The Ladies of Garrison Gardens (15 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

S
HE'D THOUGHT
she was ready, but she hadn't expected to see a masculine version of her own features staring at her. He had her eyes, her nose, and the chin Mama had always called
determined
. His hair was lighter than hers, and he'd lost some of it, but it was stick straight. He was tall and big, but not even a little fat. Even as her mind was whirling, she was pleased that he was good looking.

“My God,” he said, in a hushed voice. He hadn't been expecting the resemblance either.

“Hello.” She wanted to say something memorable to mark the moment, but that was all she could get out.

“Come in,” he said. He took her arm and pulled her into the room. She wasn't ready for him to touch her, and he didn't seem to be either. As soon as she was inside, he dropped her arm and backed away. He was still staring at her.

“Well, we certainly do look alike,” she said, which she knew was stupid, but she had to say something. She tried to smile at him. He didn't smile back.

He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at her. She felt very small. “All right, what does your mother want?” he asked.

“Mama?” she asked, surprised. “She doesn't even know I'm—”

“If she sent you for more money, go back and tell her she's not getting another cent out of me. And if she ever does anything like this again, she can whistle for her allowance.”

“Mama doesn't even know I'm in Atlanta!” Then she realized the danger of what she'd done. If seeing her made him angry, he might stop sending the cheeks. And it would be all her fault. “You've to got believe me! Mama would be so mad if she knew I was here. I left before she was awake; I had to sneak out. This wasn't her idea. She never even wanted to come south. She hates being in Georgia!”

There were anger lines on the sides of his mouth. They started to soften slightly.

“You're telling me she didn't know about that letter you sent? You wrote that by yourself?”

“Yes! I wrote it and I mailed it. You always put your return address on the envelope when you send us our checks, so I knew where to send it.”

“How did you get here?”

“On the train.”

“You just bought a ticket, got on a train, and came to Atlanta? All by yourself?”

There was no need to tell him about the money she'd taken from Mama's purse. “It wasn't that hard. I travel on trains a lot.”

“How old are you now?”

“Twelve.”

“My God.”

Please don't let him be mad
, she prayed.
Please let him smile now
.

But he didn't. He crossed his arms over his chest again and kept on looking down at her. It would be easy to copy the way he did that, but she would never, ever mimic him.

“Well, if your mother didn't send you, then you must be the one who wants something from me,” he said. “What is it?”

After what he'd said about Mama, she didn't want to ask him for money for school. Not yet.

“Could I sit down for a minute?” They were standing in the foyer of his suite. Behind him she could see a sitting room with big comfortable-looking chairs and green draperies drawn across large windows to keep out the sun. “And I sure am thirsty, if you could spare a glass of water.” She put down her suitcase to make it seem more like she was staying. He had other ideas.

“Look, I got this all wrong. It sounded like you were threatening to come to the house. I thought your mother was trying to . . . well, that doesn't matter now. But if you're really here because you wanted to see me—”

“Yes, that's it,” she reassured him eagerly. “And I was so happy when I heard from you! I used to ask Mama about you all the time when I was little, but she never would tell me anything.”

He didn't offer to let her come into his sitting room. Instead, he moved closer to the door. “I think you'd better go.”

She was stunned into silence.

“I never should have done this.”

“Don't say that, please!” She finally managed to get out. “I just got here. And I came so far. Couldn't we talk for a while? I have so many questions I want to—”

“This was a mistake. I thought you were going to ask me for money. I wasn't expecting this.” His hand was on the doorknob. He was going to open it.

“I did come for money!” she blurted out.

He looked relieved. It was as if he'd rather fight about money than talk to her.

“But it's not what you think—” she started to say. He cut her off.

“The answer is no. Your mother and I have an agreement. I give her a very generous allowance. I'm sure she squanders every penny of it, but there's nothing I can do about that.”

“I need the money for school. Boarding school.”

“Your mother gets enough money from me to support you very nicely. I'm keeping my end of the bargain. I won't do any more. Now I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

She couldn't go, not like this. Not while he still disliked her.

“All right,” she said quickly, “I take it back, I don't want anything. Just let me stay for—”

“It won't accomplish anything.” His polite way of dismissing her was worse than Mama's screaming.

“But . . . don't you want to get to know me . . . just a little?”

“There's no point.”

Don't cry!
the voice inside her head warned. But it was already too late. The tears were starting to spill down her cheeks.

Her father made an exasperated sound. “This is just what I was afraid of.”

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I'll stop.”

But she couldn't. Blindly, she picked up her suitcase and tried to open the door. She knew she'd failed. He hadn't liked her before she started crying, and now he hated her. She had to get out.

But she couldn't get the door open. She pulled at the doorknob with the suitcase still in her hand. The suitcase was old, and with all the yanking and pulling, she banged it against the door several times. The rusted lock broke, the lid opened up, and everything inside flew out: the soap she'd brought, her hairbrush, and the dress she'd worn on the train. Crying harder now, she got on her knees to pick up her belongings.

Behind her, the man who had given her his chin and his eyes looked at the items on the floor and said, “Oh, Lord, were you expecting to stay here?”

Don't say anything
, warned the voice inside her head. But now she was way past the point of heeding it. She stood up so she could face him. “I brought a clean dress because I wanted to look nice for you. I wanted to be pretty, so you'd like me! But I was stupid. I didn't know there was
no point
!” She mimicked his cold polite voice.

She got back down on the floor to pick up her things, but she was crying so hard she couldn't see. He got down on the floor beside her and gathered up everything. Then he piled the whole mess on a table, helped her to her feet, and led her into his sitting room. Her crying made him uncomfortable, she could tell, but he made her sit on his sofa and waited until she finally stopped. Then he went into the bathroom and came back with a glass of water. When she'd finished drinking it, he sat in the chair opposite her and sighed.

“What did you want to ask me?”

I won!
she thought,
He's letting me stay. But he's not happy about it.

Don't think about that.

“I'd like to know about you and Mama,” she said.

He sighed again. “I guess I owe you that much.”

Chapter Thirty-two

I
MET LILIANNE
right here in Georgia.”

“Lilianne? Mama's name is Lily.”

“Maybe now it is. When I knew her she was Lilianne. She's a Venable,” he said. “Did you know that?”

She shook her head. “What's a Venable?”

We're talking
! Her heart sang.
I'm talking to my father!

“Not what, who. The Venables are show folk; they have been for generations. I think they're the only family like that in the South. They own an old theater, the Venable Opera House. It's been in the family since . . . I think it was built around eighteen-eighty. At least that's the story Lilianne told me.”

“But Mama's last name is Rain.”

“Her mother was the Venable. Her father was an actor who worked for his in-laws. A real son of a bitch from what I could make out.” He stopped himself. “Excuse my language.”

“I've heard worse,” she said quickly.

“I'm sure you have,” he said grimly, “given the life you've had.”

There was a part of her that wanted to tell him about her life. Maybe he'd change his mind and help her after all. But that would mean telling on Mama, and she couldn't do that. “It wasn't so bad,” she said. “Not all the time. We've had some good bookings, and Mama . . .”

The anger lines at the sides of his mouth were getting deeper. She wasn't explaining this properly. She tried to find a better way.

“You see, being an actress was Mama's dream and no one ever believed in her. . . .”

“So you had to,” he said softly.

“Yes. But I'm not very talented, except I do have perfect pitch, and I—”

“How old were you?” he broke in.

“I don't . . . understand. . . .”

“How old were you when Lilianne put you onstage for the first time?”

“Five.”

“Damn!”

“It was all right. I got to travel all over the country and see all kinds of things. . . .” He was upset; she had to make him feel better. “I like being in the business. Even if we're going through a dry spell, it's better than being a civilian.” She was parroting every performer she'd ever met. Then she smiled to show him how happy she was. It didn't work.

“What the hell was going through her crazy head?” he asked no one. “Dragging a baby around the country—”

“I love the Sunshine Sisters,” she insisted frantically.

“The what?”

“The Sunshine Sisters. That's our act. Rain and Rain, the Sunshine Sisters.” She was just making it worse. She had to change the subject. “But you were going to tell me about you and Mama. I want to know how you met her, and were you with her for a long time, or was it just . . .” She trailed off, thoughts of Lenny coming to mind. She moved on quickly. “I don't know anything about my past, you see.”

He was still upset; for a moment she was afraid he was going to tell her to leave again. But then he leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped around his knees, so he was looking at the floor instead of her.

“Lilianne was in a play. Some kind of operetta, I don't even remember the name now. She was in the chorus. I went backstage with a couple of friends to ask the girls to have supper with us. Lilianne came along. We got to talking. . . .” He leaned back in the chair and gazed at the wall. “Lilianne wasn't like anyone I'd ever met. She knew about theater—in those days she wanted to be an actress, not a singer—and she could talk about Shakespeare for hours. She wanted to have a career; she didn't want to get married and have a passel of—” He stopped as he remembered who he was talking to. “She was so different from everyone I knew. I was fascinated. I guess you'd like to hear that I was in love with her. But I wasn't. Neither was she. We just . . . suited each other for the moment. Besides, I was married.

“In those days, I wanted something. Lord knows what I thought it was. From the time I was a boy, everyone knew I was going to take over the family business. I was the oldest son.” He sighed. “I didn't want that for myself back then. I wanted to travel, see things. But I'd gotten married, and my wife was ill, and the business was sitting there waiting for me. So I gave in. I went to work for my father and tied myself down.” He paused. “Anyway, Lilianne came along at the right time.”

Iva Claire nodded. She wanted him to keep talking, although the things he was saying were hard to hear.

“She was touring through a lot of little towns all over Georgia and Alabama. I saw her whenever I could get away. I guess we were together on and off for about five months. We both knew she was planning to go to New York.” He shifted his gaze to another wall, still avoiding looking at Iva Claire. “When Lilianne told me about the baby, I didn't . . .” He was searching for words, and the polite tone in his voice was gone. Iva Claire held her breath and waited to hear what he would say about her.

“I wanted—” he began. “I told Lilianne I'd help her find a home for it.”

Iva Claire told herself not to get hurt about being called
it
.

“Lilianne wouldn't listen. For a while, I thought she was trying to get back at the Venables. They were real proud, always trying to prove that even though they were theater people they were just as good as anyone else. It would have embarrassed them to have a bast—an illegitimate child in the family. Especially her father; he was the one she hated the most. He told her she wasn't a good enough actress to work in the family theater, and she never forgave him. One thing about Lilianne, she could really carry a grudge. . . .” He trailed off, taken by some memory.

Get back to the part about me!

As if he'd heard her thought, he said, “When she told me she was going to keep the baby, I said she was on her own. I had to. I can't tell you what kind of pluperfect hell there would have been if anyone knew I'd gotten some actress in the family way.

“Lilianne was fine with me not being in her life. She didn't want any interference from me, just money. She said she'd go to my father if I didn't pay up. But I wanted to do it. I didn't want the baby to starve.

“I knew she'd be a bad mother, but I couldn't stop her. I did make a deal with her. She had to stop acting and stay in one place until the baby was five years old. I hoped that she'd call it quits after that.” He shrugged. Clearly Mama's dream was much stronger than he'd imagined.

“After five years she was free to go wherever she wanted in the North or the West. I didn't want her coming south—especially not to Georgia. I told her if she came down here, the checks would stop.” For the first time he looked at Iva Claire. “You want to know how I felt when I left you with her? Guilty. I'd never felt so guilty about anything.”

It wasn't as good as if he'd said,
I wanted you, and I hated not being able to keep you with me
, or, even better,
I loved you and I made the mistake of my life when I gave you up
. But it was something. The rest would come after he got to know her.

“You seem like a nice girl,” he said. “Very intelligent. Can I give you some advice?”

She nodded eagerly.

“Don't let Lilianne use you.”

“Mama wouldn't.”

“You know better than that.”

“Mama may not be like other mothers, but she loves me.”

“Just be careful,” he said gently.

He got up and went into one of the closets. A few seconds later he came back with a suitcase. It was made of caramel-brown leather with hinges and a lock that shone like gold. There was a fancy gold monogram on one side. It probably cost several months' worth of food and rent money for her and Mama.

“That's beautiful,” she breathed. He started packing her belongings in it. “You're giving it to me? I can't take that!”

“Yours is broken,” he said. He finished packing and handed the suitcase to her.

“You want me to leave? Now?” she asked.

He nodded. He couldn't look at her.

“But you haven't gotten to know me yet. I can guarantee you'll like me when you do. I'm very—”

“Iva Claire, stop!” It was the first time he'd used her name.

“But we haven't had enough time—”

“This isn't going to lead to anything. You're not a part of my life. We've seen each other. You've asked some questions, and I've done my best to answer them. But this is as far as it goes.”

It was like getting hit really hard. Then she went numb.

“I know you think that's cruel of me,” she heard him say, “but it's the kindest thing I can do for you.”

Actually, he was right. The numbness killed all feeling. She knew if she could have felt the pain, it would have drowned her. But she was able to take the expensive, beautiful suitcase he was holding out to her and stumble toward the door. He got there first and opened it for her.

“Good luck,” he said. She didn't tell him that you never say
good luck
to someone in show business.

She left the hotel and started to walk down Peachtree Street. She didn't get back on the streetcar, because she couldn't sit still. She had to keep moving. The beautiful suitcase bounced at her side, her father's gift bruising her leg.

“You're not a part of my life,” he'd said.

Don't think, don't think, don't think.

It started to rain the way it did in the South, a sudden downpour that happened so fast the sun was still out. Her dress got soaked and stuck to her body, flapping heavily around her legs. The water squished out of her shoes. The beautiful suitcase was getting ruined. She cradled it in her arms, trying to protect it with her body, but the rain kept coming down, spattering and staining the smooth rich leather.

She walked the entire mile from the Georgian Palace Hotel to Terminal Station. She'd always thought of herself as a person who was very realistic—Mama had had enough dreams for both of them—but now she knew that in her own way she'd been dreaming too. She'd dreamed that she'd find a way to make a new life for herself. Now she knew better. She didn't have money for school and she never would. She couldn't leave Mama because Mama was all she had. She was trapped. She bought her ticket and boarded the train that would take her back to Mama and Tassie and the New Court Theater. And the Sunshine Sisters.