Forbidden Son (8 page)

She
shook her head in shocked disbelief. She lashed out. Before her hand found its
target, he grabbed her wrist.

“I
am not naïve enough to believe you and my son haven’t cohabitated.” He pointed
a long slender finger toward Honey Belle. “Heed my warning, young woman, and
heed it well. If there is a seed growing inside you, make certain my son never
knows about it. Take care of it—quietly.” He arched an eyebrow. “Surely you are
smart enough to discern my meaning.”

Feeling
the edges of her temper growing dangerously frayed, she refrained from pressing
her hands against her abdomen. Getting pregnant had never entered her mind. She
should have listened to Carla—should have used the condom the girl had offered.
Should have asked Tripp to use protection. She forced back the groan building
in her throat.

“Your
meaning is quite clear, Judge Hartwell.”

“Good.
Then we are in agreement that you are not worthy of my son?”

“No,
we are not in agreement.” She forced the quiver from her voice. “What you’re
doing is wrong.
You’re
the one not worthy of your son.”

Hartwell’s
face looked so stricken she was afraid he might strike her. “I assure you it
isn’t my character flaws that will concern my son, not when he sees the
pictures. Not when he learns you’ve duped him. He’ll know you for the
bloodsucking opportunist your really are.”

He
shoved the envelope containing the check toward her. Honey Belle thought she’d
outsmart the despicable elder Hartwell. She waved the envelope in the air.
“What bank in Charleston will cash a check for this amount of money, and
especially for someone who doesn’t have a checking account?”

“Ah,
my dear, I thought you smarter than this. Haven’t you figured out by now I know
everything about you? At best, the funds are meager. However, we both know you
have a checking account. Alas, you are correct. The bank might question whether
or not the check is forged if you try to draw funds from it.”

He
scratched his chin as if contemplating. “Reaching into his coat pocket, he
withdrew a monogrammed gold clip with more money than Honey Belle had ever seen
in her lifetime. He peeled off several bills and stuffed them inside the
envelope. “Five hundred dollars, Miss Garrett...enough to buy you and your
parents passage far, far away from South Carolina, and a check for ten thousand
as payment for your promise to never, for the rest of your lifetime, contact my
son.”

A
nasty grin twisted his face. “I’m a man of my word, young woman. I have eyes
and ears everywhere. Don’t think to cross me.”

He
pressed a button, and the uniformed driver opened the limousine’s door. Honey
Belle had barely stepped out when the door slammed and the sleek black car
roared away, leaving her standing with a white envelope in her hand and a
crushing pain in her heart.

Chapter
Eleven

Wrapping
her arms around her waist, Honey Belle watched the black car bounce down the
dirt road, trying to avoid the potholes.

As
she trudged back to the house, her entire body trembled as much from fright as
from anger. So Tripp’s father had hired a detective to find her. She should
have known all good things really do come to an end.

Stuffing
the cash and the white envelope containing the check inside the pocket of her
peddle-pushers, she lifted a hand against the white heat of August. Her mother
stood on the porch stoop. “Who was in that fancy car, and why were you sittin’
in it?”

Fighting
the bleakness threatening to consume her, Honey Belle said, “Let’s go inside,
Mama.”

She
walked to the kitchen, filled two glasses with ice cubes, then added sweet tea
and handed one to her mother. Her insides churned with worry. Pushing her own
glass aside, she crossed her arms on the table, lowered her head, and buried
her face, setting free the soul-wracking tears she’d forced back during her
confrontation with Tripp’s father.

Her
mother’s tender touches were rare. Honey Belle cherished the gentle pats to her
shoulder. “It cain’t be all that bad, can it?”

“Oh,
but it is, Mama... It really is worse than you can ever imagine.” Honey Belle
told her about the photographs and how Judge Hartwell had threatened to send
them to Tripp. Between sobs, she said, “The Judge said if we don’t leave South
Carolina our life will be worse off than it all ready is. He wants us gone
tomorrow.”

Her
mother kept a deceptively straight face while she listened to Honey Belle
relate all Judge Hartwell had said. Before she opened her mouth, Honey Belle
pleaded, “Please, Mama, don’t say ‘I told you so.’”

Delilah
Garrett raked boney hands through her sweat-drenched hair. “Tomorrow.
How...where are we supposed to get the money?”

“He
gave me five hundred dollars.” She pulled the cash from her pocket and laid it
on the table. A little voice inside her head cautioned to not mention the
check.

“Whew,
Honey Belle, I ain’t never in the whole of my life seen that much money at one
time.”

“What
should we do, Mama? Where will we go?”

She
harrumphed. “Ain’t nothing holdin’ us here. Your daddy cain’t work no more, and
my health ain’t good.” She tapped fingers against her temple as if thinking of
a plan. “We’ll go to my sister’s.”

“Do
you think the truck will make it all the way to Georgia?”

“That
old truck don’t have too many more miles left in it. Bubba offered me fifty
dollars for it. While I stay here and pack, you drive to the bus station and
buy the tickets. In the morning, we’ll pick Bubba up on the way to the depot.
He’ll have himself a truck and I’ll have money to buy your daddy a new canister
of oxygen. ’Sides, riding in an air-conditioned bus with reclining seats will
be a lot easier on him than the three of us crowded into the front seat of a
hot truck.”

“Shouldn’t
we call Aunt Tess? Since the two of you haven’t spoken for a few years, she
might take exception to us showing up on her doorstep unannounced.”

“Don’t
matter,” her mother offered. “Tess won’t turn away family.”

“I
can’t believe this is happening, Mama. It’s like a bad dream.”

“Then
you’d better wake up and get on about the business of buying those bus
tickets.”

As
Honey Belle drove, she mentally compared the lives of her mother and her aunt.
The two sisters were as different as night and day. Delilah had run away at
fourteen, married at fifteen, birthed a child at sixteen, and generally made a
mess of her life.

The
obligatory Christmas card once a year with a short note inquiring about the
family’s health was the sum total of what Honey Belle knew about her aunt.

Once,
in a rare reminiscent mood, her mother had dug out an old picture album and
talked about her sister. Tess, five years older, had never married, attended
nursing school, and lived in a fine antebellum home in Valdosta, Georgia.

Honey
Belle had watched Delilah trace a finger over the image of a woman dressed in a
nurse’s uniform. Even now she recalled her mother’s words. “Tess is a little on
the hoity-toity side, but if push ever came to shove, blood is still thicker
than water.”

At
the bus station, no parking places were available. Honey Belle circled the
block. The day had grown hotter, and she didn’t feel much like walking. She
drove around the block until she spotted a car leaving the depot. Honey Belle
claimed the parking space.

Before
purchasing the tickets, she used the pay phone to call her aunt, pouring out
all the details of her predicament. Tess listened, giving only an occasional
comment to let her niece know she was listening.

Honey
Belle twisted and untwisted the telephone cord around her fingers while she
waited for her aunt’s decision. She feared the worst when silence filled her
ear. “Aunt Tess, are you there?”

A
heavy sigh echoed through the line. “That’s quite a mess you’ve gotten yourself
into, Honey Belle.”

“I’m
sorry, Aunt Tess. I’ll understand if you say no.”

Silence.

“Aunt
Tess, are you there?”

“It’s
my house, Honey Belle. There’ll be rules to follow, and that includes your mama
and daddy, too. Church on Sunday, and no smoking or drinking.”

Honey
Belle’s knees buckled with relief. She leaned against the glass pane in the
phone booth to keep from collapsing. “Thank you, Aunt Tess. I promise we’ll
only stay until we can find a place of our own.”

“You’ve
just said your daddy is dying and you’re worried about your mama’s health. My
sister always was bullheaded. We’ll get her to a doctor. In the meantime, don’t
worry about finding a rental house. There are times when this old mausoleum I
live in gets a little lonely.”

“Mama
will be pleased when I tell her.”

“Call
me when you get to the bus station. I’ll come get y’all.”

Honey
Belle purchased three bus tickets to Valdosta, Georgia. For a moment she felt
like a child off on a big expedition, unafraid, seeking adventure. Then she
thought of Judge Hartwell. She no longer felt childlike.

****

Three
suitcases sat in the middle of the living room floor. The sum total of their
lives stuffed into three suitcases. Honey Belle pulled out a chair and joined
her parents at the kitchen table.

Breakfast
was strained. The scrambled eggs turned cold, the toast dried, and the coffee
was bitter. No one seemed to notice.

Confusion,
anger and disappointment gnawed at Honey Belle. There was no denying that never
seeing Tripp again left an aching emptiness in her heart.

Delilah
Garrett broke the silence. “What’s the matter, daughter?”

Visibly
startled by her mother’s voice, Honey Belle’s gaze flashed to her. “I don’t
know...everything.”

Surprisingly,
her mother had an answer for both. “I guess it’s come as a shock to you,
knowing I was right about that boy never marrying you. Once we get settled at
my sister’s, you’ll forget all about him.”

Honey
Belle felt as if her blood pressure had risen several notches above normal.

“Delilah,”
Jack Garrett wheezed, “you’re always pickin’. Pick...pick...pick. For once,
leave Honey Belle alone.” Honey Belle rose from her chair and gathered the
plates.

A
touch of sarcasm crept into Delilah’s voice. “Dump the scraps out the back
door. Let the neighborhood cats feast. And never mind about washing the dishes.
Old man Ellerby never done us no favors. He can pay someone to clean this
dump.”

It
was time to go. Time to say goodbye to the only home Honey Belle had ever
known. She’d had the same bed, the same quilt, the same pictures on the wall,
for as long as she could remember.

She
managed to smile. It was hard to smile when she knew she’d never see Tripp
again. She wouldn’t let herself think about him. She closed her eyes and
breathed deep, fighting the sting behind her eyelids as tears threatened to
push through. She couldn’t cry.

“Come
on, Daddy. Let me help you to the truck.”

He
touched her arm and smiled in a way that said he understood the depth of her
emotions.

Chapter
Twelve

Change
was in the air. August drifted into September. Indian summer set in. A week
after Honey Belle’s hasty departure from South Carolina, Tripp’s plane touched
down at Charleston’s airport.

A
white-hot need rose like an electrical storm inside the apex of Tripp’s groin.
It didn’t matter that he was the son of a prominent judge with influential
friends and important political connections. Tripp was anxious to hold the
woman he loved in his arms. A week away from Honey Belle seemed like an
eternity.

While
in Massachusetts, the thought occurred to him that he didn’t know her phone
number.

Eager
to talk to her, he’d dialed information. The operator said, “What city are you
calling?”

“Charleston,
South Carolina, a listing for Garret at 1423 Barrington Street.”

“One
moment please.”

Tripp
had pen and paper ready to scribble down the phone number.

“I’m
sorry, sir. There is no listing for a Garrett at that address.”

“Are
you sure?” What about—” He’d never asked Honey Belle the names of her mother or
father. “Never mind, Operator.”

He
thought it odd that an upper middle class family had no phone listing. He knew
her father was very ill. The idea of Honey Belle not having a telephone
bothered him. He wondered what she’d do in case she had to contact the doctor
or call for an ambulance. Doubt crept in. He’d shoved the thought aside. After
all, some folks preferred private telephone numbers. His family did.

Tomorrow,
he’d take her shopping for an engagement ring. Depending on his mother’s state
of mind, he’d ask her to plan an intimate dinner party for Honey Belle and her
parents. Then he’d formally ask permission for her hand in marriage.

Tripp
knew the Judge would object to his marrying before graduating from law school.
He’d cross that bridge when the subject presented itself.

Tonight,
Tripp planned to drive Honey Belle to their favorite place on the beach, drink
champagne and make wild passionate love to her. He’d tell her about the
furnished cottage he’d rented within walking distance of the university, and
the beauty of the changing leaves. He hoped she had a warm coat for the cold Massachusetts
winters. It didn’t matter. He’d buy her a new one.

As
he rode the elevator up to the airport’s VIP parking garage, he envisioned
Honey Belle’s velvety lavender eyes glittering with tears of happiness,
throwing her arms around his neck and showering him with hot, moist kisses.

He
presented the claim ticket to the parking valet, and eagerly waited while the
attendant returned with the BMW.

Speeding
down Route One, his first stop was at a florist shop, where he purchased a
dozen long-stemmed red roses.

Fighting
cross-town traffic, an hour later he parked in front of Honey Belle’s house. He
smoothed his windblown hair, gathered the box of roses in his arms, calmed his
pattering heart and, with a jaunty step, strode up the sidewalk.

Standing
on the porch, he again ran a hand over his hair to smooth down the wind-blown
wispy ends. He rang the doorbell and waited.

“Yes,
may I help you?”

He
stared at the elderly woman standing behind the screened door. Surely this
wasn’t Honey Belle’s mother. Though she rarely spoke of her mother and had
never described her, Tripp tried to hide some of his dismay. Perhaps this
woman, with hair the color of snow, was possibly the grandmother.

His
cleared his throat. “Is Honey Belle home?”

“I’m
sorry. No one by that name lives here.”

“Are
you sure?” Tripp felt almost as inadequate as the question he ask.

“Young
man, seventy years ago, I was born in this house. Fifty years ago, my husband
and I were wedded in the back yard. I would certainly know who lives in my
house, and I assure you the only Honey Belle I’m familiar with is the
tangerine.”

Tripp
shifted the box of roses from one arm to the other. “Forgive me, ma’am. I don’t
mean to be insistent. You see, for the past two months I’ve dated a young woman
named Honey Belle Garrett. I picked her up at this address and brought her back
home to this address.”

“Oh,
that young woman, the one who stood under the elm tree?”

He
glanced off in the direction of the tree, trying to make sense of the woman’s
words. “Yes, ma’am. She said she lived here, in this house.”

“You
seem like an honest young man. What is your name?”

“Tripp
Hartwell.”

“I
knew a T. Harlan Hartwell. He handled the legal affairs for my late husband.
Might you be related?”

A
mixture of impatience and irritated confusion consumed Tripp. He wanted to find
out about Honey Belle, not discuss his father. “Possibly my father. He’s a
judge now.”

Her
eyes widened with discernment. “I declare. Isn’t this a fine howdy-do? Meeting
Harlan’s son. My-my.”

“Ma’am,
my girlfriend said her father suffered from a serious heart condition. Maybe
she was afraid our dating might upset him, and decided to meet me here instead
of at her house.” Tripp glanced over his shoulder at the neatly trimmed yards
bursting with colorful azaleas. “Do you know which house belongs to the
Garretts?”

As
if trusting Tripp, the elderly woman opened the screened door and stepped onto
the veranda. “Do you know the history of Barrington Street, young Mr.
Hartwell?”

In
some ways the woman reminded him of his mother: hair neatly coiffed, a single
strand of pearls around her neck, the blue floral dress with a white circular
collar seeming out of place for a casual day at home.

To
hide his growing impatience, Tripp placed his free hand inside a pants pocket
and fiddled with the loose change. “I’m afraid I must plead ignorance, ma’am.”

She
swept her hand toward the porch swing at the end of the veranda. “Shall we
sit?”

Tripp
inwardly groaned. “Ma’am, I’d like to—”

The
woman offered him a crinkled smile and walked to the swing. She patted the
seat. “Of course you’d like to hear. It’s warm outside. Shall I call for the
maid to pour us some lemonade?”

He
reminded himself a southern gentleman didn’t hurt old ladies’ feelings. In a
rush he sat beside her, refusing the refreshment. “Another time, ma’am. I’m
recently home from registering at Harvard. My parents are expecting me. I
wouldn’t want to worry my mother.”

“Well,
then, I’ll give you the shortened version. You see, the homes on Barrington
Street managed to survive the ravages of the Civil War. Most who live here are
descendants of those who fought and died with the great southern generals.
Folks on Barrington Street have known each other since we were children. The
Garden Club ladies work diligently to preserve the charm and dignity that has
survived for over a hundred years.”

Tripp’s
fingers worried the red bow adorning the flower carton. He had a bad feeling.
“What about the Garretts?”

She
touched his arm. “I’m sorry to say, as long as I’ve lived here I’ve never known
of any Garretts.”

Tripp
felt like laughing and cursing at the same time. “I don’t understand. Why would
Honey Belle lie to me?”

The
elderly woman turned a sympathetic smile toward him. “Your mother is Mary Alice
Hartwell, is she not?”

“Yes.
You know her?”

“Not
directly. Like myself, your mother is from a long line of South Carolinian
bluebloods.” A laugh escaped her. “That sounded perfectly snobbish, didn’t it?”

Tripp
responded with a lift of an eyebrow. “What does this have to do with my girl
friend?”

“Does
this young woman fully understand who you are?”

“I’m
not certain I follow you.”

“Of
course you do, young Mr. Hartwell. You’ve been raised in the South. Even in
this modern day and time, family name and accomplishments are often the most
important considerations in marriage. In some cases, they are the only
consideration.”

Some
bright gold leaves fluttered and fell to the ground, indicating the approach of
Indian summer. Tripp’s heart fluttered and felt as if it were falling, too. “A
person should be judged on their merits, not which side of the fence they were
born on.”

“If
your young lady preferred to stand under the elm tree until you arrived, never
introduced you to her parents, used my house as her decoy, and never invited
you to sit on the porch swing to do a little sparking...” She drew a deep
breath as if allowing Tripp to absorb her words.

Tripp’s
throat tightened, his stomach clenched. “Honey Belle didn’t have to lie. She
could have trusted our love. Trusted me.”

The
woman said nothing else right away. After a few moments, she comforted, “As
idealistic as it sounds, the affairs of the heart are never easy, young Mr.
Hartwell.” She rose from the swing. “If you’ll excuse me, I don’t tolerate the
heat as well as I did when I was young.”

Tripp
stood, too. “Thank you for your time, ma’am.”

He
walked down the steps toward the convertible, his thoughts troubled more than
he could admit. He pulled the car door open and got in, tossing the box of
roses to the back seat.

****

Tripp
needed answers. Why had Honey Belle misled him?

Thirty
minutes later he pulled into the Burger Bin’s parking lot. This time he didn’t
bother with his wind-mussed hair.

The
blast of cold air from the restaurant’s interior sent a momentary chill through
his sweat-soaked shirt. He removed his sunglasses. Carla stood behind the
counter.

“Well,
as I live and breathe, if it isn’t the college boy returned home. What can I
getcha?”

“I
need to speak to Honey Belle.”

With
a shrug of her shoulders, Carla offered a whimsical smile. “Don’t we all? The
day after you left, she called in saying her mama was sick. H.B. came in ’bout
an hour later to pick up an order of chicken fingers and fries. Haven’t seen
hide nor hair of her since.”

“Why
do you call her H.B.?”

“Guess
you didn’t know Honey Belle hated her name. Said ‘Honey’ sounded cheap, and
‘Belle’ sounded old. ’Round here, we all called her H.B.”

“Can
you take a break, Carla? I’m confused as hell.”

Without
hesitation, the stout waitress called over her shoulder, “Leanne, take the
counter. I’m gonna have a smoke.” She looked at Tripp. “Want a cola?” Without
waiting for an answer, she filled two cups with ice and cola, then walked
around the counter. She indicated with a nod. “We’ll sit in the booth by the
window.”

Tripp
followed the girl and slid in opposite her. After a healthy swallow of the cold
drink, he set the cup aside, then explained about driving to the house on
Barrington Street.

“I
don’t understand why she lied, Carla.”

The
waitress chided Tripp. “For a college boy, you ain’t as smart as I thought you
were.” She giggled. “Uh-oh, by the expression on your face, I’ve upset you.
Sorry.”

Heat
grew under Tripp’s collar. Heat that had nothing to do with the weather. He
worked to squelch the insults forming deep in his throat. “Maybe you’d better
enlighten me.”

“Okay.
First, didn’t you ever put two and two together about H.B. driving a
twenty-year-old beat-up truck? And second, did you ever ask yourself why a girl
who was supposed to live in a fancy neighborhood was flippin’ hamburgers in a
joint like this?”

He
opened his mouth to speak. Carla held up her hand. She placed her lips around
the straw and drew deeply. “I told her sooner or later you’d find out. Now that
you have, how does it feel to be made a fool of?”

He
swallowed against the pressure squeezing his chest. Blood pounded in his
temples.

He
shrugged his shoulders, dismissing Carla’s snide remark. “I tried to call Honey
Belle from Massachusetts. There was no listing.”

“Nah,
they don’t have a phone; always had to use a neighbor’s.”

“Maybe
she had to put her father in the hospital. You said her mother called in sick.
Maybe she’s in the hospital, too.” He reached across the table and clasped
Carla’s hand. “Look, I don’t care where Honey Belle lives. Give me the address
and I’ll drive out to check on her.”

Carla
withdrew her hand from his. “The reason H.B. never wanted you to know where she
lived is because it’s in the worst section of all Charleston. You ever heard of
Shanty Groves?”

“No,
I haven’t.”

“It’s
not a safe place for rich folks in fancy cars. Besides, I drove out to check on
her. She ain’t there. Neighbor said they were gone. Loaded up the truck with a
coupla suitcases and left.”

“Did
he say where they went?”

“Nope,
just that they were always behind on the rent. He figured the landlord gave ’em
the boot.”

“Even
if that were the case, Honey Belle and her mother still had their jobs. Maybe
they went to a temporary shelter.”

“Listen,
Tripp, I ain’t the brightest cookie in the jar, but I’ve been around the block
a time or two. You’re rich, H.B. is dirt poor. You’re on your way to becoming
an even richer somebody. She quit school when she was sixteen to help support
her folks. She’s never gonna have two nickels to rub together. H.B. is who she
is and you’re who you are. You think your high-falutin’ society parents would
ever accept a girl from the wrong side of the tracks?”

As
if to cool her throat from her long dissertation, Carla drew a generous sip of
cola through the straw. “I don’t know why she left. Wherever she and her folks
went, it’s my guess they ain’t comin’ back. For the both of you, take my advice
and leave it be. Go get your lawyer’s degree. Marry a rich girl, raise yourself
a couple of spoiled young’uns, and forget about Honey Belle Garrett.”

With
his heart racing and bile rising in his throat, he pushed from the booth. Deep
in his heart, he knew everything Carla had stated was true.