sky darkening around us. Fireflies appeared, their yellow lights winking on and off, and way off in the distance, I heard neighborhood children playing kick the can. Byron's MG roared up the driveway. He hurried into the house, not even glancing in our direction. A minute later, Aunt Clancy pulled up in her Volvo. She didn't see us, either. As she walked up the back steps, Byron opened the door. He drew Aunt Clancy into his arms, and she giggled like a young girl. A long time ago she'd had a drinking problem, but she'd gotten over it. The café had helped. It wasn't easy being married to a doctor. But, then again, it wasn't easy being a Hamilton woman.

“Look at them, all lovey-dovey. Maybe they'll tell their story to
Ladies Home Journal.”
Violet snorted. “A marriage saved by caramel cake. Isn't that the stupidest thing?”

I didn't want to argue, so I said, “Mmmhum.” Then I leaned back in the hammock and made a mental note to get that recipe.