The Ladies of Garrison Gardens (3 page)

“Don't you ever let anyone tell you keeping up appearances is shallow, sugar,” Peggy's tired voice had whispered from the bed. “You just put on your face and tell yourself you're doing a public service. No one ever felt better by looking at a woman who let herself go.”

Two days later Peggy didn't know who she was talking to. “I fixed everything for you, Amanda,” she'd said.

Her voice was so far gone by then that Laurel had to bend over to hear her. But the wasted hand that held Laurel's was amazingly strong. And hot—even now, Laurel could still remember the heat.

“They'll try . . .” Peggy had started to say, but the mists that had been carrying her in and out of consciousness took over, and she had to struggle to pull herself back, “Don't let . . .” she got out before the mists took over. “Don't let them. . . .”

“It's okay, Peggy, I won't let them do it,” Laurel whispered, and wished to God she knew what they were talking about.

A dried flake of mascara, the size of a boulder by the feel of it, had lodged itself under Laurel's eyelid. Which could have been an accident. Or a warning from on high about the morning ahead of her.

“Stop stalling,” she said to her reflection in the mirror. “You promised you were going over there today.” Because this was the day when she had to deal with the way in which Peggy had “fixed” everything for her.

Chapter Three

T
HE SPEED LIMIT
on Highway 22 was fifty-five miles an hour, but according to her speedometer Laurel was doing forty-five. It was because of her streaming eye, she told herself, not because she didn't want to get where she was going. She mashed on the gas, and drove past Garrison Gardens and the resort, plunging into a forest known as the Garrison Nature Preserve that spanned both sides of the highway. A triangular piece of land was wedged in the middle of the highway, splitting it for several miles. On this pie-shaped chunk of prime Charles Valley real estate were the homes of the three Miss Margarets. Li'l Bit and Maggie shared a swatch of land bordered by a ridge of hills at the wide end of the triangle, owning eighty and thirty acres, respectively. At the top end of the wedge, starting with the tip, were the two hundred and sixty acres that came with the huge log home Peggy had lived in for the forty-five years of her marriage and widowhood. This house was Laurel's destination.

She reached it and turned off the highway. In front of her were two stone pillars and a wooden gate. On the right-hand pillar was a sign proclaiming that you had arrived at
GARRISON COTTAGE
. The innocuous-looking gate was wired to alert the security system at the Garrison resort if an unauthorized person attempted to enter the grounds. Authorized persons like Laurel had a plastic ID card they swiped through a scanner that was concealed on the back of the left pillar.

Laurel leaned over to check her eye in her rearview mirror—it was red and mascara smeared. She looked like shit. Well, it had been that kind of day. Actually, it had been that kind of a month—no, make that many months. And the worst was ahead of her. She drew a deep breath and started down the long driveway to Garrison Cottage.

To call Peggy's former home a cottage was to wallow in old-money understatement. “Let's face it,” Peggy said once. “It's ten thousand square feet of house, not counting the porches and the patio around the pool. The damn thing's a castle. I don't care if it
is
made out of logs they cut right here in Charles Valley. Dalton wasn't the one who wanted a big house, you know. That was Miss Myrtis. Peggy was referring to Dalton's first wife, her predecessor, Myrtis Garrison. The daughter of a wealthy and powerful Georgia family, Miss Myrtis had cast a long shadow in Charles Valley. Even after Dalton married Peggy, the legend of the first Mrs. Garrison lingered.

“Miss Myrtis designed Garrison Cottage,” Peggy continued. “She wanted it to be like Monticello—a place where important people would come to talk and change the world.”

It hadn't quite worked out like that.

The driveway wound through what seemed to be a forest that had been left to grow wild. It was only after you'd driven through it several times that you realized that there was no kudzu choking the pines and oaks. The shade-loving azaleas that flourished under the canopy of trees had not gotten where they were by accident, nor had the magnolias or the crape myrtle, scattered artfully throughout. The land on either side of the river-rock drive was as exquisitely manicured as Garrison Gardens itself.

“Just one of the perks,” Peggy said, of her home and grounds.

Peggy had had the entire staff of the resort at her command. Maids from housekeeping cleaned her house, the mechanics who serviced the resort vehicles kept her car humming, the restaurants cooked her meals and delivered them to her. If she wanted to throw a party, trays of the cheese wafers and tiny biscuits with country ham for which the resort was famous would appear as if by magic, along with waiters wearing the white gloves that were a hallmark of Garrison service. And gardeners in Garrison overalls showed up every day, starting in the early spring.

“Since they go to all that trouble anyway, I'd just as soon they dug up the damn forest primeval and planted a pretty lawn,” Peggy complained. “When I come home late at night, all those trees are downright creepy.” But she hadn't changed so much as the placement of one shrub.

The drive up to the house had never seemed creepy to Laurel, and by the end of Peggy's life she was doing it every day. Peggy had wanted to die at home instead of in the hospital, but she hadn't wanted Maggie and Li'l Bit taking care of her. “It'd be too much for them, but they'll try anyway,” she'd said.

“Not if they know I'm going to be there,” Laurel had said.

Of course, Maggie and Li'l Bit knew what Peggy was doing.

“Peggy wants to spare us,” Li'l Bit said.

But Maggie, who sometimes saw things more clearly, said quietly, “She needs Laurel now.”

Laurel's eye had stopped tearing—
Thank you, Jesus
. She followed the driveway through the forest until it suddenly gave way to a meadow of wildflowers. And there, rising out of a sea of pink, red, blue, and white, was the great log castle. It was built in three parts. The central section was two stories tall, capped with a gable roof and skylights. Two side wings, each one story high, were attached to the center at a slight angle, giving the house a curved look. In front of it was an oval garden full of daylilies, daffodils, hollyhocks, and hydrangeas, anchored on either end by a massive oak. When she first saw it, the place had seemed beautiful but overwhelming to Laurel; later it had become familiar and sad. Now she wished someone would burn the damn thing down.

She parked under one of the oaks and sat for a moment, hoping she wasn't the first one there. Sure enough, another car was parked on the other side of the oval. But instead of the ancient Volvo she was expecting, it was the brand-new gray van Maggie had recently bought for the clinic. Only one person drove that van, and for the first time that morning Laurel felt herself relax. As if on cue, the front door of the house opened and a man stepped out into the sunlight. He was tall, probably six two or three, and slim, but with enough muscle to make him interesting. High cheekbones, strong features, and straight jet-black hair reinforced the legend that his daddy's great-grandmother had been part Cherokee; his deep-blue eyes and the dimple that appeared at the side of his mouth when he smiled were a gift from his Irish great-granddaddy. He had been named after the television character Perry Mason, because his mama thought the law was an admirable career and she wanted a professional man in the family. She'd gotten her wish, although the profession wasn't the one she'd had in mind. Her son was a doctor. And he was stuck with the name Perry. Laurel was privy to all his family lore because she'd known him all of his life and for most of hers. To the rest of Charles Valley, he was a hero, the local boy who had gone north to Harvard University and medical school and then chosen to come back home. To Laurel he would always be The Wiener, also known as her best friend Denny's annoying baby brother.

“Hey, Wiener,” she called out.

He gave her a lazy, dimple-producing grin that would have turned her knees to jelly if she hadn't been old enough to remember him when he was teething.

“That would be Dr. Douglass to you, girl.” His voice had the intimate smoky quality of a TV spokesperson for women's hair products. No matter how many times she heard it, it came as a shock to Laurel, who remembered the years when it had been a nasal squeak. She also remembered The Wiener's impressive collection of preadolescent zits, the glasses that always seemed to be sliding off his nose, and the days when the white T-shirt that was now clinging so nicely to pecs, abs, and biceps would have been stretched over a bulging stomach that bounced violently when its youthful owner attempted to run after Laurel and Denny. The summer air would echo with screeches of “Take me with you or I'll tell Mama!” and Laurel and Denny, who were usually embarking on some form of hell-raising, would have to turn around and inflict bodily harm on the pest to teach him not to mess with his elders. There had been a time when The Wiener's punishment for calling her
girl
, as he just had, would have been swift and merciless. But that was before he went away from home and came back tall, gorgeous, and licensed as a physician. His first act after coming back to Charles Valley had been to charm Maggie into admitting that, as she approached her ninetieth birthday, perhaps she could use a little assistance at the clinic. Afer three months, she was admitting that she didn't know what she'd do without him.

He'd also been Peggy's doctor in the months before she died, and Laurel had come to depend on him for help that went way beyond medical expertise. The Wiener could get a smile out of Peggy no matter how sick she felt, he organized the squadron of nurses who took care of her, and he could always get Laurel to talk when everything got bottled up and she was ready to explode. The Wiener was one of those rare souls who really wanted an answer when he asked you how you were doing, and while that kind of Oprah-speak could drive Laurel bat-shit, it was what she needed during those horrible days and weeks. Now he came down the steps to get her.

“Are you ready for this?” he asked gently.

Since she'd rather be walking over hot coals barefoot, she added mind reading to the list of The Wiener's gifts. She remembered her mascara-stained cheek and rubbed it. “Are they here?” she asked.

He nodded. “I brought them over. I figured Li'l Bit didn't need to be driving.”

“You're right. I didn't think of that.” But he had. Of course.

He held out his hand to her. “Come on,” he said. “It won't be as bad as you think it's going to be.” She took his hand and followed him inside.

They walked into the single large room that encompassed the foyer, dining area, and living room. The huge space was topped by a soaring cathedral ceiling with four skylights, commissioned by Myrtis Garrison and designed by a local glassblower. Each one featured a tree: a magnolia, a dogwood, a live oak, and a pine. Visitors gasped when they saw those skylights. As Laurel gazed upward, she wondered for the first time what would happen if the suckers leaked.

Halfway between the first floor and the ceiling was a mezzanine. The family bedrooms and the most imposing guest bedrooms were up there. Five smaller guest bedrooms were downstairs in the left wing of the ground floor. Laurel had never been up on the mezzanine. The little room where Peggy had slept and died was in the left wing. Laurel hadn't looked in that direction since she came in.

She turned instead to the outsized sofa Myrtis Garrison had had made specially for the big living room. The two women who had been seated on it stood up. One was six feet tall, with a square body and a mass of unruly gray hair imperfectly secured in a net. Her nose was too large, her chin was too small, she wore thick glasses, and there was no way she'd ever been pretty, not even when she was young. But her blue eyes behind the glasses shone with intelligence, and her stern face had a kindness she couldn't hide no matter how hard she tried. At her side was a little doll, as ethereal as the tall woman was solid, who was barely five feet tall, with a delicate face framed by silky white curls. At eighty-nine she still retained the prettiness that had always masked her tough mind and even tougher will. The large woman was Li'l Bit, the doll was Maggie. Losing Peggy had been a huge blow that had put new pain lines in both faces, and being in her house had to be killing them. In spite of that, they stood side by side with backs so ramrod straight they would have been the envy of any marine commander. Then they broke ranks. Li'l Bit got to Laurel first, hugging her tight.

“Thank you for coming.” Laurel managed to get the words out in spite of the golf ball that had lodged itself in her throat. “You shouldn't have, but I'm glad you did.”

“Nonsense,” Li'l Bit said, in the fluty aristocratic voice Laurel used to think was snotty. “Did you honestly think we wouldn't?”

“You'll be all right, Doodlebug,” said Maggie, whose voice was deep and low. “You'll see.”

They were trying to encourage her. They'd lost a friend who had been with them for decades, but they were smiling and trying to help her. In another minute she was going to lose it. But from behind her, Perry's voice cut in. “You probably should get started, Laurel,” he said.

She turned to him, because facing Maggie and Li'l Bit wasn't possible. “Yeah. The sooner the better, right?”

“Right.” His eyes held hers until they were steady. “I have to get back to the clinic. Call me when you're done.”

“I'll drive Maggie and Li'l Bit home.”

He nodded and started to go, but then he turned back and gave her a quick hug. “You know, they don't give a Tough Girl Prize,” he whispered in her ear. Then he left.

She turned back to her two friends. “I suppose we should go upstairs,” she said.

“Whatever you want, dear one,” Maggie said.

So Laurel led the way up the stairs to the mezzanine of the castle—the castle she, Laurel Selene McCready, now owned. She owned Garrison Cottage, she owned the resort, and she had a seat on the board of Garrison Gardens Charitable Trust. Because, when she died, Peggy Garrison had left the whole mess to her dear friend Laurel Selene McCready.