Palmetto Moon (23 page)

“Vada?” Claire calls after me as I disappear up the stairs. “I have to go to work now.”

I don’t answer her. I dash into my bedroom and lock the door.

“Vada, I really have to go. If you’re indisposed, Daniel and Mr. Clip will watch Peter and Jonathan,” she hollers. “I’ll see you tonight. Oh, and by the way, Miss Mamie called to say her sister died and she’ll be home next Monday, after the funeral.”

I lay the letter beside the postcard in hopes that the good will outweigh the bad. The postmark reads Charleston, and I’m sure it can’t be anything but terrible news. I could shove it under the mattress and forget about it, but what if something’s wrong with Rosa Lee or my parents? Wouldn’t Desmond call instead of write?

His handwriting on the envelope isn’t painstakingly perfect like Miss Wentworth’s. My fingers tremble as they slide under the opening. The page unfolds like a bad dream.

Dear Miss Vada,

Things are bad here since Mr. Justin come back from looking for you. I’ve seen that look on your daddy’s face enough to know he’s gone put the screws to somebody, and I’m afraid that somebody is me and Rosa Lee. She doesn’t say anything, but we are old and I know she fears what he might do to us just as much as I do.

You know me and Rosa Lee love you as good as our own, and I can’t tell you what to do. But if you don’t want to be found, hog-tied, and married, run. ’Cause your daddy won’t stop ’til he find you.

Love,

Desmond

“
Mama
,” Daniel hollers at the top of his lungs.

“
Daniel Culliver Greeley
.” Claire nabs the boy by the collar. “You act like you’re in a house and not a cattle stampede this instant.”

She doesn’t have to look in the foyer mirror to know she is beet red over this kind of display in front of her employer. She and Reggie were just discussing whether new draperies were in order for some of the rooms downstairs when Daniel burst through the door of the Sheridan house like a maniac.

“But Miss Vada is crying. Loud. I tried to open her door to see if she was okay, but it’s locked.” The poor boy is crying himself. “You’ve got to come quick. She’s hurt. She may be dying.”

Claire takes him in her arms. “I just saw her, Daniel, not even an hour ago. She may be upset about something, a fight with her boyfriend, but I promise you, she’s fine.”

“
But I love her.
I gave her to Frank because he said he would make her happy. It’s all my fault. I just wanted her to be happy.”

“Oh, honey, you’re not responsible for whatever is going on with Vada.” He shakes his head against her shoulder and cries harder.

Reggie pats Daniel on the shoulder and smiles with genuine amusement that the boy is so taken with Vada Hadley. “Really, Claire, this can wait. Go tend to your friend. You can come back later today, or we can continue our discussion tomorrow.”

“I’m so sorry about this.” Lately, she’s been glad Daniel has been less affectionate, because when he is wrapped around her like this, it reminds her how much he is like Bobby and how much Bobby has missed. “Really, it won’t happen again.”

“They are children who need their mother. Of course it will most definitely happen, until they leave the nest. And it’s perfectly fine. As a matter of fact, it’s both novel and refreshing to see such a display of unbridled emotion in this house.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sheridan.”

“Reggie,” he corrects her and tousles Daniel’s hair. The boy wipes his face on Claire’s dress and looks at Reggie for a moment and mouths
sorry
. “Time heals all wounds, son.”

Reggie smiles his most convincing smile, but Claire doesn’t believe it. She knows that he is smarting, too, over the loss of Lesley, the way every little thing reminds him of his beloved. She suspects his childhood here wasn’t as wonderful as an outsider like her believes, and she knows that Lesley was a respite from whatever drove Reggie away from the Sheridan plantation.

“Thank you,” she says again, helps her son down the grand imperial staircase, and hurries toward the boardinghouse.

Claire can hear Vada crying before she gets to the front door and tells Daniel to go play with his brothers while she tends to her. If it’s something trivial, a lover’s spat that happened five minutes ago but feels like forever, as much as Claire loves Vada, it will be hard not to shake her and remind her how lucky she is to have the love of her life just a few paces away.

Hopefully, Claire will mind her temper and won’t tell Vada what forever really is, what it feels like deep down in her core, how unbelievable it is that Bobby Greeley will never saunter up beside her and hold her hand or say her name. It would be too cruel.

“Vada? It’s me, Claire. Can I come in?” She tries the door, but it won’t budge. “Vada, Daniel’s so upset that you’re crying, I promised him I’d talk to you. Please move the chair away from the door so I can come in.”

The chair scrapes against the floor, and Claire turns the knob and opens the door slowly. Vada falls onto her bed, into a crumpled heap. The pain emanating from her makes Claire’s insides throb with the certainty that death has robbed Vada of someone dear. For two years she’s begged God for her husband’s life back, even asked that her cup be passed to someone else. But Bobby can’t ever come back, and Vada Hadley doesn’t deserve this kind of loss any more than Claire does.

She holds Vada and cries with her until neither of them can cry anymore. The bedroom door opens and closes several times, and Claire knows the boys are worried, especially Daniel.

“Vada?” Claire pulls away and strokes Vada’s hair. Her fingers travel over the back of the bodice that is some kind of blend, maybe silk and cotton. She smiles at the gaping neckline where Vada cut the haute tag of her dress out, trying to disguise its worth. “Daniel fetched me—I’m so sorry for your loss.”

She looks at Claire, tearstained, beautiful, and puzzled. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to frighten the children.” She flops onto her back and swipes at her tears with one hand, a piece of crumpled paper in the other.

“I just assumed someone was—”

Vada shakes her head. “Oh, Claire, I’ve made such a mess of things,” her breath stutters, “and now . . . it looks like I’ll lose Frank . . . my job . . . everything.” She breaks down again.

“Nonsense. Frank loves you, and how can you lose your job when you haven’t even started it yet? Let me help you sort this out.”

Vada shakes her head. “I don’t want to get you mixed up in this.” She looks away from Claire. “But I can’t stay here. I have to leave.”

“Why? What have you done that’s so terrible?”

“Nothing . . . I—” She tries to collect herself and reaches for Claire’s hand. “I ran away from home. I didn’t want to marry Justin . . . and now—”

She hands Claire an envelope postmarked Charleston. Claire doesn’t recognize the return address, but 32 Legare, she knows that street is fancy, expensive. Claire opens the letter and reads. The words
hog-tied
and
married
make her stiffen. As hard as it’s been to watch Vada in love with Frank Darling, the idea of Vada being forced to marry someone she doesn’t love is barbaric. Yet she sees the logic, a handful of wealthy families, trying to keep their power and their money in a small circle. Was that why Reggie fled to Europe, to escape his family’s expectations of whom he should marry?

“Sit up.” Claire’s voice has the timbre she uses that snaps the boys to attention, and Vada does the same. “You’re a grown woman, Vada. What can your father possibly do to you?”

“You don’t understand—” She sucks in her breath. “When he finds me, he’ll—”

“Ground you? Send you to bed with no supper?” Claire hates the control this man seems to have over Vada that has her cowering like a child. “You have a life. In a few weeks, you’ll have a job. You have someone who I’m reasonably sure you love, and I know, just from looking at Frank Darling’s face the moment he sees you, that he loves you back.”

Vada swipes away her tears and reaches for Claire’s hand. “I know you’re right. He can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do, but I worry what he’ll do to Desmond—and Rosa Lee. They raised me.” She breaks down again, barely getting the words out.

Claire nods and understands the scene she witnessed from her bedroom window the night Vada arrived, the beaten-up old truck, her embrace with the old colored man in the full moonlight.

“My father keeps a portion of the servants’ money—he says he invests it for them. When he learns they helped me—” She shakes her head.

“Eggs break. Families break. But one thing I know for certain is, Vada, you and I don’t. You had the courage to choose a different life for yourself, and you’re thriving. This is what growing up is.” Claire pushes a strand of silky blond hair away from Vada’s tearstained face. “If your father turns Desmond and Rosa Lee out, you’ll take them in and somehow you’ll make do. And when the time comes, I have no doubt you’ll stand up to your father.

“What’s this?” Claire says, picking the postcard off of the floor.

Vada takes the card and swipes at her tears. “Some really good news.” Her voice catches in her throat.

“So, tell me something good, something wonderful. Right now.” Claire’s tried-and-true line with the boys, because she wants them to count their blessings so often, it’s second nature.

“It’s about my friend Darby. We lost touch a few years ago. I paid the woman who sent me the card to find her.” She traces her collarbone with her finger. “Not with money, with my grandmother’s necklace.”

“Darby must be a good friend.”

“She’s bawdy and Irish and wonderful, and I love her to bits. Frank thinks the idea is crazy, but I hope I can find her, maybe bring her here. It would be a true miracle.” She rolls onto her back and looks into Claire’s eyes. “Do you believe in miracles?”

“Of course I do,” Claire laughs. “Now, get out of this bed and start supper. Thankfully, it’s your night to cook.”

It’s been three weeks since Frank gave Vada the postcard from the harlot. She was so happy, all over him with kisses and breathy promises of love. Since then, he’s seen a difference in her, and not just because Miss Mamie is back from burying her sister. Vada’s in charge, navigating the old bat with a steely attitude that sometimes makes him concerned she might end up homeless. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, a good reason to marry her sooner.

Most evenings, even if it’s raining, they go down to the creek. Miss Mamie barely guards the front door and is more like an old sidewinder who’s given up on its prey. There are no warnings or hard looks. She just slithers back to her bedroom, most likely to mourn. But the old bat still won’t let the boarders use the phone. So Vada’s used his a couple of times to call Miss Wentworth. Frank wasn’t the least bit surprised when whoever answered couldn’t get the harlot to the phone, but Vada felt bad enough there was no word from her friend Darby, there was no need for Frank to say,
I told you so.

He shoves the blanket under his arm and smiles about how that would seem so presumptuous of him a few weeks ago. Now it’s a necessity for long hours of kissing on the creek bank. He’s surprised to see Vada walking across the crossroads to meet him. The skirt of her yellow dress blows about in the hot August breeze. She’s so beautiful, for a moment all he can think is that school will be starting next month and he’ll have to share her with a bunch of little rug rats. As much as he isn’t crazy about the idea, it will be good practice for the life he wants with Vada. They’ll have lots of kids. She hasn’t said so, but he knows from the way she watches Claire’s boys and looks at him, with a shy smile that seems to say
we’ll have this one day.

She meets him halfway and threads her fingers in his, and they start toward the creek. Frank likes that Vada seems to know what she wants, and he’s grateful she wants him. But as much as Vada is changing, and for the better, every day she still checks her mail, still asks Hank to double check to see if there’s another postcard for her. She tries to hide her disappointment when Hank says no, but it slices Frank to the core to see Vada unhappy, even if it’s just for a few seconds.

The creek comes into view, running high thanks to the rain two days ago. Vada spreads the blanket out, slips off her shoes, and sits down, watching the water flow toward the Edisto River. Usually the kissing commences before her bottom touches the blanket, but she’s quiet. Frank ignores the thick, sticky air and puts his arms around her, pulling her close.

“You were right,” she says, picking up a handful of sand and letting it run through her fingers.

“Was I? Do I get a prize?” He moves in to kiss her, but she turns her head away from him. “Guess not.”

“About Kittie Wentworth,” she says. Frank crooks his finger under her chin and turns her face toward his, but she won’t look at him just now. “I gave her the only thing I had left from my grandmother, when it was obvious Miss Wentworth had no intention of looking for Darby; I feel so stupid.”

“Hey. Hey. It’s okay. You were just trying to help your friend.”

“No, it’s not okay, Frank. I should have listened to you and stood up to that woman instead of letting her deceive me. I’ll never see my grandmother’s necklace again, and I’ll never see Darby again, that much I deserve. But I’ve had enough coercive, manipulative people in my life.” She turns to look Frank straight in the eyes. “You love me too much to be either of those things.”

She kisses him hard, almost desperately, fisting his shirt. She pulls away from him and starts to unbutton her dress. “Are you sure?” he says. At least he thought he said the words, but maybe he didn’t, because his mind is focused on her fingers sliding down the placket of her dress, the swell of her perfect breasts above her lacy white bra.

She nods and pushes her dress off of her shoulders. He is completely lost, fumbling with his shirt. His heart pounds like a big bass drum, and he can feel the blood rushing through each chamber and headed south. He’s a little worried he’ll scare her when she sees how hard he is for her, but that doesn’t stop him. She stops him.

Her eyes are wide. She holds her gaping dress together. “Someone’s coming,” she whispers and starts putting herself back together. She’s already pushing the top button through the loop, but disappointment and months of desire for this woman have him paralyzed. “
Frank. Get dressed
.”

He slips his shirt back on but doesn’t bother to button it. It’s hot enough out so that whoever it is will think he was just cooling off. A big coon dog bursts into the clearing and heads straight for Vada, licking her face. She’s cooing to Joe Pike’s dog, and Frank is praying Joe isn’t anywhere nearby. But Frank and God have been on the outs for so long, it’s no surprise when Joe wobbles out of the woods. He calls his dog, who whimpers when he has to tear himself away from Vada and sit at his master’s feet. Frank knows how the dog feels, but he’ll not cower to Joe Pike.

“Has he ruined you yet?” Joe sways on his bowed legs enough for Frank to know he’s a dangerous drunk.

“Go home, Joe,” Frank growls. “Sleep it off.”

“I asked you a question, girl.” The dog lies down, sinking onto the ground with a pitiful, whining grunt.

“Mr. Pike, Frank has done nothing of the sort.”

“I been watching you, stealing away with the likes of him.” Joe hawks and spits on the ground. “He’ll ruin you, just like he ruined her.”

“Shut up, Joe.” Frank wants to rough the old man up—or, at the very least, threaten him—but he has better sense than to whale on a drunken old fool in front of Vada.

“What’s he talking about, Frank?” Vada’s face is pale. She pulls away.

“Joe thinks I seduced Lila, before he and the good reverend shamed her into leaving Round O,” Frank says.

“It’s your fault, goddamn you.”

“He hates me because he’s Lila’s father.”

Joe fists a crumpled piece of paper and throws it at Frank. “I hate you because she’s dead.”

“Dead?” Frank picks up the paper and straightens it out. He runs his thumb across the Atlanta Police Department letterhead. “We regret to inform you that your daughter, Lila Pike, died July 4, 1947.”

Vada’s hand is on his shoulder. “Oh, Frank. I’m so sorry.”

He nods and rereads the words addressed to the parents of Lila Pike. Smudge would have never given her a divorce, but at least she’d taken her name back and gotten him out of her life.

“Joe, I’m sorry about what happened to Lila.” She’d told Frank the only time she was happy was when they were making love. He was just a horny love-struck kid and was flattered, but her tenacity when they coupled scared him. He could never tell anyone. Boys his age would think he was crazy, and if Frank had told his dad, he would have put a stop to it. “She was sick, Joe. Her mind wasn’t right, and there wasn’t a damn thing anybody could do about it.”

“You’ll burn in hell for what you did to her,” he screams, spittle flying, red-faced, tears streaming down his stubbled face. “And you mark my words, girl, he’ll ruin you just like he ruined
her
.”

He can’t even say his daughter’s name, just stumbles back toward the path and disappears. The dog laid his head in Vada’s lap, whining, not wanting to leave, but his master was hurting so badly, he didn’t have a choice.

Frank sits down on the blanket and stares out at the water. Just on the other side of the creek bank, a fat black water moccasin lounges on an oak branch that stretches out over the water and stares back. Vada starts unlacing her sandals. Any other time, the sight of her long, slender fingers working the ribbons would have been his undoing. The moccasin watches her wade out a few feet into the water, silently, no squeals from the icy spring-fed water, no mouth shaped like a perfect
O.
The snake plops into the water, most likely to fetch its supper, but it is cause enough for him to warn Vada.

The part of Frank that Lila claimed when he was a child stays silent. He slips his shoes off and wades out into the water, taking her by the hand. It’s no big rescue. He can’t even see the snake in the amber-tinted water, but still it makes him feel a little better. No matter how hard he tried, he could never save Lila.

They sit down on the blanket. Silent, only the sounds of katydids and cicadas practicing their raspy tune for another hot, sticky night intruding. Vada laces her sandals back up and looks at Frank, not smiling, still beautiful. The line between what he felt as a boy, for the preacher’s wife, and what he feels as a man with Vada has never been clearer, a small consolation for what did and didn’t happen tonight.

They start down the path back toward the crossroads, hand in hand. Frank stops at the trellis over the front gate instead of walking her to the door. He kisses her on the cheek, lingering, breathing her in. She doesn’t look at him when she asks the question. Since he’s known Vada, he’s asked her the same question so many times, it’s only natural she’d want to know. “What did Lila want?” Vada asks again, barely breathing.

He knows what Lila wanted. She’d said it over and over again. She knew it was impossible, but she’d promised Frank if he could give it to her, she would be happy, and he’d wanted so badly for her to be happy. After the scene with Joe, Vada deserves some answers. A vicious pull, as tenacious as Lila herself, fights to keep the words inside him, but Frank isn’t fifteen anymore, and the love he has for Vada wins out.

“She was barren. She wanted a baby.”

Reggie watches Claire intervene between Daniel and Peter, who are fighting over the wooden airplane he bought them at the Charleston Market yesterday. He should have bought three of them, but he didn’t think about that when he’d paid for the toy and a dozen roses for Claire.

He loves the way she negotiates peace with ease and in no time has the boys playing like friends instead of adversaries. “You amaze me, Claire.” Reggie laughs as she blushes. “You’re so good with the boys, so good at everything, really.”

She sets the teakettle on the trivet alongside the plate of cookies and sits down.

“You’re good with them, too.”

He loves sharing afternoon tea with her and has every day since he returned to Round O. He knows she doesn’t want sugar in her tea, but he suspects she learned to drink it that way thanks to rationing during the war, or maybe poverty. She inspects the imported biscuits that he found at a specialty shop on King Street, chooses one, and nibbles the corner like she’s rationing the cookie. Her eyes close as she savors the buttery sweet goodness.

“Allow me,” he says and pours. “Lesley desperately wanted children. I nearly gave in, but I was afraid I’d be a horrible father.”

“Nonsense.” She brushes her hand across his knuckles. “You’re patient and kind. You have a wonderful sense of humor, and most of the time when you play with the boys, I have a hard time telling you apart from the children.”

He laughs, reveling in her compliment. “I had the final say on whether we had a family; Lesley didn’t press the issue. But sometimes, I wish we had.”

“I know you miss Lesley every bit as much as I miss Bobby. The boys have helped me with that; maybe they will help you, too,” she offers.

“They already have, Claire; I love having them here. They make me feel at home, and that’s saying more than I could ever put into words. But more than anything, the time you and I have spent together feels like home.”

“I hope you are . . . at home here.” She positively glows. “And you’re so gracious to let us stay in the servants’ quarters. I really never thought I’d see the day when the boys and I would be moving out of the boardinghouse, and for someplace better. Wonderful. And we’ll have that in a few more days, thanks to you.”

“About your moving,” he says, unable to resist teasing her. She looks alarmed that he’s paused, like she thinks he might renege on Mr. Jameson’s offer to let her live in what were once slave quarters. “I’m not so sure about that anymore.”

She stirs her tea, with a thin smile like she’s trying to decide if he’d really be so cruel. “Of course. You want us to move into the house with you.” She waves her spoon in the air. “What mansion is complete without three little Indians running wild?”