The Angel Whispered Danger (5 page)

A defective sperm or egg, my doctor had said. It was nature’s way of cleaning house. Nobody’s fault. We could try again.

“He shut me out,” I told Augusta. “I felt empty to the bone, but he had no room in his heart for me—only his own grief.” I blew my nose as I paced the kitchen. “Self-pity, that’s all it was. He lost his job, he lost his baby. Well, I was hurting, too!” I didn’t have the nerve to tell her Ned and I hadn’t been intimate in months.

The handkerchief was soggy and Augusta passed me another. “Have you tried talking about this?” she said.

“When? He’s never home, and when he is, he’s tired or he doesn’t want to discuss it. Frankly, I’m tired of trying. I begged him to see a counselor with me, but it was like talking to a wall.” I shrugged. “Finally, I just went by myself.”

“And did that help?” she asked.

“I think it helped me to become stronger, to learn to face things by myself. But Ned resented it, you know. Said he didn’t like our problems being flaunted in front of perfect strangers.” I blew my nose. “
He’s
the one who’s a stranger!”

Augusta Goodnight stood by the window and the moonlight caught her hair so that we needed no other light. “Just try and be patient, Kate,” she said, “it’s not over . . .”

I waited for the angelic announcement that would bring purpose to my life.

“It’s not over,” the angel continued, “until the plump lady performs.”

At the risk of offending my otherworldly guest, I laughed all the way upstairs, then giggled in my sleep. If she had done nothing else, Augusta had brought a respite of amusement into my bleak existence. But I didn’t think that was the main reason for her being here. Even though she hadn’t said so, I had a strong feeling the angel was sent to warn me. But warn me of what?

“Just why are you here?” I asked my angel again the next morning. If I’d had any doubts about her heavenly connections, they vanished when I tasted Augusta’s coffee. And pancakes, so crisp and light they almost floated, seemed to multiply as fast as we could eat them, although Penelope did her best to keep up until Augusta gave her a warning lift of the brow.

“As I said, I’m filling in.” She smiled. “More coffee?”

I held out my cup. “But why?”

“As to that, we’ll have to wait and see.” She began to fill the sink with rainbow bubbles. “We can start by getting these dishes cleared away so you can join the others in your family. Penelope, you may help dry.”

Oh, no! Not with Mama’s good china!
“Oh, please, let me,” I said, grabbing a dishtowel from the drawer.

“Very well, but she has to learn. What good is it if we do everything for her?” Augusta tossed the girl a sponge. “I suppose you can start by wiping crumbs from the table and sweeping underneath . . . on second thought, forget the sweeping. We’ll work on that tomorrow.

“This is the first occasion I’ve had to help train an apprentice,” Augusta explained as an aside to me, “and I want to be thorough . . . although sometimes I do find it a test of my patience. Perhaps that was why I was given this opportunity.”

“And what do you usually do when you’re not filling in for someone else?” I asked.

Augusta whisked off her large pink polka-dotted apron and hung it on the back of the pantry door. “Tend strawberries,” she said. “Acres and acres of them. And sometimes I help with the flowers. Oh, you should see our flower fields, Kate! We’ve every blossom known to man, and many that aren’t.”

I told her I’d like to see them, but hoped it wouldn’t be any time soon.

“Tell me about your family,” Augusta said when we finished putting away the dishes. Penelope had gone outside to water my mother’s petunias—a fairly uncomplicated task, I hoped, and the two of us watched from the window seat in the family room adjoining the kitchen. “My notes are rather sketchy, I’m afraid, as this was a bit of a last-minute assignment, and I’d really like to know more.”

I watched as she dug a small notebook from what must have been the very bottom of a large tapestry bag, then groped again for a pencil.

“Uncle Ernest is my grandmother’s older brother,” I explained. “His home is where we always have our reunions—I guess because it was where most of them grew up. We call his place Bramblewood, and that’s pretty much what it is—a lot of woods and brambles. A trail that follows the Yadkin River winds along about a mile or so behind it and has always been popular with hikers.”

Augusta nodded but didn’t write anything down. “Your uncle Ernest,” she said, “does he have a large family?”

“No children, if that’s what you mean. Married once, but it didn’t work out. He has some peculiar habits, I guess. Likes his napkin folded in a certain way, eats a soft-boiled egg every morning for breakfast and has a fit if you mess up his newspaper—things like that. Sort of keeps to himself, although I hear he’s been seeing somebody lately. He’s retired now, but Uncle Ernest taught science for years at a small college over in Boone, and wrote a bunch of textbooks nobody read unless they had to, but I’ve always gotten along with him fine.” I smiled. “When I was little, he made me a tiny water wheel to spin in the creek, and he knows all about trees and plants.”

Now and then Augusta made brief notes as I told her about Marge and her family, then Cousin Violet and Ma Maggie. “And then there’s Uncle Lum, my mother’s younger brother, and his wife, Leona. They have a son, Grady, who’s a little older than I am.” I couldn’t bring myself to admit I was related to Deedee, but I was sure she’d find out in time.

Marge called a few minutes later to tell me Josie was fine and if it was all right with me, she’d like to take her swimming at the local pool with the boys. “Ma Maggie says they’re ordering barbecue for everybody tonight, so why don’t I just meet you there later this afternoon?”

I said that would be okay and went to find something cool and comfortable to wear. Our main dinner, a covered-dish affair usually eaten picnic style under the big white oaks in my uncle’s yard, would be later in the week, so it seemed Uncle Ernest was taking the easy way out tonight. Remembering Ella’s attempts at cooking, I was grateful. The last time we were here she made a pound cake and forgot the eggs. It weighed a lot more than a pound!

“Cuz! Thank God you got here before Deedee! Let’s you and me cut outta here and give the Serpent Lady the slip.” Grady Roundtree jumped up from his seat on Uncle Ernest’s front steps and hurried to open the door of my car.

I returned his hug, as glad to see him as he was me. “I’d almost forgotten we called her that,” I said, referring to our nickname for Deedee, who frequently “spoke with forked tongue.” “I’d love to escape, but first let me speak to Uncle Ernest and your parents. Have you been here long?”

“Mom and Dad got here in time for lunch, poor chumps. You’d think they’d know by now! I drove from Chattanooga; been here less than an hour,” he said.

I glanced at my cousin as we started inside together. Still youthfully handsome at thirty, he had been engaged three times, but somehow always managed to wiggle out before the invitations were mailed. His mother, my aunt Leona, seemed to think it was because he never got over Beverly.

Beverly Briscoe and I had been best friends growing up, and she was sixteen when she started dating Grady, then in his sophomore year at Appalachian State. The relationship lasted until Bev went off to college and decided she wanted to see other people. I remembered when she broke the news to Grady during Christmas break. He was so despondent, it just about ruined the holidays for the rest of us, and as far as I know, my cousin didn’t date anyone for over a year after that.

Then, this past winter, the two had renewed their interest in each other when Beverly, currently working on her doctorate at a university in Pennsylvania, telephoned Grady out of the blue. She planned to come back to North Carolina after completing the requirements for her degree, she said, and just wanted to touch base. After that, the two kept in touch almost daily by e-mail and telephone, and everyone thought they might resume their romance until Beverly was suddenly killed in an accident in February. The roads had been slick from a recent rain, and Beverly’s brakes were said to have failed as she tried to maneuver a treacherous curve near her home.

Beverly had seemed more sure of herself when I’d seen her at a party the Christmas before while we were both home for the holidays. We’d chatted briefly, but people were milling around a crowded room, drifting from group to group, and she had left before we had a chance to say more than a few words. I wished now that we’d spent more time together.

“I’m so sorry about Beverly,” I said, touching his arm. “I wanted to come for the funeral, but Josie had the flu and Ned was out of town. “I wish—well, I wish things could’ve worked out differently.”

My cousin squeezed my hand but didn’t answer.

“So, where is old Ned?” Grady said finally. “Hiding out on the golf course?”

“Big conference in California,” I told him. Enough for now; he’d find out soon enough. “Said to tell you hi.” A lie. Although he never admitted it, I knew my husband resented Grady Roundtree, the closeness of our relationship. He needn’t have, but I didn’t tell him that.

A huge porch lined with rocking chairs stretched across the front of the house, and my uncle’s old collie, Amos, slept on the flagstones in front of the door so that we had to step over him to get inside. Ivy clung to the six stone columns, cooling the porch, as well as the interior of the house, so that it felt almost chilly even on a hot July day. The living room was large and shabby with threadbare rugs, overstuffed furniture with fat, shiny arms and hardwood floors I’m told were once beautiful. It smelled of old ashes from the huge stone fireplace. Uncle Ernest, who sat in his favorite brown club chair by the empty grate, smelled of Old Spice and bourbon. He reached for my hand, and his smile turned to a frown. “Kathryn. You look thin. Are you taking care of yourself?”

I kissed his cheek, taut and tan as an army tent. “Had to get ready for the swimsuit season,” I said, speaking louder than usual, and he nodded, although I don’t think he heard me. My uncle’s hair had always reminded me of a wire brush, but today I noticed it didn’t look as bristly as usual, and he’d finally replaced those awful black rims on his glasses. If I didn’t know better, I’d never guess he would soon be seventy-six.

“This good old mountain air will build up your appetite,” he said, moving his feet to make room for me on the lopsided hassock.

Fine. As long as I don’t have to eat Ella’s cooking
, I thought, looking around for the housekeeper.

“Leona’s out in the kitchen looking for some kind of rabbit food,” Uncle Ernest said, following my gaze. “I think Lum went out back to see if he could find any ripe tomatoes.”

“But I thought we were having barbecue tonight.” My stomach wanted to turn around and go home. I thought of Augusta’s light-as-clouds pancakes.

My uncle laid aside a book heavy enough to give you a hernia, and I could tell by the dog-eared pages he probably knew most of it by heart. “Barbecue? Oh, we are! You’ll have to thank your uncle Lum for that. Leona was planning to feed us something with frozen vegetables and imitation cheese.” He made a face. “Thank God he put a stop to that! Leona’s in a snit, I reckon—can’t be helped. Why don’t you go see if you can’t mellow her up a bit?”

I said I’d try, although I thought that was more in Grady’s line. He’d been wrapping his mama around his finger so long, she oughta have a shape like a corkscrew, but he had disappeared upstairs.

I got a whiff of Aunt Leona’s Misty Glade perfume and followed my nose to the kitchen where I found her standing on a stool with her head inside a cabinet. She turned when she heard me enter and almost toppled off her perch.

“Whoa!” I rushed to steady her. “You taking inventory?”

“No, but somebody should. I don’t know when’s the last time Ella’s cleaned these cabinets. I was looking for some pickles to go in my egg salad, but all I could find was a jar of olives, and no telling how long that’s been in there.” My aunt accepted my hand as she stepped down. In spite of her exploration into Ella’s dusty realm, Leona’s crisp, white blouse remained spotless, and her blue Barbie-size slacks had creases sharp enough to slice you in two.