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Authors: Barbara Allan

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Milton laughed once, silently, then shook his head, and he seemed to drift off somewhere, somewhere not in this room.
He said, “I bought that cornet for Stephen when he was a boy—he played the trumpet in the school band and was quite good. Especially jazz. He had a real interest in jazz, and my old 78s.”
I gestured to the stack of letters. “Apparently he and Anna would listen to them together. In your rec room?”
The sharp eyes narrowed. “What are you planning to do with the cornet?”
“Why, sell it to the highest bidder, of course,” I said. “That's the little business I'm in with my daughter, you know. That's why we bought that pig-in-a-poke storage unit.”
“You had no idea that horn was in the unit?”
“None,” I said, and that was technically true, though Big Jim Bob had indicated the unit might hold something valuable.
Then I added, “I do hope you're not going to challenge my ownership. I won the bid on the unit in good faith, and possession is nine-tenths of the law.” (Ten-tenths in my case. Eleven-tenths.)
He seemed to melt back into the chair. “No, Vivian, of course not. Although I could challenge you on the fact that—if I remember correctly—the cornet was given to Anna not as a gift, but for safekeeping.” He sighed heavily. “I might consider making you an offer. But I'll need to reflect on that—considering the cornet is something that would bring back sad memories.”
I risked bringing up another memory. Perhaps not sad, but bad. “I apologize for asking, but ... is it true your son James is in town?”
Milton's face hardened, and he responded tersely, “If he's here, I've had no contact with him.”
“Don't you think you should? Isn't it about time that—”
“Vivian.” His body stiffened. “Your brownies will only buy you
so
much goodwill... .”
I raised a finger. “ ‘The weak can never forgive ... only the strong.' ”
“Who said
that
?
You?
”
“Mahatma Gandhi.”
He closed his eyes. He opened his eyes. “Vivian, I think it's time for you to go.”
“ ‘Families are like fudge ... mostly sweet with a few nuts.' Unknown.”
“
Go!
”
In the outer office, Lee was at a side desk, working on a computer, the beginnings of a letter onscreen.
I asked the back of him: “What are
your
plans after Milton's retirement?”
He swiveled, his expression pleasant. “I'm taking mine, too.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Aren't you a little young for that?”
“Mr. Lawrence has been very generous with my salary over the years ... so why not take a permanent vacation? I'm thinking about either San Francisco or Key West.”
“San Francisco in the summer,” I suggested, “Key West in the winter.”
“Nice notion. And if I get bored, wherever you are, there's always a community theater.”
I chuckled. “You won't leave town without saying good-bye, will you?”
“Never. Expect a theatrical exit.”
“Ha!” I smiled at the dear boy. “Do come by the house, anytime. Well ... ta-ta!”
I simply had to find just the right girl for him.
It was late afternoon when I stepped out of the bank building, the autumn sun low in the sky, bright rays spreading a ribbon of gold across the Mississippi waters. (Not bad, huh?)
I hoofed it two blocks to a park bench in front of our beautiful Grecian wedding-cake of a courthouse to wait for the trolley.
As promised, I will now tell my even-better trolley story. There was a spinster in town who bought a chimpanzee to keep her company, and one day she wanted to take it with her on the trolley, but since the driver (the one prior to Maynard Kirby's most recent return) wouldn't allow pets on board, she dressed it up as a little girl, complete with a Goldilocks wig. Well, everything was fine until
(Note from editor:
Vivian's strict word count has been reactivated.
)
 
Trash ‘n' Treasures Tip
 
If you are serious about making money from storage unit auctions, be consistent: attend as many as possible. Not just when the mood hits you (like Mother).
Chapter Eight
Scandal, Us?
W
ith Mother off to terrorize downtown Serenity, I took advantage of the solitude around the Borne homestead to indulge in a warm, leisurely shower. Relaxed, even refreshed, I dressed in DKNY jeans and a new burgundy Three Dots tee (which I'd snagged on-line 75% off), slipped into some leopard-print Sam Edelman flats (another sale), and grabbed my mustard-yellow Hobo hobo-style bag. (It's so liberating that nothing has to match anymore—although Mother sometimes takes this to a what-did-she-do-dress-in-the-dark extreme.)
Before I continue, however, some reality checks are needed after Mother's marathon chapters: 1) The calliope was playing “The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down”—the Looney Tunes theme—at the time of the Boat Club ramming, not “Bim Bam Boom,” which I'm not even sure is a real song, 2) she got catsup from a hotdog on my UGGs, not blood—and she is still forbidden to wear them, and 3) the unruly horses and their unbridled bodily functions had
everything
to do with Mother's dismissal as director of the Playhouse.
(Note from Vivian:
It's criminally unfair that Brandy gets to challenge my comments when I don't have another chapter in which to mount my rebuttal. The calliope was indeed playing “Bim Bam Boom”—a very real and quite catchy song. And I would
never
put catsup on a hotdog, as I'm a mustard gal all the way—with a little relish. As far as the horses and my Playhouse status are concerned, that is a matter of opinion.
)
(Note from editor:
Ladies, if you do not stop this squabbling, I will edit out
all
of your asides.
)
(Brandy:
Okay.
)
(Mother:
Ditto.
)
With a beautiful fall day awaiting, I left my jacket in the front closet, grabbed a few things Peggy Sue would need for her release from the hospital (change of clothes, small suitcase), then headed out to the battered Buick.
What I wanted to do first was retrieve Sushi from the vet; but considering how Sis reacted to my perceived favoritism toward Soosh post-home invasion, I figured I better rank the human being over the canine.
So I steered the car toward the hospital, and on arrival I took the elevator up to the second floor, stepping off to see—at the end of the hall, in front of Peggy Sue's room—something that gave me a start.
Two very official-looking men with short hair and dark suits stood a few feet apart, in separate solemn conversations with their respective cell phones. I knew they weren't policemen, not Serenity ones anyway—the local gendarme didn't exist with whom Mother and I hadn't already tangled.
Iowa Bureau of Criminal Investigation maybe?
Federal agents?
Whatever, I dropped the small suitcase and broke into a run—nearly knocking over a medical cart—seized by the sense that something terrible had happened to Peggy Sue!
At the door to Sis's room, a dark-suited man with a bucket head and crew cut put a “stop” palm up.
“No admittance,” he said in a midrange monotone.
“I'm Brandy Borne, her sister! What's happened?”
The man spoke into his lapel, putting one hand to his ear. “The sister's here. Should I let her in?”
I didn't wait for a response from his lapel, before shoving my way into the room, my heart in my throat, not knowing what to expect—an empty room, Peggy Sue kidnapped. . . or even her lifeless body bludgeoned, our home intruder having returned to finish the job!
But there was Sis, in her cranked-up bed, hair coifed against plumped pillows, make-up perfect, looking rested and lovely in a satin crème-colored robe, its V-neck presenting a generous touch of cleavage.
My imagination—fueled as it was by DNA inherited from Vivian Borne, a theatrical diva capable of transforming a paper cut into an amputation—had run away with itself. Like those loose-boweled horses on the Playhouse stage.
And seated next to Peg, holding one hand, was my biological father, Senator Edward Clark.
Movie-star handsome—think Paul Newman in his early sixties, the light blue eyes and all—the senator was wearing his usual on-the-stump outfit: tailored navy suit, crisp white shirt, red tie, and flag lapel pin. Red, white, blue—not so subtle, huh?
My anxiety flared into irritation. Didn't the senator realize what he was risking, making this particular hospital visit, with the election a mere month away?
Sis said sweetly, “Why, Brandy, what a nice surprise!”
That was the kind of thing she said to me only when other people were around.
She nodded toward the seated senator, like I might have missed him. “Look who's been thoughtful enough to come see me.”
I managed a tight-lipped smile and a nod. “Senator.”
“Make it ‘Dad,' ” he corrected, flashing me the charismatic smile that had won over many a voter.
Me, I was more in the mood for a recount.
I said through clamped teeth, “Might I see you a moment. . .
Dad?
”
And turned on my heel.
Soon, in a little alcove across the hall, I stood facing the senator. His political advisors—not men from U.N.C.L.E., as I had suspected—kept a watchful eye, if a respectful distance.
“What are you
doing
here?” I demanded.
He frowned but just a little, keeping his cool. “Just what you see—visiting Peggy Sue.”
“How did you even know—”
“Vivian got word to me.”
Why had I asked?
I sighed. “And how are you planning to explain your presence to the media?”
He raised his eyebrows, doing an innocent act that really didn't suit him. “Your sister's been working for my campaign. . . and I care about my people.”
He called her my sister, but “Dad” knew damn well she was my mother. Biological mother.
“You really think that explanation will satisfy the twenty-four-hour news cycle bunch?”
“Why shouldn't they accept it?”
I lowered my voice. “How long till some would-be Woodward or Bernstein finds out Peggy Sue was once a just-out-of-high-school campaign worker that you got pregnant ... and that
I
am the evidence?”
Nonplussed, my father put a hand on my shoulder. “Brandy, since finding out about all this a few months ago, I've made no effort to hide any of it.”
“Well, you should!”
His smile was unsettling in its humanity. “We both know that sooner or later the truth
will
out.”
“Can't you make it later than sooner? You're going to lose, if this gets out.”
The senator was up against a formidable opponent this time, and the poll percentages were closing fast.
“You surprise me,” he said. “I hardly thought
you'd
have a rooting interest in my reelection.”
“Maybe I just don't particularly relish being at the center of a scandal! Peggy Sue is still reeling from her husband's tragic death, and our mother is a fruitcake who doesn't need Christmas to come early this year, if you follow me.
And
I have a young son of my own who I don't particularly want to subject to seeing his mom turned into an unwilling reality star.”
He listened patiently to me rant and rave, then bestowed a fatherly smile. “Brandy, please trust me. Not my first time at the rodeo. I do know what I'm doing.”
I felt suddenly sick at the pit of my stomach. Was this some kind of fourth-quarter play by the good senator to grab headlines? Could he play our twisted little family soap opera for sympathy?
He was reading my mind, or at least making a good guess, patting the air with upraised, calming palms.
“Brandy,” he said, “I
was
going to wait for a better time to tell you this, because I really do want your support ... your blessing... .”
I frowned and spat a word: “
What?
”
“... but you'll hear it soon enough from Peggy Sue.” He paused. “We're going to be ...”
My Medusa expression had frozen him, and I heard myself completing his thought: “...
married?
”
He nodded, rather embarrassed.
Stunned, all I could do was crank my gaping mouth closed again. But my eyes were so wide, they were burning.
The bucket-headed aide intruded tentatively. “Senator ... we have to go, if we're to make the next event on time.”
His boss waved a dismissive hand, and the aide backed off.
My father's attention shifted back to me. “You seem less than ... ecstatic at this prospect.”
I got my mouth working again. My tone was about that of William Shatner reporting a gremlin on the wing of the plane to a stewardess. “Isn't this ...
union
... a little sudden? I mean, you only found out this summer about Peggy Sue having a kid ... having
me
... .”
He smiled patiently. “Brandy, in recent days, I've gotten to know Peg well enough to see that she'll make a wonderful wife.”
“Really? She strikes you as a genuine, warm human being?”
“She strikes me as ... an ideal politician's wife.”
At least he was being honest—not so common in his game. And he was right—Peggy Sue would be brilliant in that role.
But I didn't see anything like love entering into the equation anywhere. And I had a right to wonder about that. After all, I was their love child, wasn't I?
He touched my arm and his smile wasn't the practiced, charismatic one. “Brandy, I do have to run now ... but we'll talk again soon, all right? We have decades of catching up to do.”
“I'm more concerned about right now,” I insisted.
“Of course you are. You're a pragmatist. Like your mother.”
For a moment I thought that was gibberish—who ever thought Vivian Borne was a pragmatist? Then I realized he meant Peggy Sue.
And at that moment, he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.
Numbly, I watched the senator and his two aides walk down the hallway in military lockstep, then disappear toward the elevator.
Shell-shocked, I shuffled back to Peggy Sue's room.
When I entered, Sis was reading
Harper's Bazaar
—a fashion magazine too rich for my blood—and I took the vacated chair next to her.
She smiled at me as she set the magazine aside on the nightstand, next to a huge vase of red roses, most likely sent by the senator.
“What's the matter?” she asked.
“Whatever could be the matter?”
Never one to look too far under the surface, she took me at my word.
She inhaled deeply, breasts rising and falling, then cooed, “Isn't he just grand?”
“You can cover those up now,” I said, nodding to her cleavage. “He's off to his next stop.”
She ignored that, her eyes sparkling, probably with visions of the diamond ring that would soon grace her finger. “Brandy, I have some wonderful news! You will never guess.”
“You're gonna marry the senator.”
Her eyes flared. “Edward
told
you!”
I nodded.
She clasped her hands as if in prayer or maybe in anticipation of a feast. “Isn't it
marvelous?
Imagine,
me,
a senator's wife! ... You seem less than overjoyed for me. I would think you'd be thrilled.”
“Should I be?”
She frowned. “What's wrong?”
“What's wrong? Don't you realize if this gets out before the election, you'll be married to an
ex
-senator?”
She smiled teasingly. “Not jealous, are you?”
“Jealous! Of what? Of who?”
“Of me.”
“Don't be ridiculous. I wouldn't be you for
anything
.”
Normally, such a caustic remark would have sent Peggy Sue into a conniptions fit. But she was flying too high.
“Can't you just be happy for me, Brandy? If Edward loses the election, so be it—he and I will be together, and we'll
all
be able to come out of the closet.”
“I
like
it in the closet! I like being nutty Vivian Borne's daughter. What I don't like is being part of some smear campaign launched against your precious senator. Peg, I've got a son. You've got a daughter. What are you
thinking?
”
She was staring at me with this peculiar smile, like she was trying to make out what I was saying but I insisted on speaking in Pig Latin.

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