Venom and the River (22 page)

What would the missing naughty one fetch?

She set the wine down, retrieved her backpack from under the desk, pulled out the blue envelopes, and returned to the chair.

She opened them all and spread them across the coffee table. She tapped the one she’d been looking for.

As you can see, it’s rather naughty. I trust you to keep it to yourself. At least until it can do no harm to my wonderfully lucrative fairy tales.

Damn you Jasper Bancroft. Where was it? He’d kept it hidden, just as his dead lover’s daughter had asked. The old adulterer had some scruples. “Not me,” Leigh said. “As the world now knows.” And she’d be more than happy to prove it again, if she had the picture. How she’d love to do some harm to those lucrative fairy tales. Get even. Throw something in the face of these stupid, sentimental women who were swarming over Pepin, crashing into her car, making demands, stealing her daughter. Of course, if she did anything she’d lose her chance to write for Peach, lose the chance to see her name on books about boys and their puppies, lose a guaranteed sixty-thou a year.

She went to the kitchen and refilled the tumbler.

She’d shoved Roberta’s novels to the edge of the coffee table when she’d spread out the letters. They made a crooked, precarious pile, and when she flopped into the chair, the top one smacked onto the floor.

Paris Nocturne.
“May as well know the worst,” she muttered. She picked it up, cracked it open, and began reading the flap copy.

In her debut novel, Pulitzer winning writer Roberta…

Leigh swore. Her eyes dropped down…
three sisters and a brother and their personal upheavals during a global upheaval, the first World War.

At the heart of this poignant and moving story are Louise, the second oldest daughter, a social worker with the Red Cross, and her brother James, an Army officer in France…

Leigh dropped the book against her chest as she sipped wine. That plot sounded vaguely familiar. Had Emily mentioned it? She riffled pages and then pressed the book open at a random page.
The fire reached Cloquet by evening.

A fire in Cloquet? Leigh scanned Ida May’s letters on the table. She picked one.

And what stories!…. A Red Cross home services worker…the great 1918 forest fire near Cloquet…

What the hell?

She opened the book at the beginning and began skimming. “Holy shit,” she murmured over and over. Another social worker sister, and one who wrote confession stories. Disapproving parents in, well, okay, Indianapolis and not Minneapolis.

She flipped through to the end. Yes, the brother was dying of syphilis.

A brief bio of the author was printed on the back flap copy.
“…lives with her husband in Maine.”

Maine. Where Dara and Julia had attended the Sapphic bacchanal.

What’s the story? Leigh wondered. She couldn’t quite connect the dots, but she knew they led somewhere—from Julia-the-lover in Maine, to Roberta Garibaldi in Maine.

An innocent coincidence?

Like hell.

Leigh took another drink of wine. It wasn’t quite as smooth as her Scotch, but it was certainly no three buck chuck from Trader Joe’s. Best of all, like the Glenlivet, it was a gift.

Her fingers tapped the cover of
Paris Nocturne.
As was this, a liberating gift. She didn’t know the story, but she’d bet Roberta could explain. And once she did, maybe that Pulitzer winning writer would be ready to make a deal.

6.

The young models paraded across the stage of the high school auditorium in groups of threes. When a trio reached center stage each girl took a turn in the spotlight, making a small circle and then curtseying while Peach narrated, giving the model and dressmaker’s names and the book and chapter or season and episode provenance of the dress’s inspiration. Then the girls walked to the side of the platform, where each was given a pink rose from Peach’s son and had a tiara placed on her head by Petra Sinclair, who then escorted each trio to a place on the risers at the back of the stage.

The dresses from the Little Girl high school years were paraded one at a time. There were few teenagers willing or available to model, and so most of those creations were worn by the dressmakers themselves.

Leigh watched from an aisle seat on the left. She hardly noticed the parade of dresses because she couldn’t take her eyes off Emily, who stood guard over the models waiting their turn—holding back the eager ones, soothing the nervous ones, and releasing each to cheers and applause as soon as Peach gave the signal.

“Beautiful girl,” Leigh whispered. “My beautiful girl.”

After a long curtain call for all the models and seamstresses, Peach started thanking a long list of aides. Turnbull—Joe—bowed very nicely when his mother said his name. Poor kid, she thought. Stuck on stage in the midst of all this estrogen, practically the only male present.

As soon as Peach finished reading her list, she turned, waved an arm, and then a short, overweight and florid man with a ring of gray hair on his pink scalp entered from the wings to much applause. He blew kisses to the audience and it went wild. Ida May’s heir. Peach’s husband. Joe’s father.

Her own future boss?

“Oh dear,” she whispered, watching Joe watch his parents hug and kiss and coo. Clearly, the boy wanted to die.

“Oh dear,” she said again. Was that some sort of signal he was giving Emily?

Donnie Wickham shared a brief reminiscence of first meeting Ida May. When he finished, there was a moment of deathly silence, then a deafening swell of applause that increased in volume as the audience rose. Leigh rose with the others, all the while watching Emily and Joe laugh as they disappeared offstage.

Down front, Roberta and Marti rose at the same time, chatting happily. They saw her and waved. Leigh blew them both a kiss. Later, she thought. She’d confront Roberta about the origins of her story later. She’d let her enjoy at least one night in Little Girl Land.

*

The muggy evening air was almost welcome after an hour in air conditioning. Leigh paused outside the school to take off her jacket and stuff it into her backpack. As she proceeded down the steps a shadow bulged out from a large tree on the school lawn, then separated into two pieces. One came forward, the other jogged away toward the street.

“Hi, Mom. Running from the Little Girls again?”

Leigh glanced at the disappearing shadow. Joe was certainly taller and leaner than his father. “I didn’t want to risk another horde of them asking about the cottage.”

Emily kissed her mother lightly on the cheek. She stepped back and crossed her arms. “Long time no see. I’m sorry about the other night.”

“I am too.”

“What are you doing here, anyway? I wouldn’t have thought this sort of thing would interest you.”

Leigh said, “Terry’s daughter was supposed to get in this evening, and I didn’t really want to be there when she arrived. I’ll stop in on my way home.”

“Phil’s ex-wife?”

“The other one. I’m not looking forward to it; Geneva called her a gorgon.”

“So I don’t suppose you’ll be sleeping there tonight.”

“I didn’t sleep there last night.” Well, Leigh thought. Listen to me.

Emily’s eyebrows were perfect cinnamon-brown arches against pale skin, visible even in the dark. They popped up, then dropped as she puzzled over what she’d heard.

But why shouldn’t Emily know it all? Was there any other way to start over? “Phil and I went out last night. I called him. I wasn’t in the mood to work and I wasn’t ready to meet Roberta.”

The girl certainly had manners. Chase’s mother had drilled her well. Emily fixed a little smile; Leigh didn’t believe it was real. “You’re a big girl, Mom. I suppose you’ll be sleeping there lots now.”

“No.”

“Phil’s a one night stand? What a waste. But if you don’t care, why should I.”

“I don’t know what he is, Emily. Last night I just wanted—”

“This is not really an appropriate time or place to discuss your sex life, Mother. I’d better get going. I promised to help clean up after the refreshments.”

“Emily, wait. Roberta recognized me. I knew she would. You don’t have to lie to her. That’s not a problem now.”

“
My
lying has never been the problem. No, the good thing about Roberta knowing everything and maybe telling the world is that now you can stop hiding. Don’t you realize how dishonest that is? Don’t you ever get tired of being dishonest? This is good, Mother, because you can finally stop pretending you’re not Nancy Taylor Lee. You can forget Leigh Burton.”

“You don’t understand, dear: it’s been ten years, and that’s who I am now.”

Her daughter walked away.

Another round, Leigh thought. But it’s not going to you. She rose, followed, and grabbed Emily’s hand.

Emily tried to tug loose. Her hand dropped to her side and she faced Leigh with a stony expression. “I told you, I need to get going.”

“I’m going to Terry’s, but I won’t be there long. Pizza at Dee’s tonight after you’re done here?”

After a moment Emily nodded. Leigh leaned and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you.”

Emily backed away a step, but her hand lingered within Leigh’s grasp. She smiled slyly. “Karaoke?”

Leigh tucked a stray spiral of hair behind her daughter’s ear. “There’s not much I wouldn’t do for you, darling, but that’s pushing it.”

7.

Two women sat at the kitchen table in the big house. So both daughters had come. Leigh glanced at the younger woman. Phil’s ex.

The older woman rose and held out a hand. “Dana Sinclair, and this is my half-sister, Delia Abernathy.”

Half-sister. Had she been making that distinction for forty years? Leigh took the older woman’s hand and nodded without smiling. Dana Sinclair was obviously the alpha sibling, the one to watch. And she was Peach’s old playmate. Who had ruled in that sandbox?

Delia didn’t bother to rise from her seat. Instead, she smiled weakly as a hand rose and then dropped onto a slightly rounded belly. She caught Leigh looking and said, “Almost five months.”

“Terry never mentioned it. Does he know?”

“He does now. My husband and I decided not to tell anyone until the amnio was back. I’m forty-five, and we just wanted to be certain all was well.”

Forty-five. So maybe Phil had always had a thing for slightly older women.

“And all is well,” Dana said briskly. “A healthy baby boy, which is wonderful. Our father’s favorite daughter is finally producing a grandchild.”

“Dana,” Delia protested softly.

Dana Sinclair brushed the perfect edge of her silvery bob behind an ear and sat down. She gestured to an empty chair, her index finger snapping out to make the point. Dana was a commodities trader, Leigh recalled as she sat. Married to a pioneer in hedge funds, the third marriage for each. Dana had three grown children and assorted grandchildren.

“I’m sure my father has told you all about us.”

“We focus on his work, Dana.”

Dana smiled primly. “I doubt that. My father is a talker. Some women find it charming. His family finds it tiresome and it makes us nervous that he’s talking to you. He doesn’t always respect boundaries once he gets going.” She looked to her sister for support. Delia only sighed.

“How are you feeling?” Leigh said to her.

“Like crap.”

“I’ve been pregnant only once. I was nauseous nearly the whole nine months.”

“No shit?”

Leigh nodded. “People were so obnoxious about giving advice. They all kept telling me their remedies; none of them worked. The ones who didn’t have a nausea cure just told me it would end in a few days and I should hang in there. That was all wrong too. The only person who ever told me anything worthwhile was my mother-in-law—now my ex-mother-in-law.”

Both Bancroft daughters leaned forward. Leigh said, “Once I was in my final two months and still nauseous, she told me to go ahead and have a tiny glass of red wine at lunch each day.”

“Wine!” Delia sat erect, suddenly cheerful.

Dana swiveled in her chair to face her sister. Half sister. “No, Delia. Never.” She aimed her glare at Leigh. “Surely you joke.”

Leigh smiled. “Not a joke.”

Dana said, “That sort of irresponsibility doesn’t surprise me.”

Leigh said, “I beg your pardon?”

“With the housekeeper gone, you were the only employee around. You should have made sure we had a clearer picture of our father’s declining health. Or were you trying to keep us away? Now that Geneva is out of the picture perhaps you thought you’d settle in and get your share of the fortune. He’s vulnerable that way, as I’m sure you’ve figured out. He’s always been very susceptible to the charms of women.” Once again she looked to her sister for support.

Delia closed her eyes, rubbed her brow, and gave her half-sister the finger.

“I’m sorry you were surprised by your father’s condition,” Leigh said. “Sometimes it’s hard to see someone’s decline when you’re with him every day, so perhaps I misjudged how serious things are. He’s definitely gone downhill quickly since Geneva left. Her absence has been hard on him, and he’s been worried about her too. He’s an empathetic person. He’s been very kind to me.”