Save the Date (15 page)

“Lucy, I see a couple of people I’d like to talk to,” Alex said. “Can you give me ten minutes, then I’ll take you to lunch?”

She knew she was supposed to smile and agree. Play the role of dutiful girlfriend. But Chuck was right. It was time to take care of some of her own baggage, and if she didn’t do it now, she might never have the nerve to face it again.

“I can’t.” She barely got the words out. “I . . . I have to go home and”— her mind was as empty as her bank account—“check on some things.”

“Things?”

“Yes. Important ones.” She couldn’t tell from his face whether he bought her lame excuse or not. She didn’t care. “I’ll see you later.” Lucy leaned up on tiptoes to press her lips to his cheek.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“You just kissed me.” He tapped a lean finger against his cheek. “Voluntarily.”

“I couldn’t bank my fiery passion.”

His smile was steamier than a summer rain. “It happens.”

She dug into her purse and pulled out her keys. “I’ll call you later.”

Leaving him staring after her, Lucy peeled open her creaky car door. Cranking up the radio, she drove away from the church, desperate to drown out the clattering, clashing thoughts in her head. She had to silence at least one source of the noise.

Twenty minutes later she cruised by the Battery downtown, past homes that had withstood the Civil War, hurricanes, and the heavy hand of the sea. The live oaks hung over a narrow driveway, making a canopy over Lucy’s car as she pulled in. Getting out, she approached one of the only brick homes on the street. With trembling fingers, she pushed a red call button. A small camera above her head captured her every move.

“Yes?” A male voice said.

“Julian?”

“Yes?”

“It’s—”

“Please say it’s Madonna.”

“Um, no.” A red bird landed on a perfectly shaped shrub. “It’s Lucy. Lucy Wiltshire.”

“Shoot.” And then a sigh. “I guess you’ll do.” The gates creaked as they began to move. “Come on in, honey. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Chapter Fifteen

L
ucy.” Julian pulled her into a light embrace and air-kissed both cheeks. “I’m so glad you came. It’s been dreadfully dull around this neighborhood since Tizzy Washington went to rehab and quit dancing on the lawn in nothing but her girdle and Dr. Scholl’s.” He pulled her into the entryway. “You’re just in time for Sunday lunch.”

Lucy stared at the wealth around her. Hardwood floors. A formal sitting room bigger than her apartment. Silk draperies. Fresh-cut flowers. Fine art perfectly centered on the walls.

“I know,” Julian said. “It’s a bit much. I’m more of a Pottery Barn fellow myself, but I cannot get Clare to go with the slip-covered look to save her Cole Haans.”

Looking down at her reflection in the shiny varnish of the floor, Lucy stood on the threshold of desperation and pride. How much time had Steven spent here? She had passed this neighborhood all her life. Had he and Clare known about her all along? Known she and her mother had lived from one meager paycheck to another? On secondhand clothes and borrowed credit?

“Um . . .” She needed cue cards. A script for this awkward moment. “I wondered if I might have a word with Mrs. Deveraux.”

“You got it. Let me page her.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small walkie-talkie. “Sugar Lips, you have a guest in the fourth dimension. I repeat, you have a guest in the fourth dimension. This is Tijuana Daddy, over and out.” With a smile he turned his attention back to Lucy, holding out a hand toward a brocade sofa. “She’ll be along shortly. Do make yourself at home.”

Lucy sat on the edge of the fuchsia couch, her posture as straight and proper as the room seemed to demand.

What was she doing? This was madness. But yet she needed answers. And she needed Clare’s expertise and wisdom. She was determined not to be a weak link in Alex’s campaign. She
would
succeed at this. She would show all those who thought she’d never amount to anything. Those who, for years, looked down their Southern belle noses and made her life miserable. Yeah, well, now she was going to be a congressman’s fiancée.

Sort of.

Lucy’s entire body tightened as she heard the unmistakable sound of a snotty woman in overpriced heels.

“Julian, how many times have I asked you not to use those ridiculous names and—” Clare stopped at the sight of Lucy on her couch. “Oh. It’s you.”

Her assistant planted a hand on his chino-covered hip. “I told you you had a guest.”

Clare pressed her lips together as she stared. “I didn’t expect Lucy.”

Julian rolled his eyes. “It is high past time you gave up on this little fantasy of George Clooney stopping by. Just because you’re friends on Facebook doesn’t mean a thing.”

Lucy twirled her earring. She wanted this over. And quick. “I’m here for two reasons, Mrs. Deveraux.”

“Please.” Clare sat opposite her in a chair that complemented the pattern in the drapes. “Call me Clare.”

Lucy swallowed and said a short haiku of a prayer. “I came here to tell you I don’t believe you about my father. But most importantly, I wanted to . . .” Oh, it was so hard. Why this woman? “I mean, that is, I have realized that I do need some . . . help. Despite the fact that your family hasn’t exactly been kind to mine, I know there is no better expert on the political and social aspects of South Carolina than you. And I don’t want to be the bullet that wipes out Alex’s campaign. So whatever it takes, I want to succeed at this.”

Clare slowly blinked. “Julian, I do believe you were making us root beer floats. You may return to the kitchen, if you please. And add one to the order.” In her black pencil skirt, she crossed her slender legs. “Every week I’m trying a new thing. It was Julian’s idea, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, my little toadstool.” He left the room, muttering under his breath.

“I’ve lived a very genteel life. Always doing what others told me.” She drummed her red nails on the armrest. “I was raised old money, you know.”

Lucy glanced at her watch. “That’s something I never tire of hearing.”

“Yes, I know what you’re thinking. I’ve lived a wonderful life, but mistakes have been made. You were one of those extreme errors in judgment, Lucy.”

“Excuse me?”

Clare held up a hand. “I mean my treatment of your mother. Dismissing you both from our lives.” She paused for an unbearable length of time. “I have much to tell you.”

“I don’t want to know.” Now that she was here, she just couldn’t.

“Yes, you do.” She leaned forward. “I can see it in your eyes. I’ve watched you all these years. You’re proud. You hold that head up so high, but it’s just a façade. An act. You can’t stand me, can you? Me—or what I represent.”

Lucy could feel her skin warming. Her pulse accelerating. “You had my mother fired. You fabricated some ridiculous story and got her blacklisted as a housekeeper in Charleston.”

Clare nodded. “It’s true. I did that.”

Her voice rose. “And then my mother had to drive over an hour out of town to get cleaning jobs. And because she was no longer working for you and your elitist friends, she had to take on a waitressing job in addition to everything else she did. So if you’re wondering how it makes me feel to have to sit here in your fancy living room and ask you for the keys to Alex’s world, I probably couldn’t say, at least not without dropping a few words your newly churched ears wouldn’t want to hear.” As soon as the words were out, Lucy regretted them. But she wouldn’t take them back. What did a woman like Clare know of Christ and love? Of grace and mercy? Where had her mercy been all those years ago when her mother had worked herself to the bone?

“I deserved that.” Clare inhaled through thin nostrils. “And I won’t ask for forgiveness. At least not until you hear the whole truth.”

“Thomas Miller is my father.” Lucy ripped open her purse. She rifled through until she found the photos. “Here.” She slapped the pictures down on the maple coffee table. Slid them toward Clare. “This is my dad.”

Clare looked.

Frowned.

“It’s him,” Lucy said. “He was my mom’s old boyfriend.”

Clare slipped on her bifocals. “I highly doubt it.” She held up the one of her dad on the beach. He wore shorts and waved to the camera. “This is Randy Pollack. He graduated with my son.”

“But . . . that’s my dad.” She could hear the desperation in her own voice. “I have more pictures.”

Clare picked up the other photo. “I’m telling you, the person in this photo could not be your father.”

“And you know this because?”

“Because Randy now lives as
Rhonda
Pollack in Reno. She sells Mary Kay, has a cabaret act at the Lucky Horseshoe, and makes her Presbyterian mother cry on a regular basis.”

Lucy sat back against the couch. “Oh.”

Lies. All of it lies. How could her mother have raised her on such fables and myths? Where in the world did she come from?
Lord, I don’t want Steven Deveraux to have so much as dipped his toe in my gene pool. Anyone but him. Anything but this family. Why couldn’t I be related to a nice, wealthy Southerner? Like Paula Deen
.

“Are you ready to hear your story?”

Lucy closed her eyes. Squeezed them tight.

But when she opened them again, she was still there. Sitting in Clare Deveraux’s living room. And her life was still unraveling.

“Yes.”

Clare nodded solemnly. “Then we’ll talk.
And
eat.”

Lucy pushed off from the armrest and came to her feet.

“Oh, no, no.” Clare wagged a finger. “A lady does not schlump from her seat. She rises as if lifted by air. Watch me.”

“Kind of not in the mood for this right now.” Lucy was just grateful her spine was still holding her up.

With flawless posture and weightless grace, Clare stood. “See?”

“Hey.” Julian stalked into the room. “You two gonna practice sitting all day, or will you be joining me for pot roast?”

“On our way,” Clare said. “Lucy, you may follow me so you can study my stroll.”

Clare went first. Followed by Julian, who, with a wink, walked in a perfect imitation.

The dining room was a large, sunny space. A silver chandelier hung from the center of the floral-carved ceiling. Matching antique buffets flanked either side.

Lucy sat down and rested her napkin in her lap. Clare shook her head. Was there anything she did that was correct? Did she really think there was a proper way to unfold a napkin?

Julian set the final platter down. “Okay, let’s eat.”

Lucy pulled herself from her fog long enough to take in the spread before her. “Roast, french fries, Kraft Mac & Cheese, root beer floats, and pudding?” And this woman had just corrected her napkin usage?

Clare shrugged. “As I was saying earlier, I have denied myself many common things that others take for granted. But those days are over. Julian has convinced me I need to branch out. Live a little.”

Julian nodded, then folded his hands, ready to pray. “We made a bucket list. She’s already done all the big things—seen the world from the Eiffel Tower, toured the Holy Lands, sipped tea with the Dali Lama. What she needed to do was experience some of the smaller, simpler joys in life.”

Clare wrapped her lips around her straw and took a drink. “Last week I went to a garage sale.” She shuddered. “Horrible thing.”

“Oh, whatever.” Julian clearly wasn’t the least bit intimidated by the woman. “You came home with a Christmas sweatshirt and a toilet paper cozy.”

“Just stop your insolence and bless our food.” Clare’s cheeks sunk in as she took another drink. “This is quite good. You may make these again.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t lace yours with cyanide, you old bat.”

She harrumphed. “All I’m leaving you in my will is my best pair of Gucci heels, so I’m pretty certain I’ll sleep well tonight.”

Lucy couldn’t even focus on Julian’s short prayer for the questions dueling in her head. By the time she left, she would know if Steven Deveraux was her father, why her mother lied, and which fork to use for dessert.

Taking the platter of meat from Julian, Lucy put a small helping on her plate. She knew it was more than she’d be able to choke down. “Start from the beginning,” she said. “I have to know everything.”

Clare shot Julian a pointed look. He reached for Lucy’s knife and pulled it out of reach.

“As you know, many years ago your mother cleaned our home. We lived in the governor’s mansion in Columbia, but this was our
home
and Steven and I stayed here often.”

At the mere mention of her mother, the wound on Lucy’s heart peeled open again.

“She was good at what she did. Your mother found a lot of work in this area. I recommended her to all my friends who didn’t have full-time staff.” Clare took a bite of macaroni and cheese and smiled like she was inhaling a fine wine. “That’s very nice, Julian. I like that a lot. Let’s have that tomorrow night.”

“Yes, madam.”

“My son was a senior in college,” Clare continued. “His father was in office at the time, and Steven was being groomed for politics. Everyone likened him to John F. Kennedy. When we looked at our son, we thought we were looking at the future president of the United States.”

But clearly something had gone wrong. Because Steven never went into politics. Lucy knew he had had a few failed businesses. And besides owning some shares in Sinclair, she thought he’d just lived off his trust fund.

“The day my son came home from school for spring break, I knew there would be trouble. He took one look at your mother and he was a goner. Steven had quite the reputation as a ladies’ man.”

Julian buttered a roll. “Happens to the best of us.”

“And we’d had to get him out of a few situations before. But this time,” Clare said, “I could see things were going on we couldn’t stop. When Steven talked to your mother, she looked at him like he was a god. I forbid him to see her. She was a maid, after all. My son was a future leader—a Deveraux.”

“My mom was better than your son on his finest day,” Lucy said, her food a weighted mass at the pit of her stomach. “She was kind and good. She didn’t judge people by their bank accounts or by which Civil War general they were related to.”