Scandal in Copper Lake (10 page)

The mall fronted Carolina Avenue, and the Vette was parked alone on the row nearest the street. She pulled in beside it, got out and locked her car. Robbie had reached across the seat to open the passenger door by the time she’d turned.

Two facts assailed her as she settled into the leather seat: Robbie’s vehicle was much smaller, and therefore occupants sat much closer than in her car, and his cologne in that small, confined space was amazing.

“What do you say about a lawyer up to his neck in quicksand?” she asked, setting her straw bag on her lap after removing her sunglasses. “Not enough quicksand.” She didn’t wait for a response—or nonresponse—from him. “How much trouble was it finding Marguerite?”

“Enough that you owe me at least a dozen cookies,” he replied as he backed out of the space. “Actually, as soon as I mentioned her name to Tommy, he knew. She lives across the hall from his grandfather at the old folks’ home.”

“So I owe Tommy a dozen cookies.” From the corner of her eye, she watched a muscle clench in Robbie’s jaw, the same territorial response she’d seen yesterday at the deli. “I don’t remember her. Logically, I know someone took care of me while Mama saw her clients and went on dates, but I don’t
recall. Mama Odette met her only once, when she and Auntie Lueena came up from Savannah to pick me up, and she said she was old even twenty-three years ago.” She smiled faintly. “With Mama Odette, though,
old
is relative.”

“Not in this case. Marguerite Wilson is ninety-six, so she was seventy-three when your mother died. Brave woman to be taking care of a five-year-old.”

“I was a sweet five-year-old. Can you say the same?” When he opened his mouth, she interrupted. “Without lying?”

He gave her a sour look before turning off Carolina. “Sweet gets boring after a while. My brothers and I were never boring.”

Would he get bored with her after a while? He was such a product of his upbringing and environment that her differences appealed to him now, but how long before he lost interest? Before he started looking at the well-bred, blue-eyed blondes from the country club in a new light?

She would survive. Duquesne women always did.

“How is Mama Odette?”

“She’s fine,” she replied absentmindedly, then pulled her gaze from the neat middle-class houses they were passing to look at him.

“I bet you call her every day.”

“Twice a day usually. Morning to say hello, night to say good-night.”

“Morning to be sure she made it through the night, and night so you can always say goodbye.” He slowed and turned into the nursing home lot before responding to her look. “I used to call my granddad every morning and every night.”

And when Granddad had passed, he’d had the comfort of having said
I love you
one more time.

With a knot in her throat, she got out and looked around. Morningside Nursing Center was a low brick building with a parking lot across the front and a tall chain fence on three
sides. Flowers grew in window boxes, and the grass was green, smelling sweet from a recent mowing.

Robbie joined her at the rear of the car, a bouquet of roses in hand. His cheeks reddened at the look she gave them, and he shrugged before thrusting them into her hands. “Every woman likes flowers.”

Especially ninety-six-year-old women who likely hadn’t gotten many in their lives.

Marguerite Wilson’s room opened off a back hall. Large windows let in a view of a garden, where several residents sat on benches or in wheelchairs, talking, playing cards or just enjoying the morning. Marguerite was sitting in an armchair, a Bible open in her lap, a game show on the television mounted above. She was tiny, with white hair pulled back in a bun, her skin unlined, the angles of her face ageless.

She didn’t look familiar. No memories roused, no tickle that Anamaria had ever known her.

Anamaria knocked at the open door, then pitched her voice louder. “Miss Marguerite, can we come in?”

She glanced their way. “There’s no need to holler. My hearing’s much better than my eyesight,” she said with a chuckle. “Come on in.”

Anamaria led the way, drawing a wooden chair closer to the old woman and sitting primly on its edge. “I’m Anamaria Duquesne, and this is Robbie Calloway.” Holding out the flowers, she lowered her voice and said with a wink, “He brought you these. You’d better watch out for him. They say he’s a charmer.”

Arthritic hands accepted the bouquet, fingers stroking gently over the creamy petals. “A woman my age don’t need the charm. Just the flowers would do the trick.” After breathing in the roses’ scent, she fixed her gaze on Robbie. “Calloway, huh. I’ve worked for a few Calloways and known
a few others. Some people think they’re all bad because they got money and power, but shoot, they’re just like any other family. Some good, some bad. Which are you?”

“I’m a little of both,” he replied.

Marguerite laughed. “If you’d told me you were all good, I wouldn’t have believed it. You’re too young and too handsome to not have a little bit of sinning in you.”

Slowly she turned her faded gaze back. “Anamaria Duquesne. My, you’ve grown up.”

“You remember me?”

“Even an old woman doesn’t go through a night like the last one we shared and then forget it. You look a bit like her, you know—your mama. You’re prettier than she was, and that’s saying a lot because that Glory was a pretty girl. All the men thought so.”

“Were there a lot of men?”

Marguerite tilted her head to one side and smiled. “Oh, they were drawn to her like flies to honey. She was so lovely and friendly and
alive
. She loved people, loved life, and people responded to that, both men and women.”

“Who was the baby’s father? Did she ever tell you?”

“Wouldn’t say.” The old lady raised one finger in admonition. “Not
couldn’t.
She didn’t know who your daddy was, but she knew this one. She just kept it to herself, all private-like. Had her reasons for doing so, but she kept them private, too. I always thought he might be married. Some of her men were. Or he might be white. Some of them were that, too.” She sighed softly. “There was men who would pass her on the street as if they’d never seen her before, then sneak off to see her in secret. I told her she should have more pride than to lay with a man who was ashamed to acknowledge her in public, but she just laughed. She said it wasn’t what they felt that mattered. It was how
she
felt, and she wanted what she wanted.”

What will be, will be,
Mama Odette always said.

Glancing at Robbie, who’d taken a seat at the foot of the hospital bed, Anamaria wondered if the events of their lives really were fated or if it was just a rationalization for their lack of restraint. Was she destined to have an affair with him, or should she fight the attraction?

“Do you remember the names of any of these men?” he asked.

“Oh, goodness. There were so many. Black and white, young and old, single and married. I doubt Glory kept track of them all herself.”

Marguerite ticked off a dozen names on her bony fingers, thought about it, then added a few more. None of them meant anything to Anamaria, though Robbie reacted to the last one. “Really?”

Once again, the old lady raised that admonishing finger. “Men of God are not immune to temptation.”

“They should at least make an effort.”

Her smile was full of age and wisdom. “You can make all the effort in the world and still give in. A woman can be as wrong for you as it’s possible to be, but if she’s in your heart, it’s a battle you’re not going to win.”

“And was Glory in his heart?” he asked.

Another smile, this one mischievous. “No. Just his pants. That one, he gave in so often that he was tempted right out of the pulpit.” Her gaze flickered over their heads, and she picked up the television remote control. “My show’s about to come on. Come back tomorrow, and we’ll talk more. A little earlier this time.”

“We’ll do that,” Anamaria agreed as she got to her feet. “Can I put those flowers in water for you?”

The old woman gazed at the roses. “No. I’d like to keep them close right now. The nurse will do it later.” She
pressed a button on the remote, and a soap opera theme song filled the air.

Anamaria and Robbie left her to her show. When they reached the hall, he hesitated. “Give me a minute, will you?” After her nod, he went into the room across the hall. “Hey, Pops,” she heard him say before the closing door blocked the conversation.

She felt conspicuous, left to stand there while he visited Tommy’s grandfather alone. The polite thing would have been to invite her inside, to introduce her to the elderly man or to at least have given her the chance to say no, thanks.

Had her mother truly not minded when men had refused to acknowledge her in public but had been more than willing to share her bed? Anamaria’s best guess would be that she hadn’t. Glory
had
loved life and had lived it on her terms. A few great passions, a few heartaches and a fine appreciation for love, family, men and sex—that was how Auntie Charise described her sister’s life. Those few words described every Duquesne woman’s life, and in another few generations, Duquesnes as yet undreamed of would probably remember Grandma Anamaria that way.

Would they suspect that for a time she’d wanted more?

Turning away, she paced off the tiles to the front entrance, pivoted and was halfway back down the long hall when Robbie rounded the corner and started toward her. Her pulse quickened, but she pretended not to notice, stopping in the center of a black tile, waiting for him to join her.

“How is Mr. Maricci?” she asked as he drew near.

Faint color tinged his cheeks. “He’s fine.”

She almost said,
I would have liked to meet him.
But having to ask took the pleasure out of it.

They left the building, and the air immediately turned warmer, smelled sweeter, felt freer. As nursing homes went,
Morningside might be a good one, but nothing changed the fact that it was a place where people went to die. There was an inherent sadness about it, echoes of lives long ago ended and spirits passed on.

Robbie came around to unlock her door first. She stood, fingers curled around the sun-warmed metal, and met his gaze over the roof of the car. “Was Glory having an affair with the pastor of our church?”

“No. With the pastor of
our
church. I don’t remember much about him. Just that he stayed a while, then was gone. I’d have to ask Mom for the details.”

Another visit she wouldn’t be invited along for. She didn’t mind. She
couldn’t
mind. It was just the way life was. “Great. So my mother slept around
and
got a minister run out of town.”

Robbie frowned as he slid into the driver’s seat. “You don’t know that,” he said as she took her own seat. “Like Marguerite said, he gave in to temptation a lot. Besides, what’s wrong with enjoying sex? I like it just fine.”

Suddenly warm, she cranked the window down a few inches as he pulled out of the parking lot, and the wind rushed across her fevered skin and whipped her hair. She caught it in one hand, closed her eyes and tilted her face to enjoy it.

Damn, but she was gorgeous, Robbie thought, stealing glances at her from the corner of his eye. The old lady had been right: he had more than a bit of sinning in him, and right now he wanted to do it all with Anamaria.

In secret.

And that was a problem.

It was a few minutes after eleven, and since he hadn’t eaten breakfast in longer than he could remember, he was ready for lunch. He didn’t ask if she was hungry, too, but took the backstreets to the edge of town, then turned north on River Road.

When they came to the brick-and-iron fence that marked the
beginning of Calloway Plantation, she twisted in the seat to look. Both sets of elaborate gates were open, each driveway a straight shot through a yard the size of six football fields. Even at a distance, the Greek Revival house was clearly visible, with its massive brick columns and three stories of blinding white paint. The oldest live oaks in the county grew on either side, nearly obscuring the row of reconstructed slave quarters.

Uncomfortably, Robbie shifted in his seat, pushing the gas pedal until the needle hovered ten miles over the limit. He wished she hadn’t noticed the house, or seen the Calloway name, or caught sight of the slave quarters. He wished she wouldn’t say anything, and for once, she didn’t.

Their destination was a shabby little town ten miles north, consisting of a convenience store with a post office occupying one small corner, a competing gas station across the street and a ramshackle restaurant perched on stilts over the river. He could count on one hand the women he’d dated whom he could have brought here, but instinctively he knew Anamaria wouldn’t mind. “It doesn’t look like much, but they’ve got some of the best food around.”

She smiled as they got out and started across the gravel parking lot toward the building. “That’s what people say about Auntie Lueena’s. Of course, it’s not this isolated. It’s a given that if you go there, you’re going to be seen.”

His temper flared because inside he knew it wasn’t just a craving for catfish that had made him choose the place. “That isn’t why—”

She breathed deeply. “Hmm. Hush puppies. And sweet potato pie. Promise me good creamy slaw, and I’ll be in heaven.”

“It’s creamy,” he said grudgingly.

The waitress greeted them and asked about his brothers, his usual companions, then showed them to a booth where the window looked down on the lazy brown river. They ordered,
and Anamaria sipped her sweet tea for a time before finally meeting his gaze.

“That’s some house. The photographs don’t do it justice.”

He felt as if, name aside, he should deny any claim to the plantation. The Calloways who’d built it had been dead nearly two hundred years. Robbie had never lived there and never would.

But he’d spent practically every weekend of his childhood there. Family dinners, holidays, reunions. His parents had gotten married in the gardens out back, along with his aunts and uncles and most of his older cousins. His grandma loved lavish weddings and had been disappointed when Mitch, Rick and Russ had opted for smaller, less formal ceremonies. She regularly pestered Robbie to carry on the family tradition and marry there, and he’d always figured he would. Though right now, even the idea seemed wrong.