Cruel as the Grave (4 page)

Harold spoke with fervent thanks for the fact that two members of the family had returned home after a long absence. Something suspiciously like a snort came from the head of the table where Retty sat, but Maggie couldn’t be quite sure. It might have come from her father, seated on Retty’s left.

Once Harold’s prayer ended, Retty rang a small silver bell, and Adrian Worthington appeared through a doorway bearing a platter of fried chicken. As Maggie observed more of her surroundings, she noticed that the elegantly furnished table already held a number of vegetable dishes—corn on the cob, mashed potatoes, two varieties of peas, and lima beans, or “butter beans” as Helena called them when she passed them to Maggie. There were also plates of corn bread, homemade rolls, biscuits, and a boat of thick and creamy white gravy. Maggie, who disliked cooking almost as much as she disliked exercise, felt her taste buds stir in anticipation. She refused to think of the effect on her waistline of a steady diet of such fare. No wonder Helena jogged.

After taking the platter of fried chicken around to everyone and seeing that they all had what they wanted to drink, Adrian seated himself in the vacant chair to Maggie’s left.

Startled by his unexpected movement, Maggie, in the act of reaching for a fluffy, steaming biscuit, upset her water glass and sent liquid cascading all over Adrian’s plate. Mortified, she mopped ineffectually at the mess with her linen napkin, apologizing all the while, as her victim tried to mask his mingled irritation and amusement.

“It’s quite all right,” he told her as he gently took the napkin from her hand. “They do allow me to eat with the family from time to time, and I did have my bath this morning.” He got up and found her a fresh napkin on the sideboard.

Maggie blushed an even deeper red, by now beyond words, because the man had somehow picked up on a stray thought of hers. She risked a quick glance at his face as he took his seat once more and was reassured to see that he was looking friendlier than he sounded. Thankful that she didn’t seem to have offended him, she smiled an apology, which he accepted by an answering smile.

The rest of the meal was agony for Maggie, made nervous by the presence of the very attractive man at her side. All she could think of was how clumsy she must have looked to him, pouring water all over him. She didn’t pause to analyze why she should worry about his perceptions of her. She concentrated instead on eating, handling her cutlery and glasses with great care. There was desultory conversation around her, all on neutral subjects, but she did not take part.

From time to time as she ate, she looked over at Lavinia, who frowned back at her. Maggie felt too intimidated by the woman to attempt any conversation with her, even to demand an explanation for her rudeness. Lavinia did not seem in the least happy to have her and her father as guests.

But, then again, Maggie wondered, were any of them, except Helena, really happy to have her and Gerard at The Magnolias again?

“Well, Gerard,” Retty said in her sharp voice, as if she’d read Maggie’s thoughts, “I suppose Henry will be up to seeing you this afternoon, if you care to look in on him.” She patted her thin lips primly with her napkin, then took another sip of her tea as her mischievous eyes regarded her nephew.

“If he feels up to it,” Gerard replied mildly, “I think both Maggie and I would like to see him. If a man on his deathbed is allowed two visitors at once.” His eyes roved across the table, coming to rest on Helena’s face, which had taken on a decidedly odd look.

“So you thought he was dying?” Lavinia finally spoke. “Is that why you rushed back so quickly, bringing your daughter? So you could still find time to make it into the will?”

Helena hissed in outrage, and even Retty seemed taken aback by such a frontal assault. Maggie wanted to throw something—preferably something hot—into Lavinia’s face, because the venom in her aunt’s voice was like acid thrown in her own.

Gerard laughed. “Lavinia, you always were a first-class bitch. Frankly, if you had mellowed any over the past twenty-five years, I’d have been greatly disappointed.” He raised his glass to her. “Here’s to the woman who has elevated nastiness into a true art form.” He drank deeply from his iced tea.

Appalled by this little exchange, Maggie waited for a further eruption. Lavinia coolly raised her own glass, drank from it, then set it down. She stood and dropped her napkin on her plate, pushed her chair aside, then left the room without saying another word.

Maggie had no appetite left. Her hands trembled in her lap, and she wanted nothing more than to leave this house and go back to the quiet and safety of her home in Houston. No wonder her father had been reluctant to come back to Jackson.

“And she thinks the Culpepers were ever so much more refined than the McLendons,” Retty snorted.

To Maggie’s amazement, that was the only comment offered on Lavinia’s behavior.

Retty continued, scarcely skipping a beat. “Where on earth did you get the fool idea that Henry is on his deathbed, Gerard? The old fart isn’t running any marathons, I’ll grant you, but he’s not doing as bad as all that just yet.”

Gerard smiled grimly. “Now why am I not surprised to hear that?”

Helena squirmed in her chair. Maggie in her turn wasn’t all that surprised to hear that her grandfather’s health wasn’t as precarious as Helena had led them to believe. Helena’s letter had been more than a bit odd, and now she was beginning to understand why.

“Perhaps I did exaggerate the situation just a little in my letter,” Helena admitted.

“What letter?” Retty asked, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I thought you said Gerard called up out of the blue and announced he was coming home for a visit.”

Helena squirmed again. Maggie caught her father’s eye and tried not to laugh. He was enjoying this, to a certain extent. He had probably known all along that his aunt had engineered the whole thing to get him to come home, and now she would have to explain to everyone what she had done. But as Maggie watched him pick up his glass of tea, she saw his hand tremble slightly.

Helena smiled nervously as she cast her eyes around the table, seeking support from someone. All she found was amusement at her discomfiture, except from her sister, who was clearly annoyed.

“Well,” Helena coughed in a deprecating manner. “Henry is certainly not getting any better, and he is almost eighty years old, after all. I just thought it would be nice to have Gerard and Maggie come home, so I... um... exaggerated the situation a bit. I’m sorry,” she finished lamely. Lips pursed, she looked around the table again.

Gerard, along with Retty, looked sternly back at her, while everyone else tried hard not to laugh. Sylvia had to stifle a giggle, and Adrian kept his head turned away. Maggie could see his shoulders trembling from suppressed laughter. After the unpleasant scene with Lavinia, Maggie was glad that Helena managed to provide a bit of comic relief.

“You silly girl!” Retty said at last. “If you couldn’t find something to meddle in, I don’t know what you’d do for entertainment!”

Helena’s head snapped back, and her eyes flashed. “Well, I certainly learned how from the best meddler in the state of Mississippi!”

Adrian’s shoulders were heaving convulsively now, and both Sylvia and Harold had their faces pressed into their napkins. Maggie was tempted to follow suit, the situation having developed so quickly into a farce, but she wanted to see what her father would do.

Gerard shook his head dolefully. “Helena, my dear, they really should lock you away in the closet, or at least give you a good spanking.”

The picture of a physically chastised Helena was too much. They all—except Helena, who was now beet red—broke into unrestrained laughter at his pronouncement.

“A very good idea, Gerard!” Retty proclaimed. “Any volunteers?” She wiped her eyes one last time with her napkin, then stood up. “Whatever the method, it’s still good to have you both home. I’ll go up now and talk to Claudine—that’s Claudine Sprayberry, Gerard—who’s Henry’s nurse, and see if you can visit with him this afternoon.”

Retty marched at a brisk pace out of the dining room, and Maggie marveled once again that the woman could be almost eighty years old. Her face bore the weight of all her years, but her body was that of a woman years younger.

The rest of the company moved slowly out of the dining room and down the hall to the drawing room, except for Adrian Worthington, who remained behind to oversee the clearing of the table by two young black women dressed in dark green uniforms.

They were all still smiling as they seated themselves on the three sofas in the drawing room. Maggie was pleased to see her father amused by the revelation of Helena’s duplicity, but as she watched him she was startled by a strained look in his eyes which his laughter failed to mask. Despite all the amusement engendered by Helena’s forced confession, Gerard still looked worried about something.

Helena chatted with a slightly subdued Gerard, while Harold questioned Maggie about her academic interests. Harold, Maggie was delighted to hear, had been a professor of literature at an eastern state university. Having never married, upon his retirement two years before, he had returned to Jackson to live with his brother and sisters.

While she chatted with Harold, Maggie heard snatches of the conversation between her father and Helena. Evidently, someone named Ernie was coming to visit in the next day or two. She didn’t quite catch what connection Ernie had to the McLendon family, but her father seemed pleased that this Ernie, whoever he was, was coming.

Retty marched into the room with an announcement then, and both conversations ceased.

“Henry’s finished his lunch now, and he said he’d like to see you both. Come along.” She marched back out of the room without giving either Gerard or Maggie a chance to offer any response to the abrupt summons. Hastily they got to their feet to follow her, Gerard a few steps ahead of his daughter. His face had become suddenly and completely remote, and Maggie made no attempt to talk to him as they followed Retty.

Surely now she would learn something about why her father and her grandfather hadn’t spoken to each other in twenty-five years.

Chapter Three

At the head of the stairs, Retty turned to the right and strode at a brisk pace down the hall, stopping after she had passed three or four doors. Maggie had meant to try to keep count of them, but Retty’s hectic pace and her own chaotic thoughts defeated her intention. What on earth was she supposed to say to the grandfather she’d never met?

Retty rapped smartly on the door before opening it. She motioned Maggie and Gerard in behind her. Just inside the door they were met by a slim, poised figure in a white uniform. The nurse moved forward to shake Gerard’s hand, but at the same moment Maggie stepped from behind her father and startled the woman.

The nurse looked fully into Maggie’s apologetic eyes. The woman blanched, and she took an involuntary step backwards. Color bled slowly back into her face as she made a visible effort to tear her eyes away from Maggie’s face.

After having met her great-aunt Lavinia, Maggie was beginning to understand why people reacted so strongly at the sight of her. But that didn’t make it any more pleasant, or make her feel any more welcome.

Gerard reached out a steadying hand. “Claudine,” he said warmly, “I can’t really believe it’s you—grown up after all these years!”

Claudine Sprayberry, Retty had said her name was, Maggie remembered. Here was, yet again, another person from her father’s past. What was her connection to the family, besides being Hemy McLendon’s nurse?

From what Maggie could see in the rather dim light of this part of the room, Claudine was hovering around forty, two or three years either way. Her body, shapely in the crisp nurse’s uniform, looked younger, but there was a suggestion of hardness about the full lips and icy blue eyes that made Maggie settle on forty as highly probable. Thick, brownish-red hair coiled around her head. Slightly put off by the woman’s reaction to her, Maggie scolded herself mentally for her bitchy assessment of the woman’s looks. Just try to relax a bit, she thought. They’re all probably as much on edge as you are.

Though the top of her head barely reached his shoulder blades, Claudine reached out and pulled Gerard down for a quick peck on the cheek. “It’s good to see you again, too,” she responded, her voice light. “But I do feel the tiniest bit old seeing this young lady here with you. I can still remember the time you came home to tell everyone about her!”

This made Retty and Gerard tense up, and Maggie could feel her father’s unease almost palpably in the room with them. What on earth happened in this house twenty-five years ago? she wondered yet again.

Claudine gave a faint smile, then continued, “Well, time enough for chatting about old times later. Someone wants to see you.” She turned toward the center of the room and nodded her head.

For the first time, Maggie was more aware of her surroundings. She and Retty stood in a corner of the room, just inside the door. The room seemed large, though perhaps the lack of furniture—save a king-sized bed, a bedside table, and a couple of chairs—lent the impression of space. The lighting was dim, the curtains pulled against the glare of the early afternoon sun, and the color scheme did nothing to lessen the gloomy feeling. Everything seemed to be some combination of gray and mauve—a tribute, Maggie learned later, to the school colors of her grandfather’s college, Mississippi State University. At the moment she found the whole scene rather unsettling.

A thin, frail figure dominated the bed. His skin was deathly white against the mauve of the bedspread, but Henry McLendon lay there with fires banked, waiting impatiently for them to approach. Quietly, both Maggie and Gerard moved forward to stand by the side of the bed. With a shock, Maggie found the outlines of her father’s face carved into the hideously old contours of her grandfather’s visage, and the image frightened her. What had once been the fullness of flesh had shrunk away to reveal the uncompromising sharpness of the bones beneath, and Henry McLendon’s face was now nothing but planes and angles. Yet from this physical wreck burned a fierce energy; she could see it in his eyes. Henry McLendon had not yet made up his mind to die, and that was enough for now.