Palmetto Moon (10 page)

He’s put a tablecloth on the center table. There’s even a mason jar with wildflowers from the field between here and the church. I recognize the tall, spritely buttercups and the pretty yellow and orange blanket flowers that trail gracefully out of the makeshift vase, but I’ve never seen the frilly blue flowers before. I take a seat, add my mimosa blossom to the jar, and prop my chin up on my hands to let Frank know I’m not going anywhere.

Just the thought of what that horrible man did to Frank today, and in a church no less, makes my blood boil. I’m sure the last thing Frank Darling wanted was to go back to that place, and yet he did it for me. And that awful woman who, well, I’m not sure what the word is for deflowering a boy. What about her? Oh, and the reverend, with his evil eyes, singing that last hymn at the top of his lungs? Why,
he’s
the abomination, and his wife is not much better.

I watch Frank in the kitchen, fixing our plates. I can see the hurt on his face. Every once in a while, he looks up to see if I’m still here. I won’t embarrass him further by saying the words out loud, but I’m staying put.

He sets two plates on the table, sits down, and starts eating. I bow my head, and he drops his fork. “Dear God,” I say, reaching for Frank’s hand, “bless us, your creatures, for the food we are about to receive and keep us mindful that you are a loving and forgiving God. Amen.”
There.
I smile at him. “Let’s eat.”

The food is scrumptious, and the longer we eat, the better Frank seems to feel. He watches intently for my approval as I try his mashed potatoes for the first time, his black-eyed peas. “The chicken is wonderful, Frank. Did your mother teach you how to cook?”

“No.” He looks taken aback, then pushes his food around his plate. “My daddy had this place, and his daddy before him. I’m not sure who taught them, but they taught me.”

“What’s the first thing you learned to make?”

He smiles. “Biscuits. I got them so wrong, the dog gave them to the field mice, and even they wouldn’t eat them.”

The biscuits are golden brown and look like they’ve been buttered on the top. I break one in half and take a bite. The next thing I know, my shoulders are up around my ears and I’m breathing out an
mmmm
sound. Frank’s smiling his proud, beautiful smile. The world would be a perfect place if Frank Darling’s biscuits married Rosa Lee’s crab cakes.

“What about you? Who taught you how to cook?”

“Oh.” I swallow hard. “No one, really.”

“You must be a natural. What’s your favorite dish to make?”

I can’t help but laugh, knowing that if I made anything, the dog and the mice would be dead. “I can’t cook. My mother did all the cooking.”
My murrah. “
I’m hopeless in the kitchen, a complete calamity.”

“I could teach you.” Frank smiles, and I believe he could. “Now, as I recall, the last time we shared a meal, you said you had a favor to ask of me.”

My turn to be penitent. I put my fork down and shake my head. It’s clear, after church, that I’ll have to take the bus to Memphis. The last thing Frank Darling needs is another reason to set tongues wagging. “Never mind. It was nothing.”

“Vada.” I love the way he says my name, like it’s holy. “I told you I’d do anything for you, and that still stands.” He reaches on the other side of the counter for two plates, each with a huge slab of chocolate cake topped off with dark, gooey frosting and pecan halves. After stuffing myself on the meal, I can’t believe I’m actually salivating.

I put a forkful into my mouth and sigh. He laughs and starts in on his cake. “Frank, this is wonderful. How do you get it so moist?”

“Buttermilk and a little Coca-Cola. I’m glad you like it.” He gets up and puts two cups on the table and starts to pour the coffee, and then shakes his head. “How could I forget? You like tea, with milk.”

“I love coffee, especially with chocolate.”

“Sugar?”

He laughs when I drop five cubes into the hot brew. “The meal, the flowers, the dessert, it’s all so wonderful, Frank.”

He pushes his cake away and takes my hand. “Enough with the compliments, Vada. Tell me what you want.”

My eyes are wide from the reference that could mean anything from passionate kisses to more chocolate cake. With Frank being the only person I know with a car, I admit I’d considered him as a way to get to Memphis and back, a handsome, charming vehicle. But after church and the scrumptious meal he made to please me, I’m confused. I still must help Darby, but I’m not sure I’m prepared to ruin Frank Darling to get to Memphis.

“You can trust me, Vada. Please.”

“As you know, I don’t have a car.” He looks hurt, like he’s thinking,
Oh, great, she wants to borrow my car again.
“There’s someone in Memphis—”

“Jesus, Vada.” He runs his hand through his sandy-blond hair and looks at me. He’s hurt, angry. “Who is he?”

“He’s not a he at all, Frank. He’s a she, Darby, my best and dearest friend. She’s in trouble and needs my help.” I can tell by his face that he’s utterly confused, and as flustered as he is, I’m not completely sure how much I should tell him.

“What kind of trouble?”

“She owes a horrible woman a lot of money. If you can just take me to the bus station in Walterboro—”

“It would take at least twelve hours to drive there by car, no telling how long by bus, and I’m not putting you on a bus.”

“Please, Frank.”

“No, I’ll drive you myself.” His brow furrows with worry. “And then you’re going to pay this woman off?”

“Of course I’ll pay the debt. But the real reason for going is to find Darby and talk her into coming back here to live with me.”

He lets out a frustrated sigh. “Hell, I can’t let you go off by yourself, not like that. It’s just not safe. But you saw the looks I got today, even after twelve years. Are you sure you want that? Because if you and I leave out of here together and don’t come back for three or four days, that’s exactly what you’ll get, or worse.”

“I don’t care what those people think.”

“You should. They’re the same people whose taxes are going to pay you to teach their children, Vada, and this won’t look right at all. Honest, I want to take you, but I’ll be damned if I’ll be part and parcel to your getting run out of town.”

“You’re right, Frank. I should care about those busybodies, but I don’t. It’s imperative that I help Darby, and soon.” Looking into his eyes, I know he cares about me, and I’m tearing him in two. Who will take care of the diner? How can both of us leave town without looking like we’re together?

“The thought of what this could do to your good name makes me say no, but I’m a selfish bastard. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t turn down two solid days with you.” He leans across the table and rubs a dab of chocolate off my lower lip with his thumb. “The diner’s closed next week, for the Fourth of July; I go fishing every year up at my cabin on the Santee Cooper River. I could pack my stuff and head out of town, same as always. Leave before noon, so everybody can see. Tiny can bring you to me the next morning. I trust Tiny, and you can, too.”

“Lord, Frank, did somebody die? You got your hat in your hand.” Tiny swings the screen door open to her little hole-in-the-wall and shoos the flies away that have congregated over her mangy old mutt lying in front of the door. “Just step over Sheba. She ain’t feeling good today.”

This house makes Frank smile, remembering his mother in a good light, which is rare and justified. He used to picture this place every time his mama told the story about the teeny-tiny woman in the teeny-tiny house. Mama’d wanted to be an actress her whole life, so whenever she told the story, she gave a grand performance that left her drained and sad afterward.

“You want some tea, shug?”

“No, I can’t stay long.”

“What brings you out this way on a Wednesday night?”

“Vada.”

“Do tell, and you look like you’ve been to church, Frank.”

“I have.” She raises her eyebrows. “Got preached at for two hours. It was bad that Vada was there, but as embarrassing as it was, it was easier to take with her by my side.”

“She’s a pretty woman. Seems real sweet.” Tiny leans over and pats his leg. “Have yourself a good time, Frank, and if it turns into something, all the better. You deserve it.”

“Thanks, but I need your help.” He tells Tiny the plan he hatched, and she doesn’t flinch, just nods like she’s jotting it down on the little green order pad in her mind. She doesn’t judge him, which is one of the things he loves most about her. Tiny has never judged him. “Sounds crazy, huh?”

“What time are you wanting me to have her at the cabin?”

“You’ll do it, then? Just like that?”

She looks annoyed. “I helped your mama and daddy out with you, changed your diapers, and powdered your behind. You ought to know better than to ask such a thing.”

“I’d appreciate if you could have her at the cabin Tuesday morning. In case anybody asks, she’s going to tell Miss Mamie you’re taking her to the bus station in Walterboro to go home for Independence Day. I’ll call you when we get back, and you can drop her at the boardinghouse so everything looks like it’s on the up-and-up.”

Tiny nods like she understands Frank loves this woman enough to break unspoken rules that could shut down the store and the diner for good. “You sure about this, Frank?”

“More sure than I’ve ever been of anything in my life.”

“What’s in Memphis?” Tiny says.

“As long as I’m with her, it doesn’t matter.”

Early Thursday morning, Claire arrives in Charleston. She parks the Plymouth on King Street and walks two blocks to the address on Pinckney Street. She tries to feel confident in her best dress. She needs this job. She looks down at the gray plaid fabric and knows it’s out of season and long since out of style. She’d made it just before she found out she was expecting Jonathan, and after giving birth to three boys, she was surprised it fit at all.

She stops short of the cream-colored stucco law offices of Barkley, Barkley, and Jameson and takes a deep breath. Even the tall, ornately carved door is intimidating. She takes another breath, opens the door, and then almost turns around and walks out.

A long settee covered in fine red satin brocade is flanked by a half dozen intricately carved mahogany chairs, three on one side, three on the other. The floors are so highly polished, they look wet, the rugs so lavish, she has to fight the urge to take her dusty, worn shoes off. She knows the thick silk draperies hanging over the long windows overlooking the street cost more than she will ever make in her lifetime. And if the pretty redhead on the telephone at the reception desk hadn’t motioned for her to come in, she probably would have turned and left.

Claire feels like she is going to throw up; she doesn’t belong here, and, to be honest, she doesn’t belong at the Sheridan mansion, either. She is a mother of three boys who is handy with a needle and thread. Nothing more. Nothing less. From somewhere down the long hallway of offices, someone clears their throat, reminding her of Mr. Stanley and the boardinghouse. Claire doesn’t have a choice. She has to be more—if not for herself, for her boys.

The woman ends her call and smiles at Claire. “May I help you?”

“I’m responding to the newspaper ad for a housekeeper—in Round O. Has the position been filled yet?”

“No, dear,” the woman says. “The ad has run for some time. Mr. Jameson has had trouble finding a suitable applicant. I’m sure he’ll want to see you, but he’s very busy. You may have to wait for quite a while.”

“That’s fine.” Claire is sure this is a waste of time. What was she thinking?

The woman picks up the phone and speaks with Mr. Jameson, the friendly tenor of her voice changes, and it’s clear this woman is intimidated. “Yes, sir. No, sir. Certainly, sir.” She ends the call and smiles wanly at Claire. “Go ahead and get your references out, so you’ll be ready.”

But Claire has no references, no experience. Nothing. She nods and rummages through her purse and pulls out three papers. They are references in a way, pictures the boys drew for her a few weeks ago, for Mother’s Day. Jonathan’s is mostly colorful scribble; Peter tried to capture the mimosa tree in full bloom, with Claire perched on one of the crates the bachelors sit on. Across the bottom of the page, “World’s Greatest Mama” is written in waxy black letters.

She looks at Daniel’s drawing next. It’s good, much more refined than his brothers’. In the picture, he and Claire are standing in front of the boardinghouse, only Claire is much smaller than him, almost childlike, and Daniel is big. Is this how he feels, like he’s the grown-up, the protector? References or not, she must get this job.

Three hours later, the woman’s phone buzzes. She answers it, posture ramrod straight. “Yes, sir. I’ll send her back now, sir.” She ends the call. “Mr. Jameson will see you, Miss Greeley.” She leads Claire down a long paneled hallway to an office; the pocket doors are closed. The woman sucks in her breath and opens one of the doors. “Mr. Jameson, this is Claire Greeley.”

“Come on in, Miss Greeley.” The dapper old man doesn’t look up from the papers scattered across his desk. “Have a seat, I’ll be right with you.” He jots some notes down, and then looks at her. No smile, almost irritated. “May I see your references?”

Claire sits on the edge of the leather wingback. “I don’t have any, sir, but I assure you I am qualified for the job.” As long as there is no cooking involved.

“I’ve interviewed many people for the position; all of them fell short.” He leans back in his chair, the springs creaking under his weight. “Tell me, Miss Greeley, what makes you uniquely qualified for the job?”

“I live in Round O and know the Sheridan place well, sir.” A stretch: She’s seen enough of the huge redbrick mansion from the outside to know it’s been deserted for a long time. She’d peered in the windows once, seen the furniture hiding under white drop cloths. “And I’m organized, hardworking, and dedicated.”

“Well, to be honest, Miss Greeley, you put the best qualification first. You live there. I’ve had a hard time finding someone who is, of course, capable and willing to commute, even from Walterboro. And it’s not like the crossroads has a newspaper to advertise the job locally.”

“Sir, I also have three boys. I really need this job.”

“And what does your husband think of you taking a job that will most certainly take time away from him and your children?”

She tries to hold her head up, to meet his gaze, but she can’t look at him and say the words. Not that she expects any pity from this man. She despises that first instant of recognition from everyone that she is alone, a widow. “My husband died in the war, sir.” There is no apology, just a long silence. He waits like she’s on the witness stand trying to finish her difficult testimony. She looks up at him, tilts her chin up, shoulders back. If she can make it through these last two years without Bobby, she can do anything. “And you needn’t worry about my abilities. What I lack in experience, I’ll make up with diligence and devotion.”

“Well, you’ve certainly got spunk, I’ll give you that.” He lowers his glasses and peers at her across the tops of the thick black frames. “Miss Greeley, I find it highly doubtful you’ll get this job. With no references or résumé to speak of, I know I wouldn’t hire you. But I’m impressed by your attitude and you do live right there in Round O, so I’ll do you a courtesy and wire Mr. Sheridan in Europe and ask him what he would like to do.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jameson. You won’t regret this.”

“I wouldn’t get too excited if I were you. My office will contact you next Friday, or sooner, with the verdict.”

Claire doesn’t focus on Mr. Jameson’s concerns about her lack of experience. She can’t. Instead, she holds on to his stingy compliments and the hope that Reginald Sheridan will give her the job. For the first time since the war ended and she thought her husband was coming home, she feels like a girl again. Not a mother, not a widow, more like a teenager who squeals and swoons over the smallest things, but back in Miss Mamie’s house, she must do this silently.

She rushes upstairs and into her room, where Vada is keeping the children. Vada jumps up, hugging her, rocking from side to side. Crying. The rush of fear gushes into Claire’s happiness, filling her with dread, reminding her that precious little has gone well since Bobby died.

“You’re crying.” Claire swipes under Vada’s eyes with her thumbs. “What happened?”

Lying on the bed, with his thumb in his mouth, Jonathan hears her voice and lets out an ear-piercing scream. Claire’s heart races. She snatches him up and holds him close as he buries his little head into the crook of her neck. His brothers look penitent, Vada is pale, almost lifeless-looking, eyes full of tears.

“I’m so sorry, Claire,” Vada can barely get the words out. “I was reading with the boys. Jonathan was playing on the floor—”

Claire runs her hands over Jonathan’s head, his back, his arms, examining, expecting to feel something broken. She wants to scream at Vada, at Daniel and Peter.
You were supposed to watch him. All of you were supposed to watch him.
But she knows what an escape artist Jonathan is, how one minute he can be playing quietly on the floor and the next he can be stealthily sliding down the stairs on his bottom to see what kind of trouble he can get into.

Between sniffles, Vada tells the story. Her feet had barely touched the stairs as she ran toward the sound of Jonathan sobbing. She’d burst into the kitchen to find Miss Mamie standing over him with a long green switch that had been stripped bare, so it would sting like a leather whip.

Dozens of angry red welts cover his little legs. Claire’s heart bursts as she gently touches the pink slashing marks that cover her baby’s calves and the tops of his thighs. She holds him closer. “
Shhhhh
. It’s okay. Mama’s got you.”

“I wanted a cookie,” he sobs; his tiny, stubby fingers frame her face, heartbreaking blue eyes looking into hers. “She made me pick a switch for her to use on me—and then she—hurt me.” He buries his head into the crook of her neck again.

“You know the rules, Mrs. Greeley. The children are not allowed in the kitchen,” the old witch snaps. Everyone was so caught up in the moment, no one had heard Miss Mamie haul herself up the steps. “Make sure your little brats follow them, or I’ll throw the lot of you out.”

“
Miss Mamie
,” Claire can’t afford that tone; she has no place else to go, and this abhorrent woman knows it. “I will watch Jonathan more closely. Should this happen again, which I’m sure it won’t, all you need to do is call one of us, and we’ll gladly come get him.”

“Next time, I’ll pull his little pants down and tan his behind. That’s what you should be doing right now; that’s what he needs,” she huffs and limps toward the stairs.

Just the sight of the woman, let alone her tone, has Jonathan wailing so hard, he can barely breathe. Vada is sandwiched between Peter and Daniel, their arms wrapped around her middle. As Miss Mamie disappears down the steps, they run to Claire, and she pulls them into her. Peter’s crying now, too, and Daniel just clings to her, full of worry and looking so much like Bobby, her heart breaks a little more.

It’s bad enough the boys lost their father and Claire was forced to take a room at the boardinghouse, but she has never wanted them to know how tenuous their situation is. She is their mother, for God’s sake, their protector, and yet she’s failing them and there is nothing she can do about it except pray that job comes through next week. And if it doesn’t, she will do the unthinkable and marry Mr. Stanley.

There’s a hurricane somewhere in the Atlantic, maybe as far away as Africa, that’s blowing the hot, humid air toward the center of the state, making the tail end of Saturday afternoon almost pleasant. Miss Mamie yanks open the door and glares at Frank. “I’ve come calling for Vada.” He stands a little taller, so that he’s looking down on her.