Magnolia Wednesdays (18 page)

Vivien opened her eyes and forced herself to look into the officer’s face, which bore an almost even mixture of irritation and amusement. She sensed he could hardly wait to radio this one in.

“So how do I get some gas?” Vivien had no idea whether Melanie belonged to AAA or any kind of road service, not that she was going to interrupt a doctor’s appointment to ask. It was possible if she just sat here long enough Melanie would drive by at some point and rescue her. But, of course, she wasn’t wearing clothes. And she didn’t think Officer McFarland was going to let her abandon her vehicle here. Or offer her a ride home.

“Well, typically you go to a gas station and buy some. Preferably before the tank is bone-dry,” he said. “There’s one over on the opposite corner.” He pointed toward the far end of the strip center where she could see part of a towering sign and the large shadow it cast over the street. “I’m sure they’ll have some sort of container. If you make it quick, I can wait here with the car.”

“But I’m not . . . dressed,” she said pulling the lapels of her robe closer together and wishing she’d at least put on underclothes beneath the knee-length terry cloth.

“I know.” His voice and expression confirmed that amusement had clearly won out over irritation. At least he didn’t laugh.

Vivien reached across the seat for her purse and waited for him to step back so that she could open her door. They considered each other there on the side of the road as drivers slowed ever so slightly to check out the policeman talking to the woman in the powder blue cowboy robe. She wondered if this could be considered police brutality.

“But you do have your purse with you.”

He bit back a smile as she turned and marched away from him, holding her purse up against her robe in an effort to keep it closed, her slippers slapping against the pavement.

18

I
T WAS THE Wednesday night before Thanksgiving and the Magnolia Ballroom felt decidedly . . . empty. The other classes were on hiatus until after the holiday and only Ruth, Angela, and the uninjured Shipley sister had shown up for belly dance.

“The holidays are tough,” Melanie said to Vivien as they entered to an unnatural quiet that made the space seem even larger than usual. “People are out of town or they’re just too busy. I can’t really afford to shut down, but we’re not likely to add new students now no matter how many specials I offer.”

It was the first time Melanie had even alluded to finances; Vivi had assumed J.J.’s insurance had been sufficient, but she realized now she had no idea how much Mel and the kids needed to live or whether she made enough from the studio to come out in the black.

They tied the jangly scarves around their hips and formed a very small line in their usual spot.

“I saw Just Peachy this morning,” Ruth said as Vivien stepped into line. “At least now we know why you haven’t rushed back to New York.”

Tweedle Di looked at her more closely, “I thought that was you! I told Dee you were the one who got shot in the butt, but she didn’t believe me!”

“I saw eet on YouTube,” Naranya said. “Oh, my goodness, it looked like it hurt very bad.”

Vivien sighed, but didn’t comment. Between Matt Glazer’s attack and what she’d come to think of as her “semi-naked gas dash” it had been quite a week. At least no one had shot a video of her in Trip’s bathrobe; at least not that she knew of.

Angela shot her a sympathetic look. “That was a really nasty piece. He usually fawns all over anyone with a ‘name.’ He once referred to James’s dad as one of the ATL’s most treasured resources.”

“Vivien probably pissed him off,” Ruth observed as they fell into the beginning stretch routine. “She probably looked down her nose at him and gave him the mistress of the plantation routine.”

Melanie, the traitor, giggled.

Vivien drew a deep breath and turned her gaze, pointedly, to Naranya, willing her to begin. She sincerely hoped her parents had been too busy to read today’s newspaper. But given the way her luck was running, what were the chances of that?

By the next morning Vivien had to concede those chances were slim. It seemed everyone who had ever met Melanie had driven by the stalled Toyota, then felt compelled to call and find out who the pajama-clad driver was. Vivien vowed to never leave the house again unless she was fully clothed and at least partially made-up. A vow that would be much easier to keep if she had any clothes that still fit.

Her black pants were now held together by a large safety pin, and the black camisole, which had been stretched well beyond its limits, was not completely hidden by the black striped shirt she’d put on over it—probably because it no longer came close to buttoning. A look in the mirror confirmed what she already knew: her waist no longer existed and her rear end needed its own zip code. The only good thing about her now gargantuan breasts was that they blocked her view of her swelling stomach.

Despite her dismay, her nose, which in her pregnant state would have done a bloodhound proud, detected a mouthwatering smell. She sniffed again, recognizing the flaky crust and rich warm spice of a freshly baked pumpkin pie. Vivien followed the scent downstairs intent on filling her now-rumbling stomach even though she’d sworn never to eat again. Just as she did after every calorie-laden meal.

At the kitchen counter Vivien came to “point” in front of four cooling pies, two pumpkin and two pecan. Melanie had started baking as soon as they got back from class last night and had still been at it when Vivien went to bed. Tins Vivien knew were full of spiced and sugared pecans, decorated sugar cookies, and fudge and rum balls sat stacked and ready to take to Magnolia Hall for today’s Thanksgiving meal.

“Do you need help?” Vivien felt compelled to ask, though eating, not baking, was foremost in her mind.

“Not really,” Melanie said clearly surprised at Vivien’s offer. “All I have left to make is the sweet potato casserole.” Already dressed and ready for the day, she smiled and said, “Don’t you just love Thanksgiving?”

“Apparently not as much as you do,” Vivien replied as she began opening tins and sampling the wares. What she did love was that Trip and Shelby were still asleep, which meant she hadn’t had to wake up or drive anyone anywhere. The house was quiet and there was no rush. The only place they had to get to today was Magnolia Hall.

For so many years Thanksgiving for Vivien had been about booking flights, flying down, staying long enough to put in an appearance, but not long enough for Caroline to really get to her. Stone usually went home, too, but they’d always come back to the city in time to have a couple of days together before going back to work. Up till now, Thanksgiving in Atlanta had been something she did because she was expected to and she could hardly wait to get home to her “real life.” But now this was home. And she had no other life to get back to. This was not a cheering thought.

“Hey, stop that.” Melanie removed the tin of fudge from Vivien’s hands and snapped the lid back on. “We’re going to have a feast in about two hours. You know, roast turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce?”

“I just need a little something to tide me over.”

Melanie shot her an assessing look but nonetheless reached under the counter and pulled out a small tin. From it she selected an assortment of misshapen pieces of fudge, broken cookies, and a large handful of sugared pecans, which she arranged on a small paper plate for Vivien.

Slipping a pecan into her mouth, she savored the sugar as it dissolved slowly on her tongue, then began to work her way through the plate of sweets while Melanie poured the sweet potato mixture into a greased casserole pan. Vivi had sent a case of wine to her parents as her contribution to the meal. She tried not to think about the fact that she wouldn’t get to drink any of it. It was one of the great ironies of pregnancy that things that had only seemed mildly interesting when she could have them whenever she felt like it had become incredibly tempting now that she could not.

The oven beeped to signal it had reached the correct temperature, and Melanie slid the casserole dish in and set the timer. “Tea?”

“Thanks,” Vivien said as she watched her sister puttering happily in her kitchen. Since she was contemplating irony, she noted that so many of the things Vivi considered “chores” seemed just the opposite to Melanie.

After her first sip of tea, which she sincerely wished were highly caffeinated coffee, Vivien asked, “So what does Clay Alexander do for Thanksgiving?”

Melanie opened the oven door to peek at her casserole. Apparently satisfied, she carried her cup of tea back to the counter. “Clay goes to his mother in Asheville for the holiday. They’re very close; his dad left when he was a toddler and she raised him by herself.” She cocked her head to one side to consider Vivien. “Why?”

Vivien kept her tone casual. “Oh, I don’t know. He just seems so much a part of the family I wondered . . .” She let her voice trail off as she sometimes did in an interview to camouflage the importance of the question.

Melanie shrugged. “He and J.J. were so close it just seems natural to have him around,” she said. “I mean in some ways he probably knew J.J. even better than I did.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, they were already friends when I met them during my freshman year at Georgia. You’d already left for your senior year abroad then, remember? They were fraternity brothers and really tight. They both pretty much lived and breathed politics. Just like at home only from the other side of the fence. Clay ran J.J.’s campaign for student body president.”

Vivien thought back, trying to pinpoint when she’d first become aware of Clay Alexander. “But he wasn’t at your wedding. I don’t remember meeting him until Shelby’s christening, when you named him and me her godparents.” Vivien felt a quick stab of guilt as she realized how little time and thought she’d given to the honorary position. Could Clay’s presence now be a simple matter of Clay taking this obligation seriously when she, who was Shelby’s blood relative, hadn’t?

“They had some big falling-out in the middle of their senior year,” Melanie said, taking another sip of tea. “Clay dropped out of Sigma Sigma over it and he just sort of disappeared from our lives. He was still on campus; I’d spot him occasionally at the student union or at some activity or other. But they didn’t speak, and J.J. never would talk about it.”

“And then one day he was back?” Vivi asked, making a mental note to find out what had happened between the two men at UGA.

“In a way. When J.J. decided to run for his first local office, you remember he ran for a seat on the county commission, he said there was no way he could get where he was planning to go without the right campaign manager. Clay had already run a couple of campaigns in the Asheville area by then, and J.J. went there and hired him away. That was almost eighteen years ago.”

“So J.J. never talked about what had happened between them? Even after Clay moved here to work with J.J.?”

Melanie laughed. “It just wasn’t that big a thing, Vivi. They had a falling-out in college. They made up. And Clay’s been a good friend to all of us ever since. End of story.”

Vivi’s gut, and her years of investigative experience, rejected Melanie’s too-easy explanation. Human relationships were never that uncomplicated. “So, what’s his current story? Is he divorced? Does he have kids?”

Melanie shot her a look of amusement. “Are you looking to be fixed up? Maybe I should warn Stone that he’s got competition.”

“I don’t think I’m the one Clay Alexander is interested in,” Vivi said, eager to test Melanie’s reaction.

Melanie blushed, but Vivi wasn’t certain it was with pleasure. She looked down into her mug and then back up at Vivien. “He’s just a friend, Vivien, one of my oldest friends. And I, for one, appreciate that friendship.”

“Fine. Just answer the question. Was he married? Does he date? I’m just trying to get a sense of things.” Trying to keep the questioning casual, Vivien got up to put more water to boil. “More?” She pointed to Melanie’s mug and, at her nod, emptied what remained in the sink.

“Clay was married briefly after college. He was in the process of getting divorced when he moved here to work with J.J. He doesn’t have any kids, which is really a shame because family is huge to him. I think he’d make a great father.”

“Any idea why his marriage ended?”

“Not really,” Melanie said.

Vivien continued her tea preparation.

“As to dating,” Melanie continued, “I’ve never seen him at a political function or fund-raiser or even a dinner party without a good-looking woman on his arm. There’ve always been women, but no one he ever got really serious about. Every once in a while he’d start seeing someone who really seemed perfect for him, and they’d last for a time. But then the woman would be looking for a commitment, you know. And he just never seemed to be able to do that. I think there must have been someone he never got over . . .”

Vivien looked closely at Melanie to see if she noticed how odd that sounded. “So he’s over forty now and has never been in a serious relationship since his divorce seventeen-eighteen years ago?”

“Why do you have that weird look on your face?” Melanie asked. “Maybe he just never met the right woman.” She shrugged. “You’re forty-one and you’ve never been married. What difference does it make?”

“No difference,” Vivien said. “I’m just curious as usual.” She smiled then and changed the subject, but she was even more certain now that something about Clay Alexander simply didn’t add up. And more determined than ever to search J.J.’s office for some clue as to why.

EVANGELINE MET THEM on the porch of Magnolia Hall in what might have been a historically correct copy of a Civil War-era house slave’s uniform. The gray homespun dress, with its white Peter Pan collar, nipped in at the waist and fell to Evangeline’s trim ankles. A white lawn apron was pinned at the shoulders and tied around her waist. A white cotton turban hid her Buckhead salon haircut. She wore black leather dance shoes like the kind Melanie sold at her studio. She was in top reenactment form.

“Oh, Lawsy!” she proclaimed as she kissed and hugged Shelby and Trip with all her might then prepared to do the same to Vivien and Melanie. “Y’all do look fine!”

“Amen, sister,” Vivien said as the housekeeper enveloped her in a rib-crunching hug that almost dislodged the tins of goodies in her arms. She flashed Evangeline a smile and a wink, but Evangeline returned neither as she stared at Vivien’s bust and bump. A worried look spread over her face. “Oh, Lordy,” she said more quietly. “I thought maybe I was imagining things, but you sure enough have a bun in your—”