Life Without You (11 page)

I opted out of speaking, my mouth set in a grim line that was born of perplexed bewilderment.

“And I’m not talking about the two-hundred-dollar-an-hour-my-mother-never-loved-me kind of help. I’m talking about the kind that comes from spending five extra minutes in front of the mirror with some good makeup and a pair of tweezers. And some better clothes.”

“It’s not that simple,” I said, finally deciding to stand up for myself a little bit. Show some backbone.

“Maybe not, but it sure as heck is a place to start,” she replied.

I felt a strange mix of anger and embarrassment at the easy way she seemed to be reducing what I might possibly be going through. She was right—she
didn’t
know me that well; and just because she’d known my family for forever, it didn’t give her the right to be so critical.

I shook my head, feeling the words that were formulating in my head work their way to my lips. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

“Why? Because I called you out on your wardrobe? Really, if that’s all, you gotta learn to have a thicker skin with people. Or at least give it back to them as good as they give it to you,” she went on.

“If you want to know the truth, Annabelle, right now, you’re being an absolute—” I stopped, sucking the word back into my throat before it leapt from my tongue. Just because I really wanted to say it didn’t mean that I should.

“Don’t swear, dear, it’s common,” Annabelle scolded.

“So you
do
realize you’re being one, then,” I said, feeling slightly satisfied.

She cackled. “Of course. But as I said, you don’t get to be my age and still care about not hurting anyone’s feelings. I’m eighty-six. I’d say I’ve more than earned the right to call it like I see it.”

“And I’d say you’ve probably been doing it for much longer than you’ve been qualified for AARP,” I shot back.

“Well said, Dellie, dear. Maybe there’s some Southern steel in there after all,” Annabelle said with another cackle of delight. “It’s not too late for you, Dellie. We just have to make that steel shine.” Her whoop of laughter made me smile, and somehow the anger that had been pooling in my belly melted away into an oddly sweet awe of this teeny-tiny woman who seemed to embody so much fire and spirit, so fearless and sure of herself.

Maybe I had more to learn from her than just a yellow-edged chapter of ancient family history.

“What can I get you, hon?”

The woman asking the question was, by my estimation, somewhere in her mid-forties, her face softened by the slightest bit of extra weight. On her, the softness seemed to work to her advantage. She was pretty, with warm amber eyes rimmed by an obviously steady and practiced hand in violet eyeliner, her eyelashes long and thick in their coating of mascara. Her shiny hair was the color of raw honey, caught up in a hinged claw at the nape of her neck; and raspberry-colored lips curled up in a friendly smile as she spoke.

“Is the coffee good here?” I asked by way of reply.

She nodded. “Very. I think it’s the best in town, wouldn’t you say, Miss Annabelle?” she kicked the question over to my companion. Obviously, this was far from Annabelle’s first visit to the cafe.

“I would have to agree with you on that one, Vivi. Then again, I don’t much care for those cattle house coffee chains. Coffee’s too expensive and tastes like drain cleaner laced with cigarette ashes,” Annabelle observed, one of her penciled eyebrows arched in distaste.

“And naturally, that’s something you would know.” Vivi laughed, her eyes reduced to sparkling slits.

“I don’t, but I can imagine,” Annabelle retorted, the rasp in her voice leaving little doubt at the likelihood that she had, at one point in her life or another, been very familiar with the taste of cigarettes.

“I’ll bet,” Vivi said, her grin widening as she gave me a quick wink.

I smiled up at her from my seat. If I had to venture a guess, I would say that these two enjoyed this type of sparring on a regular basis.

“Stop your sass-mouthin’, Vivi. Your mama would be ashamed of you if she could hear you now, talking that way to your elders,” Annabelle sniffed.

Vivi’s grin only seemed to widen as she turned to me. “Don’t mind us; this is just how we do,” she said, her straight white teeth flashing as she spoke. “Miss Annabelle’s just puttin’ on ’cause we’ve got company.” She shook her head piteously. “And Lord knows my mama would have been anything but ashamed—she gave it better than I do, and Miss Annabelle knows it.” Her thickly accented voice gave away the fact that she was from here, born and raised somewhere on this stretch of land where Southern tempers ran as high the tides of the Chesapeake.

“Uh-huh, and the apple certainly doesn’t fall far,” Annabelle countered, obviously enjoying this.

“And you would be a prime example of that one, so you’re hardly one to talk.” Vivi’s arch reply was softened by the smile that had yet to leave her lipsticked mouth. “Now. Would you like your usual, or are you going to shock us all and order something different this morning?” Vivi’s pen was already scribbling on the order pad in her hand, so one could assume that she considered it a safe bet that Annabelle would order whatever “the usual” was.

“No need to give Hal a stroke, I suppose,” Annabelle said, holding out the well-worn menu as she spoke.

Vivi reached for it and tucked it under her armpit to hold as she readied her pen for my order. “That’s what I figured.” She slid a glance at me, satisfaction written plainly on her face. “And you?”

I looked down at the menu in front of me on the polished wooden tabletop, the overhead lights reflecting off the high sheen of its laminated pages. I hadn’t even read the thing.

“I’ll just get a cup of coffee, Vivi.”

“Cream and sugar?” She scribbled on her pad, and then looked up again at me as she waited.

“Black is fine, but I’ll take some sweetener, if you have some,” I replied, holding my own menu up at her for collection.

“We certainly do,” Vivi said with a quick nod as she took the menu from me. Her nails, I noticed, were painted in a bubblegum shade of pink to match the cotton blouse of her uniform. She shoved her order pad in the oversized pocket of the white apron tied around her waist and offered one more smile before she turned to head off to the kitchen. “I’ll go put in the order and be back in a minute with your coffees.” She paused for a beat before flashing another quick wink at me. “Keep an eye on her,” she said, tipping her head in Annabelle’s direction. “She may be older than dirt, but she’s as feisty as they come. Don’t let her fool you into thinking anything different.”

“Don’t worry; I won’t,” I said, watching her turn on the crepe rubber-soled heel of her white leather Reebok Princesses. This was all getting far more interesting than I could have ever imagined.

“I take it you come in here a lot, Annabelle?” I asked a few minutes later.

“Often enough,” she replied with a quick nod.

“So how long have you known Vivi?”

She thought for a moment, pursing her lips in concentration.

“Her mama and I were thick as thieves growing up, and we stayed that way until she died. I’ve known Vivi all her life.” Annabelle paused, reaching into her pocketbook for a hanky, then used it to dab daintily at her nose. “I know, no one uses handkerchiefs anymore, but it’s one thing my mama always drilled into me. Ladies with any sort of class use a handkerchief,” she said, catching the surprised look on may face.

I nodded in silent agreement of her steadfast observation before trying to steer the conversation back on course.

“Wow, that’s a long time,” I said, my eyebrows raised in surprise. “I guess I should have expected that, though, since you seem to know everyone in town.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Annabelle countered.

“No, not a bad thing. Interesting, though. Especially knowing that you’ve known
my
family for so long,” I replied, watching her expression carefully. “That’s actually what made me so eager to get together with you, if I’m going to be honest,” I admitted.

To my own ears, the admission sounded almost guilty, not that there was anything to feel guilty about. What was wrong with wanting to know a little more about my own family history?

“Understandable,” Annabelle allowed. “Who wouldn’t be curious about the skeletons in the family closet?”

“Are there skeletons?” I asked, my curiosity piqued now even more.

Annabelle shrugged, dropping her eyes to look down at the handkerchief in her hands. It was white cotton, scallop-edged and embroidered in one corner with initials in a curly script.

“Skeletons rattle in
every
family’s closet, my dear. It’s just a matter of which bones rattle the loudest,” she answered cryptically. “And how many there are to rattle.”

“I don’t have any illusions about my family being perfect, if that’s what you’re wondering, Annabelle,” I said. I shook my head. “Not even a little bit. I’ve heard my fair share of the family lore, believe me. Just not this particular tale about Grammie and George. I didn’t even know there
was
a ‘Grammie and George.’ For some reason, I’d never really thought there was anyone before my grandfather,” I added, taking a deep breath before continuing. “And Grandpa didn’t seem to think it bore talking about, which leaves me you as my only option, if I want any more details.”

“I’m surprised he approved of you meeting me this morning,” Annabelle said.

“He didn’t think it was the best idea, to be honest. Not that he has a problem with me wanting to know about it—he doesn’t understand that, actually, but he’s not a man of details. He kind of boiled it all down to: it happened, it’s over, everyone’s moved on. He just…” I felt my lips tip into a sheepish attempt at a smile, not particularly wanting to repeat what Grandpa had said when I’d told him about the plans I’d made with her.

“Dellie, your grandfather has never made a secret of the fact that he doesn’t much care for me,” she said matter-of-factly. Her tone gave no indication that the feeling was mutual, only that it was a forgone conclusion, a state of things that she had grown used to. I wondered if any part of her wished things might have been different.

“So how did that work, since you hired Grammie for so many of your cakes? I know you would have had to come to the house to pick most of them up, since the only ones she usually delivered were the wedding cakes,” I posed. “You never ran into each other then?”

Annabelle shrugged, tucked the hanky back into her pocketbook, and began smoothing out a wrinkle in the pink and white gingham tablecloth.

“We’ve managed quite nicely to avoid each other over the years,” she said at last. “Your grandmother and I kept things professional—friendly enough, but we still didn’t socialize. And we never spoke about the past. I suppose you could say we had a tacit agreement to leave it be.” There was a slight hint of something in Annabelle’s voice that implied that, underneath all the sass, she felt at least some measure of guilt for her role in breaking up George’s engagement to my grandmother.

I took a few minutes to formulate some thoughts and assemble some questions, finally taking stock of the cute little cafe space around us. The building itself was a converted old house, its exterior clad in white clapboard siding with pink shutters on the windows and a pink-and-white-striped awning above the front door. I had registered the presence of the profusion of pink and white azalea bushes flanking either side of the front steps enough to realize that the theme here, in this dainty little dining spot, was azaleas. Hence the name Sweet Azalea’s, I was guessing. Inside, the original space had obviously been gutted to create an open floor plan, with white beadboard on the walls and a counter topped with pink laminate. Each of the small cafe tables in the dining area was covered in the checked pink and white cloth, and a mismatched collection of white wooden chairs were tucked in and waiting for their next guests. Not that they had to wait long. Looking around, it was plain to see that this delightful little confection of a restaurant did a booming business.

An inordinate amount of time had passed since we’d last caught sight of Vivi, and I had been hoping the distraction of food would at least provide a buffer for a bit of the strange mood that seemed to have settled over our table.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait much longer.

“Here you go, Annabelle. One soft-boiled egg, wheat toast, and a side of extra crispy bacon,” Vivi said, setting a thick white ceramic plate on the table with a flourish. “And more coffee’s coming,” she added, flashing a quick smile at me. “We had to brew a fresh pot. Seems everyone is needing extra coffee this morning.”

I looked around again. “Is it always this busy in here?”

Vivi nodded, looking proud. “Yup. But you should see it on a Saturday. Saturday mornings are the busiest—and if we were open on Sundays, it would be an absolute madhouse with the church crowd.”

“You’re closed Sundays?”

Another nod, accompanied by a raised eyebrow. “We abide by the rule that Sundays are for Jesus, family, and NASCAR,” she said with an edge of disapproval that hinted that anything else would be unacceptable.

I smiled up at her, hoping to effectively convey that I was in her camp, rather than opposed to it. “Absolutely.”

“Most people have learned by now to stop complaining about it; but every once in awhile, we get some tourists who act like we’ve lost our minds.” She shook her head in disgust. “They come in on Monday and set to complaining before they’ve even ordered their coffee. They’re lucky I don’t spit in their grits,” she drawled, breaking her scowl to offer a wry grin and a wink so quick I almost missed it.

“Vivi!” Annabelle scolded. “Don’t say things like that. Dellie might not realize you’re not serious, and besides that, not everyone appreciates your inappropriate humor.”

Vivi rolled her eyes. “Annabelle, you and I both know that I’d never really spit in anyone’s grits. I have a squeeze bottle of General Lee’s drool specially for that.”

I was lucky she hadn’t already brought my coffee. If I’d been drinking it, I would have either choked on it or had it go shooting out of my nose.