Palmetto Moon (16 page)

Frank presses his ear against the door, but can’t make out anything Vada is saying. And to make matters worse, she sent him out of the room like a child. He understands that Vada’s independence is important to her, but what will it cost her? Besides, there’s no telling what that woman is getting out of her, and his presence on the wrong side of the door makes him a willing accomplice.

Vada and Wentworth look awfully friendly when they come out of the room. Frank takes the suitcases and starts down the stairs after them. In the foyer, Vada thanks, and actually hugs, the harlot, who stiffens and, for the first time since he stumbled up the walkway, wishes them a good ride back home, without undressing Frank with her eyes. What happened upstairs to make these two so chummy? This doesn’t smell right at all.

“Frank, Miss Wentworth has graciously agreed to find Darby for me,” Vada gushes. “She’s promised I’ll have a postcard or a letter, maybe even a phone call, in no time.”

Frank harrumphs. What the hell? He’s leaving, there’s no need to play nice with the harlot anymore. “At what price?”

“Frank, dear,” Vada says. “I’ve handled everything to my satisfaction. It’s really none of your concern.”

“We’re getting married. It is my concern.”

“Married?” Miss Wentworth draws out the word. “How lovely. Let me be the first to congratulate you.”

“Stop pretending. You don’t care about Vada any more than you cared about Darby. You’re nothing more than a shyster—”

“You’ve insulted me, Frank. Why I’m tempted to call the whole thing off. Darby can rot in jail—”

“No. Miss Wentworth,” Vada gasps. “Please.”

“You’re the one who should rot in jail,” Frank shouts.

Vada looks at him sharply, and he knows to just shut the hell up, but honest to Pete, Vada’s no match for this woman. She probably sold her soul to the devil woman. The harlot somehow got Vada’s name after Darby moved on, and then made the whole scam up. Who knows? Maybe Darby’s in on this, too.

“I said I’d handled it, Frank. It’s done now, let’s go.”

“Let me give you some advice, dear,” Wentworth coos. “I know men, especially the likes of him. They love nothing better than to change you. Bend you to their will and ruin you.”

Vada swallows hard. “With all due respect, Miss Wentworth, Frank loves me. I hardly think he will ruin me.”

Frank has never wanted to hit a woman in his life, but he’s glaring at Wentworth as she rakes her long, spiky, red nails across her necklace, and his fists are balled up by his side. “Give Vada back whatever you took from her. We’re leaving. End of story.”

“Frank,” Vada snaps.

“I know men like you, Frank. You think women like Vada are little puppets.” The harlot glares at him. “You wouldn’t know what to do with a woman who can think for herself. You like them mousy, dependent. That makes you feel like a real big man, doesn’t it, Frank?”

“Lady, you don’t know anything about me. All you know is you need a good distraction so Vada won’t see what a mistake she’s making.”

“You have no idea what Vada wants or what she’s willing to do to get it.” She runs her fingers across the gaudy trophy around her neck. “If Vada didn’t want to settle the debt, she would never have traded her grandmother’s jewels for Darby’s freedom.”

“What the hell?” Frank stares at the stones. They look real, and must be, if they satisfied the harlot.

“She’s right.” Vada steps in between Frank and the harlot, who is glaring triumphantly at him. “This is what I wanted.”

“Vada, that necklace looks like it’s worth way more than two hundred dollars. And it belonged to your grandmother? This is crazy.”

“There’s probably a lot you don’t know about
your girl
, Frank. Obviously, she doesn’t trust you enough to tell you, and I can’t say I blame her,” Wentworth snaps.

“Let it go, Frank. Making things right for Darby means that much to me. Miss Wentworth has graciously agreed to find Darby for me and have her contact me. Even a simple postcard from Darby is worth more than any necklace, more than anything; it’s what I want most.”

He tries to sound reasonable, less confrontational. “Can’t you see this woman is using your love for Darby to con you?”

“If I’m not mistaken,” the harlot laughs, “you barely know this bright young woman, and you’re treating her like a shackled bride. Who’s conning whom, Frank Darling?”

“That’s it. We’re leaving, Vada. Now.” Frank grabs her hand, and she jerks it away. Her body stiffens, and her face looks like she’s balancing on a tightrope wire. “Vada, is this some kind of test? Do I love you enough to stand by and watch this woman fleece you?”

“Why? Why would you try to stop me, Frank?”

“I won’t just try, damn it.”

“Is it the necklace, because it’s worth a lot? Is this just about money?”

“No, Vada, it’s not about money. Well, maybe it is a little. I don’t know. This whole thing is ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous.” Vada’s nostrils are flaring. “I’ll tell you what’s ridiculous, Frank.” How in the hell did this fiasco get turned around on him? “You thinking you can make me do what
you
think is right. That’s ridiculous.” She wheels to face the harlot, who looks like the cat who swallowed the cream. “I am leaving now, Miss Wentworth, but I expect you to honor the agreement we’ve made.” Tears stream down Vada’s face as she spits out the last word.

She has obviously lost her mind, but Frank will be damned if he’ll lose her forever by saying another word. He’ll just keep his damn mouth shut. He refuses to go to jail for strangling this Wentworth woman. But someone ought to.

“Well played, Frank,” the harlot goads him, barely loud enough for him to hear.

“Miss Wentworth.” Vada swipes at her tears. “Would you be so kind as to direct me to the bus station?”

“Of course, dear. Let me call you a cab.”

“Vada. No.”

“I think it would be best, Frank, if I went back to South Carolina alone.”

“Alone? Please tell me what the hell just happened, because one minute we’re getting married, and the next you want to take a slow bus back home without me.”

“I need some time to think.”

Vada’s posture is more erect than when she spars with Miss Mamie. Is that where he ranks now? Oh, hell, if this can be fixed, he’s got to fix it now. “I don’t want you on some bus.” He rakes his hand over his face and takes a deep breath in hopes that he can sound sincere and not riled anymore, but he is angry at Vada. Angry that she’d let this woman con her. Angry that she’d let what they have slip away so easily. “Vada. Honey. I’ll take you back to Round O, and I promise you don’t have to say a word if you don’t want to. Please. Let me take you home.”

Home. The word stings almost as much as Frank’s assessment of me. Can Miss Wentworth be right about him? I want to believe that his intentions are good, but if he doesn’t trust me enough to let me make my own decisions . . .

“I can have a car here in no time.” Miss Wentworth grabs the telephone receiver and asks the operator to ring Yellow Cab. Frank searches my face. I steel myself from looking into his beautiful eyes. I don’t care how reckless he thinks I am, or how very angry I am at him for trying to control me, I do love him.

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Wentworth. Frank and I are leaving.”

“Thank God.” Franks reaches for me, but I turn away.

“You look distraught, dear, and completely undone,” Miss Wentworth says. “Perhaps it would be better if you stayed over. At this hour, you’ll be driving through the night and well into the morning.”

“No. Thank you. I have to go now.”

The car is suffocating, stuffed with so many things that need to be said. But Frank is true to his word. He doesn’t say anything until the car is nearly out of gas. We pull into a truck stop just outside of Birmingham, on the never-ending Route 78 that ends squarely in Charleston. Two attendants saunter out, and Frank tells them to fill up the car and check under the hood.

“Vada,” Frank says softly. “Would you like to get a bite to eat?” I nod and look away from him. “Good. I’m starved.” His tone sounds less guarded.

He laughs at a joke one of the attendants makes about how hot the weather is and pays the man. Frank doesn’t know these men from Adam, yet they seem to have some sort of rapport, a regard between the three of them that reminds me of the stuffy men my father and Justin sip brandy and smoke cigars with. The quiet attendant raps on the hood of the car to signal he’s done. They all nod at each other respectfully, and Frank pulls the car in front of the restaurant.

“Come on, I’ll buy you some dinner,” Frank says.

I’m out of the car before he can put it in park. He sits in the booth, across from me, smiling, trying to make me smile back at him. “We’ve got seven hours to go, Vada. Are you going to make me talk to myself the whole way?”

“Maybe.”

“Come on, Vada. Don’t be mad.” He takes my hand and weakens me considerably with his smile and those emerald-green eyes. “I know I said some things I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry. You told me how important your independence is to you, and I—I messed up. I admit I should have butted out. But it’s been five hours since I heard you laugh, since you said—”

“You want forgiveness, Frank, and I want you to look at me the way you did those attendants a few minutes ago.”

He runs his hand through his hair. “Okay. Now you’ve lost me, because I could never look at you the same way I looked at those grease monkeys.”

“I don’t mean romantically,” I snap. His smile fades. “They tell you the car needs oil. You nod, they nod, and it gets done. You don’t question them. You don’t try to analyze their motives.”

“Well, honey, if a car needs oil, it needs oil. It’s as simple as that.”

“No,” I groan. “What I’m saying is, you respect their knowledge, their opinion. That’s what I want from you.”

“But you have my respect.”

We suspend our argument while a waitress takes our order. I order tea and white toast, because as upset as I am, I’m sure it would be a mistake to eat.

“You should eat something more, Vada.” He reaches across the table and pushes a wispy tendril from my face. “Look, I’m not going to fight with you anymore, and I’ll do whatever I have to, to get us back to the point where you were ready to marry me.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

In truth, I am starved. I call the waitress back over and order the Hungry Man blue-plate special with pie. Frank seems thrilled and is doing most of the talking through dinner.

“God, your lips are beautiful.” He dabs at the corner of my mouth, and then licks a dab of blackberry pie filling off of his thumb.

Our waitress puts the check on the table and my hand is on it a second before Frank’s. “Vada, what are you doing?”

“I’m buying dinner.”

“Oh no you’re not. Let go of the check.”

“Frank, you’ve paid for everything on this trip; it’s only right.”

“A woman doesn’t buy a man dinner.” His face is red, but his voice is low. “That just doesn’t happen. Besides, I wanted to do this for you.”

“And I want to do this for you.”

“So you’re going to march up there and pay that gal at the register for our dinner? Just like that?”

“There is nothing to be embarrassed about, Frank, but no, I’m going to leave the cash on the table.”

“So now we’re all square?”

The realization of what I really want from Frank is so big, I pause a moment to let it sink in before I say the words out loud. “Now we are equals.”

I leave five dollars for a three-dollar tab, and Frank starts to say something about leaving such a big tip but thinks better of it. The moment he gets in the car, his mouth is on mine, kissing me like it’s been weeks instead of hours. I hesitate, but not for long. I moan into his mouth, and he pulls away. “God, Vada. What you do to me.” The whole truck stop is watching us. He cranks up the car and starts down the highway.

Frank feels like he’s worked two shifts at the diner, three, if there was such a thing. He doesn’t know why he’s so tired. He hasn’t done anything all day, just propose to Vada and then nearly lose her. Forever. But she’s asleep in his arms again, and that’s all that matters. Another car passes by in the opposite direction, and the light is barely generous enough for Frank to glance down at her. God, she’s beautiful.

He knows she’s still smarting over him doubting her and trying to butt into her arrangement with the harlot. But Frank did what any man worth his salt would have done. And then she made him pay for it with that ridiculous talk about wanting to be equal? Women aren’t equal to men, and men certainly aren’t equal to women. They can’t possibly be. They’re as different as chalk and cheese, and Vada paying a tab won’t really change anything. But if it does in her mind, then it was worth it.

A billboard says there’s a motel twenty miles down the road. A hot shower and a soft bed would feel real good right now. But what should he do? If he suggests a motel, she’ll think he’s being presumptuous, and he’s already on thin ice as it is.

“Are you tired, Frank?” She lets out a long sigh he feels dead center of his chest.

He kisses the top of her head and breathes her in. “A little. How about you?”

“Yes.” She doesn’t look up at him. “I saw a sign for a hotel.”

There’s a world of difference between a hotel and a motel, but Frank doesn’t bother to correct her. “We can stop if you want. See if they have a couple of rooms.”

“I’d like that.”

He glances at the speedometer and slows down. She unwraps herself from his middle and digs through her pocketbook until she finds a brush. She runs it through her hair, arching her back slightly and purring as the bristles scrape across her scalp and then down the length of her silky blond locks, almost making Frank miss the motel parking lot. The car comes to an abrupt stop, announcing its presence to the desk clerk of The Rainbow Motel, who glares at them for a few seconds before going back to his business.

“Is everything all right, Frank?” She throws that damn brush in her pocketbook, looks at him, and smiles sweetly, the smile of a good girl who’s going straight to bed. By herself.

“Everything’s fine. I’ll be right back.” Frank reaches for the screen door of the office. Arthur Godfrey’s “Too Fat Polka” is wailing on the radio. The attendant has the newspaper splayed out, working a crossword puzzle. He’s tapping the fat red eraser on the end of his pencil against the long, narrow counter, keeping time to the beat. “Frank,” Vada calls after him, and he swears he’ll lose his good sense if she tells him she wants to pay for their rooms. “Just one room.”

The guy behind the counter must have been at this job for a while, because he never looks up from his puzzle. He points to the register for Frank to sign, shoves a room key across the counter, and holds his hand out for the five spot.

Frank hurries back to the car and eases toward the back of the lot, which is dotted with a dozen or so tiny stand-alone rooms that look dingy gray in the headlights. The doors are painted the different colors of the rainbow. Theirs is red. Number Three. The other rooms are dark and quiet except for the one on the end. An old woman pokes her head out the door, with her hands on her hips, and eyes them suspiciously. Frank gives her a slight wave, but she just shakes her head and closes her door.

The place is so bad, it makes sleeping in the Mayflower seem like a good idea. It smells like spoiled beef stew and cigarette smoke. There’s one twin bed in the middle of the room, a dinette standing cockeyed, like it’s missing one leg, and a ratty blue couch covered in nubby fabric. Two fat roaches, as long as playing cards, scurry across the concrete floor and under the bed and confirm this is no sane woman’s idea of romantic.

Frank isn’t sure if Vada saw the vermin, but she looks horrified and not at all like the girl who cooed “Just one room” a few minutes ago.

“I can see if they have another room, but I doubt it will be any better than this one.” She sits down on the couch, draws her feet up to her chest, and tucks the wide skirt of her dress under her so she looks beautiful but legless. “Or we could turn the key in and drive to Atlanta; we’d get there around two, if we’re lucky, maybe closer to three. At that hour, I’m not sure if we’d find a place any better than this one.”

She nods and takes another look around. “It’s fine. Really.”

“You’re sure?” She nods. “Okay. I’m going to jump in the shower, unless you want to go first.”

“Go ahead. I prefer a tub bath.” She looks like she’s judging the tub by the room, and then shakes her head. “I’ll wait until I get back to the boardinghouse.”

“Okay. I won’t be long.” Frank isn’t sure what to expect. Will Vada be in bed, waiting for him, when he gets out of the bathroom? Should he sleep in the raw, like he usually does, or wear his Skivvies? He turns the water on, grateful that it’s good and hot. He yanks his shirt over his head, painfully aware of how hard he is when he slips off his pants. He presses his palms against the tile and the water beats against the back of his neck, dissolving the tension from a day’s worth of fighting and making up.

He keeps thinking about Vada, in bed. About her scent that’s like some kind of fancy perfume mixed with sensible lemon. Her blue eyes. Rose-petal-soft skin. Long, slender legs parting. His private nods his head at Frank, and while he likes its thinking, Frank isn’t sure how Vada would feel about these thoughts he’s having. She suggested getting one room, but was she thinking what Frank was thinking? He turns the hot water off and wills himself to stay under the icy spray.

With his Skivvies on, he opens the door and stops in his tracks. The room is barely lit from the full moon and the streetlight beside the office. The bed is turned down. Vada is sound asleep, curled up on her side, on the couch, in some sort of white gown as thin as cheesecloth, or at least that’s what the sleeve of it looks like. The rest of her is covered with a blanket too heavy for such a warm summer night, tucked tight around the outline of her body. Frank takes the better of the two pillows and slides it under her head. Her eyelids barely flutter; she smiles. “Thank you.”