Magnolia Wednesdays (14 page)

“Hi, Matt,” Vivien said, careful to smile with enough warmth not to offend but too little to encourage. “How have you been?”

“Good, actually,” he said. “I’m at the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
now.” His still-scrawny chest puffed out in pride. “I have my own column.”

Vivien tried to hide her surprise. As a reporter, Matt had always settled for a perfunctory answering of “who, what, where, when, and why.” The last she’d heard he was with a tiny weekly in Minneapolis covering high school sports. “That’s great. What kind of column?”

“I’ve got my finger on the pulse of Atlanta. I deal with all the movers and shakers,” he said. “I’ve done a few pieces on your family, you know.”

“No, I didn’t.” She took in the puffed-out chest, the prideful tone. “Shame on them for not telling me.”

He smiled. “I write the Just Peachy column. It’s the first thing Atlanta society reads in the morning. Everybody wants me to cover and write up their events.”

Like she might during a crucial interview, Vivien kept her expression neutral, giving nothing away. But in reality she was appalled that even Matt would boast about writing what was little more than a gossip column. Of course, what she was writing at the moment wasn’t much better, but at least she wasn’t bragging about it. In fact, she was counting on no one ever knowing. Vivien eyed the revolving door and began to plot her escape.

“Wow,” she said. “That’s really . . . something.”

“So what are you doing here? Are you seeing somebody about your wound?” He paused dramatically, as if playing to a camera. “Were there . . . complications?”

“No,” she said firmly as his gaze strayed to the list of doctors mounted on the wall nearby. “No, I’m just in town visiting my family and decided to have a routine checkup.”

A skeptical smile tilted his thin lips. “Oh?”

“Yes,” she said. “Not that I think that’s any of your business.”

“Is that right?” The smile disappeared. So did the general air of good humor. “Well then, why don’t we stick to your professional life?” His eyes narrowed. “I heard you were fired from CIN. Would you care to comment on that?”

Vivi knew she should tread carefully. Matt Glazer might not be a journalist in her eyes, but he had instincts. Like a rat sniffing out a piece of cheese, he was trying to figure out what she might be hiding.

“No, I wouldn’t care to comment.”

“That’s what I thought,” he smirked. “It’s not like we haven’t all seen Regina Matthews in your spot.”

“As usual you’ve got your facts wrong.” Her smile was cool, her voice frigid. “I wasn’t fired. I quit.”

“You left CIN of your own free will?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

“So what are you doing now?”

“I’m taking a break,” she said. “Visiting my family and considering other offers.”

“Are you still dating Stone Seymour?” he asked.

She hesitated a tad too long. His pointy rat nose quivered. “Ahh,” he said. “The plot thickens.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” she said. “Stone and I are still dating. I just don’t see how that’s any business of yours, either.”

He stiffened. “You always thought you were better than the rest of us,” he said. “Do you really think you would have ended up at the network without your family connections, Vivien? Where do you think you’d be without the Gray name?”

She could have told him that she’d made it there despite her parents, that in fact, they’d done everything possible to prevent her from exposing a political ally, that her quest for the truth had never been anything but inconvenient and slightly embarrassing to them. But she could see in his little beady eyes that he’d never believe her. He’d rewritten her history in a way that made him feel better; that allowed him to compare his achievements to hers and still find a way to feel they were on even ground. She looked him up and down, taking in the cheap blue blazer, which he’d paired with khaki pants that didn’t quite cover his knobby ankles, and all thought of censoring herself evaporated in the heat of her anger. Where would she be without the Gray name behind her? The word that sprang to mind was simply, “free.” But he’d never believe that, either.

Once again she ignored the unwritten rules on which she’d been raised and said, quite stupidly, “If I weren’t me, I guess I might have ended up slinging crap every day in the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
. But I sure as hell wouldn’t be bragging about it. Especially not to someone who would understand what a pitiful little job it is.” Vivien turned her back on him and strode out of the building. For the second time that morning she hummed the theme song from
Rocky
under her breath and lifted her fists in victory toward the late-morning sun.

14

O
N WEDNESDAY NIGHT Vivi answered the doorbell to find Clay Alexander standing on the welcome mat, briefcase in hand, beautifully dressed and impeccably groomed as always.

“May I come in?” His practiced smile seemed a bit frayed around the edges and the tiny web of lines at the corner of his eyes cut deeper.

“Is Melanie expecting you?”

“Yes, Vivi,” he said when she finally moved out of his way. “I take the kids out once a week. It helps me stay in touch with them and gives Mel a night when she doesn’t have to worry about making dinner.”

He took in the sweatpants and baggy T-shirt she’d taken to wearing and winced slightly. “I came a few minutes early because I need something from J.J.’s desk.” He said this as if he had every right to go through J.J.’s things without asking.

Vivi had been waiting for her opportunity to go through J.J.’s desk, too. Unfortunately, she had no idea what she would be looking for, while Clay obviously did.

Vivi was loitering around the office doorway pretending not to watch him, when Melanie came downstairs. “Is Clay here, Viv?”

Vivien nodded. “He’s looking for something of J.J.’s.” She watched Melanie’s face closely to see if this was unusual or objectionable, but all Melanie said was, “Oh, okay. Can you get the kids up here? Trip’s in the basement and I think Shelby’s upstairs.”

Vivi would have preferred to look over Clay’s shoulder and listen in on his and Melanie’s conversation, but she did as she’d been asked. After they waved Clay and the kids off, Vivi started up to her room where she intended to hide, er, read until Melanie left for the Magnolia Ballroom.

“Hurry up and change, okay? I’d like to get to the studio a little early.”

Vivi turned to face her sister. “Well, actually . . .”

“I need you, Viv. One of the Shipley sisters did something to her ankle. Without you, the class will feel too small. And if anyone else doesn’t show up, the students who are there will feel like the studio isn’t taking the class seriously.”

“Mel, I . . .”

“You said you wanted to help me however you could.”

“I meant with the kids. Or the house. Or . . . whatever.” Vivian felt, and undoubtedly sounded, like a trapped an imal.

“Sincere offers of help don’t usually come with exclusions,” Melanie said.

Vivien didn’t answer, but if she
had
been that trapped animal, she would now be gnawing at her leg in an effort to get out.

“I haven’t pressed for the real reason you’re here. Or asked why you’ve been riding all over east Cobb with me, even though I know you must be bored to tears.” She held up a hand to stop the objections she saw forming. “I figure if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.”

Vivien stopped imagining her escape. “All right, Mel,” she said. “I’ll do it. But I don’t think I’m destined for the Middle Eastern nightclub circuit.”

“Fair enough,” Melanie said. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes to ‘freshen up.’ ” She glanced pointedly at the sweatpants and baggy T. “I appreciate it,” she said, as Vivi went upstairs to change, though she had no idea what she was supposed to change into.

She barely managed to zip up her favorite black pants and the black camisole stretched so precariously over her gargantuan breasts that modesty forced her to wear her black-and-white-striped blouse, which was unbutton-able, over it. Every part of her seemed to be expanding exponentially. Even her feet bulged over the edges of her lowest-heeled pumps. She felt like a sausage ready to split its casing.

In the bathroom Vivien brushed her teeth and gargled with mouthwash in an unsuccessful attempt to rid her mouth of the ever-present metallic taste, then dotted concealer under her eyes and on the blemishes that had sprung up. Her hair lacked luster and felt coarse and springy under her fingers. She’d always heard that pregnant women took on a “glow,” but her hormones seemed to have reverted to adolescence. There was no glowing going on here.

Taking a tissue from the counter, she tried yet again to blow her nose clear, but the stuffiness remained. According to
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
, nasal congestion and even occasional nosebleeds were not at all unusual. It seemed completely unfair to Vivien that even her ability to breathe had been impacted. Although she didn’t look blatantly pregnant yet, there was virtually nothing about her that remained as it had once been.

They arrived at the studio a good fifteen minutes before class was scheduled to start. Ruth Melnick was seated at the sign-in table and seemed surprised to see Vivien, as if she’d somehow assumed that she would have already upped and disappeared. Melanie slipped into her office to take care of some paperwork. Spotting Angela Richman at a table near the dance floor, Vivi walked over to join her.

The young redhead once again wore baggy black workout clothes that swamped her body, but her smile of welcome was bright. So was the diamond, probably about three carats’ worth, that sparkled on her finger.

“When’s the wedding?” Vivi asked as she sank into a chair.

“April nineteenth.”

Just a week after Vivi was due to become a mother, this girl would become a wife. “You say that as if it surprises you.”

“Oh, it does,” Angela said, her smile rueful. “I feel like I’m starring in some fairy tale. You know, one minute I’m cleaning out the garret and taking abuse from the ugly stepsisters and the next I’m dancing with the handsome prince at the ball.” She laughed. “Not a bad thing, of course. Just not what I was expecting.”

Vivi thought she’d prefer Angela’s surprises to her own: young and about to be married versus old and about to become a single mother. But there was something in the younger woman’s tone that reminded her of her own amazement each time Stone said he loved her; how hard it was not to come out and ask him, “Why?”

“So he’s not the kind of guy you were used to dating?”

“Hardly,” Angela said, her tone wry. “James is . . . not even in a ballpark I thought I’d ever play in.” Her smile softened. “On the surface we have almost nothing in common. Sometimes I look at him and I just can’t figure out how we ended up together.”

“It’s funny how things work out, isn’t it?” Vivi asked once again, thinking about her own relationship. She and Stone weren’t exactly two peas in a pod. They came from very different backgrounds and upbringings—Stone’s was decidedly midwestern and middle class; she’d pretty much grown up in a modern rendition of
Gone with the Wind
. Yet both of them had focused almost exclusively on their careers, and both of their careers had been built on their compulsion to discover and share the truth.

As always when she thought the words “truth” and “Stone” together, Vivien cringed inside. Her dishonesty was a burden that she carried with her at all times; no matter how many times she told herself she was keeping her pregnancy secret for Stone’s own good, she knew he’d never see it that way.

Pushing the uncomfortable thoughts aside, Vivien turned her gaze to the dance floor where three private lessons and one small group class were in progress, each an island of activity unto itself. Vivien and Angela watched in silence as one obviously advanced couple glided through the intricate steps of a carefully choreographed waltz.

“I love the way they move together,” Angela said as Ruth walked over to join them.

“That’s the Millers,” Ruth said. “Dolly and Bruce. They’ve been married almost as long as Ira and me.”

The Millers danced by, their movements in perfect synch. Ruth turned her head as if she couldn’t bear to watch. “My husband prefers business to dancing. Actually, he prefers business to pretty much everything.”

“Well, he makes the best bagels I’ve tasted outside of New York,” Vivi said in an attempt to change the subject.

“Yes,” Ruth said. But she didn’t look at all happy about it. Or much of anything as far as Vivi could tell.

When they’d gathered at the end of the dance floor, with the injured Shipley sister in a chair near her sister, Melanie stepped into position between Vivien and Ruth. “You all ready to get started?” she asked.

“Some of us may be more ready than others,” Vivi said.

“Why start a class when you’re not planning to stay?” Ruth asked. “What’s the point?”

“The point is I asked her to come, and I think this is the perfect opportunity for Vivi to experience dance,” Melanie said, tying a scarf around her hips and passing one to Vivi. “I’ve never seen her fail at anything once she sets her mind to it. Never.”

Naranya took her place in front of them. The music swelled to fill their end of the studio, and without fanfare she lifted her arms and began the opening stretches she’d shown them last week.

Ruth sniffed as they all clasped their hands together above their heads. “If you’ll excuse me for saying so, ruthlessness isn’t a major asset on a dance floor.”

“And I suppose rudeness is.” Vivien sniffed back.

“No, but determination goes a long way. And Vivi has more of that than anyone I’ve ever met.” Melanie smiled, as always trying to placate as they began their stretches to the side. “You’ve got quite a bit of determination yourself, Ruth. It isn’t automatically a negative characteristic.”

“It is when someone runs right over other people to get what they want.” She stared past Melanie at Vivien, her gaze accusing. Vivien stared back.

They sniped at each other through the remainder of the stretches and most of the isolation exercises, but fell silent to concentrate on the hip lift and drop and after that the controlled pivot of the half-moon.

“Almost right,” Naranya said, demonstrating carefully. “Eet ees a half circle to the front, then the drop. You see? Then a pivot of the hip to the back, and then the drop.” She led them through it over and over in an effort to make the move smooth and continuous.

“This is a lot harder than it looks,” Angela said.

“That’s for sure.” Vivi caught Ruth watching her in the mirror. Mother Melnick’s gaze was far from friendly.

Naranya left them to demonstrate in front of Dee and Sally. Melanie dropped back to work with Lourdes. No longer pretending to practice, Vivi turned to Ruth. Their gazes locked. “I can’t figure out why you dislike me so much. We’ve met, what, three times? People usually need to know me longer, or have been interviewed by me, before they hate me.”

“You want the truth?” Ruth challenged, fisting her hands on her stocky hips.

Vivien nodded.

“I’ve been taking lessons here for a long time. I like your sister. I have a lot of respect for her. I care what happens to her and Shelby and Trip. I’ve watched her trying to get over her husband’s death. It hit her really hard. And she hasn’t really had anybody rallying around her, you know? I mean your parents were upset about the way he died and the whole media hoopla, but now they seem almost glad he’s out of the picture. And nothing personal, but your mother’s not the most touchy-feely person in the world. She’s got the guilt thing going all right, but she doesn’t have the warmth that a Jewish mother usually balances it with.”

Vivien couldn’t argue with that. She nodded in acknowledgment and waited for Ruth to continue.

“When things were the worst, just after J.J. died, I heard Melanie talk about you coming. And it was like she couldn’t wait for you to be there to help her and the kids through. They really needed you.”

Vivien would have liked to look away, but Ruth refused to release her.

“You were gone so fast I’m surprised you didn’t leave skid marks. And she excused you. Said you had to get back to work, that you had some big interview coming up. That you’d be back as soon as you could.”

Vivien drew in a deep breath as the shame spread through her. Ruth’s gaze showed no mercy.

“Only you didn’t come back, did you? Except for a day or two each year over the holidays to drop off presents and pretend like you were family. Now you’re here, but you don’t say why. And I’ve been worrying that you’re going to bail out on her again, but all of a sudden you don’t look like you’re in any hurry to go. Someone not as generous as Melanie would have to ask why. What does she want? How can she have the nerve to show up two years later without an apology or explanation or anything?”

Vivien didn’t respond. There was nothing she could say in her own defense. She had behaved horribly. She’d been frightened by her sister and niece and nephew’s grief. She had cut and run. And she had never made amends.

“You’re not gonna hurt her and the kids again. That’s just not gonna happen on my watch.”

Naranya came back to the front and clapped her hands for everyone’s attention, then signaled them to raise their arms into position.

Ruth Melnick raised her arms. So did Vivien.

“In my world, mothers don’t let other people hurt the people they care about, especially not people they think of as being like their own children. Are we clear?” the woman asked before they stepped apart to make room for Melanie. Ruth Melnick might have been Don Corleone addressing a lesser crime boss. Or a mother lioness protecting a newborn cub.

“Crystal,” Vivien replied.

In the van on the way home, Melanie took her eyes off the road to turn to Vivien. “What was going on between you and Ruth? I thought I was going to have to break something up.”