The Ladies of Garrison Gardens (8 page)

Chapter Thirteen

MRS. RAIN

2004

F
INDING OUT ABOUT
Laurel Selene McCready had become a mission. Unfortunately, Mrs. Rain admitted to herself, it seemed to be a doomed one. Phone calls to her two main contacts in the outside world—her lawyer and her man of business—hadn't turned up any information, nor had Cherry's visits to the library and the historical society. After four frustrating days, Mrs. Rain was ready, reluctantly, to admit defeat.

It seemed that Laurel Selene McCready had no important family behind her, and no social or political connections. Obviously she was a local girl—her writing seemed like that of a young person—from Charles Valley who had somehow caught Peggy Garrison's attention and then earned her loyalty.

And now Ms. McCready was the heir to the Garrison fortune. God help her, or maybe not. It depended on how well she dealt with Stuart Lawrence Junior. And that would depend on whether Stuart Lawrence Junior was anything like his late father. Of course, Stuart Senior had had leverage.

Thinking about it all was tiring. Her infant doctor had warned about avoiding stress, which meant avoiding life, a concept that seemed to elude the boy.

However, his word was law, so she'd been bundled off for a nap. Essie and Cherry had turned down her bedcovers and tucked her in as if she was a geriatric five-year-old! Well, she might be lying down but she was damned if she'd sleep. She fumbled around for her glasses and focused enough to read the clock on her bedroom wall. It was four in the afternoon.

In an hour, Cherry would serve her her supper in front of the television. Then she'd watch the news and stop brooding about things that were none of her business. Especially since there was nothing she could do about any of it, no matter how much she wished she could.

She sighed into the murky half-light of her bedroom. Just one more time in her life she'd like to be relevant. No one ever told you how incredibly boring life could be when your major accomplishments were keeping your bowels regular and remembering to take your blood pressure medication. And if you'd played for the kind of high stakes she'd known in her time . . . well, best not to think about that. After all, Charles Valley and its residents had been off-limits to her even before she became a doddering old relic. Once, she had resented what the place cost her, but she'd given up on that long ago.

So here she was with her breakfast trays, her television, Essie, Cherry, and the child prodigy doctor. Laurel Selene McCready would have to fend for herself. Still, it was a pity that the young woman didn't have the kind of family or background she would probably need to go toe to toe with Stuart Lawrence Junior.

Chapter Fourteen

LAUREL

2004

S
TUART LAWRENCE, JR.
(“Just call me Stuart,” he'd begged) had asked Laurel to come to supper so he could explain what he referred to as her holdings. That, it seemed, was the correct word for what she'd been calling “the stuff Peggy gave me in her will.” And the Lord knew she needed someone to explain it to her, because Garrison Gardens and the Garrison resort were so tangled up legally and financially she'd never figure it out on her own. So it was very kind of Just Call Me Stuart to invite her, and there was no reason for the little shiver of dread that made its way up her spine every time she thought about it. The shiver came from the same place as the sweaty palms she always had when she did her income taxes, which on her yearly salary were a joke, but anything official and monetary had that effect on her.

Just Call Me Stuart and Mrs. Just Call Me had lived in Charles Valley since he took over his daddy's duties at Garrison Gardens. Before that, they'd had a home in Atlanta, so there were many people in town, including Laurel, who had never seen the couple up close. She'd met Junior for the first time when he summoned her to his office at the gardens and gave her the news about Peggy's will. At that time she'd been in shock, and she hadn't registered much about him. She'd taken away a sense of a generic middle-aged guy in a muted plaid sports jacket. The wife was a complete mystery.

On Tuesday night, before supper at the Big House, instead of putting on her usual jeans and T-shirt as she had sworn to herself she was going to, Laurel grabbed one of her skirt-and-blouse outfits from her days at the
Gazette
.

“But I'm not wearing pantyhose for anyone,” she said defiantly to the dogs, who were watching her. However, she did shove her feet into the sandals with the one-inch heels. When she checked the address Stuart Lawrence had given her, she realized she'd be eating her supper in Fairway Estates, Charles Valley's only gated community. She probably should have painted her toenails.

Fairway Estates backed up to the Garrison golf course. The enclave, which was ten years old, had been the subject of much controversy in Charles Valley because the land on which it was built had been owned by Garrison Gardens. The board that ran the gardens sold it to a developer, which was unthinkable to the locals. Not so much as an acre of Garrison land had been sold since the Great Depression, when the Garrison family acquired it by ripping off desperate farmers. Most people in town thought the gardens were protected by the Garrison Gardens Charitable Trust. It came as a nasty surprise to discover that the board of the trust could do pretty much whatever the hell it wanted.

Laurel arrived at the entrance gate, was waved through, and drove down treeless streets to her destination. SUVs were clearly the vehicle of choice in the neighborhood, and the houses were built right up to the property lines, giving the place a claustrophobic feel in spite of the obvious wealth. But for such a densely packed area, it was as quiet as the surreal shopping plaza in Atlanta. Where the hell did rich people stash their kids? she wondered. Or their pets? Then she remembered she was a rich person. A rich person who had come to discuss her holdings.

A maid wearing a Garrison resort uniform opened the door to the Lawrence manse, but the man of the house was right behind her. “Laurel, welcome,” he said, with what seemed to be genuine enthusiasm.

Just Call Me Stuart wasn't bad looking. He was in his middle sixties, not quite six feet tall, with a compact body that was probably the result of upscale enthusiasms like swimming, tennis, and, given the game of choice at the resort, golf. He had a full head of snowy hair and a pair of mild brown eyes behind little square glasses. For dinner at home he wore a sports jacket in a plaid that was so muted it was practically nonexistent. He was also wearing a bow tie, a nerdy touch Laurel tried to tell herself was endearing.

“Come into the living room, please,” he said, ushering her in. Laurel had an impression of high ceilings, oversize windows looking out on the unreal green of the golf course, and puffy furniture covered with pale silks that made her want to wash her hands before she touched them. Some kind of overhead system provided selective pools of mood lighting around the living room. The effect was probably supposed to be warm and cozy, but it made Laurel uncomfortably aware that her skirt and blouse had cost twenty-two bucks on sale. She focused on the bow tie and reminded herself to keep an open mind.

Stuart's daddy had been known in Charles Valley as Mr. Dalt's man behind the scenes. The gossip in town was that the son was no match for the father in the Great Man Sweepstakes. Still, there was something about Junior that said he thought he was smarter than most of his fellow humans, and that those mild brown eyes could go cold in seconds if he was crossed.

Stop it,
Laurel told herself.
You hated the three Miss Margarets before you got to know them
.

A voice sang out, “You must be Laurel Selene.”

“Laurel, my wife,” Junior said, as a woman swept into the room and grasped Laurel's hand.

“I'm Lindy Lee Lawrence,” she announced. “Isn't that name like every bad joke you've ever heard about the South? It took me two years to decide to marry Stuart because of it.” She exploded in a surprising cackle of mirth. It was the sound of someone who laughed alone a lot.

Lindy Lee was probably in her late fifties, and when she was young she'd been a beauty. The remnants of it still clung to her, especially in her blue-green eyes. But she'd chosen not to go the Botox/surgery/hair-dye route, and nature was taking its toll. Her thick mane of hair was as white as Junior's, and her jawline was beginning to sag. She was taller than Laurel, but it was hard to tell what her figure was like because she was wearing a top made of yards of filmy blue-green cloth over a pair of wide black pants. Her jewelry was large and plentiful, featuring blue stones and gold, but her feet were bare. Her toenails, Laurel noted, were not painted.

Throughout supper, it seemed to be the job of the lady of the house to keep the conversation afloat. Laurel learned that her hostess was born in Mississippi, “in the golden buckle of the cotton belt.” She had refused to “come out” as her mama had wished her to, and she had marched with Dr. King from Selma to Montgomery, which was presumably something Mama had
not
wished for.

“I wanted to be a writer, like you, Laurel—a newspaper writer. Well, I guess almost everyone did. Gloria Steinem was our heroine. She proved the pen was mightier than the sword.”

“Especially when she was wearing that Playboy Bunny outfit,” Junior said, with a chuckle.

“She wore that to go undercover and write an article about the exploitation of women,” Lindy Lee protested—but very mildly. Her husband didn't seem to notice. Lindy Lee went back to her monologue, flowing seamlessly from Ms. Steinem to the Lawrence daughter, whom she had named Gloria, although Lindy Lee referred to her as My Child. It was obvious that My Child was the light of her mother's life.

“She's about your age, Laurel. Lives in New York City and works for television. As a producer and a writer, if you please, in the news department of that new women's channel—you know, the one that isn't Oprah's.”

“Her show goes on at five-thirty in the morning, and six people watch it,” put in Junior. Laurel got the feeling that My Child was not the light of
his
life.

“She's living her mama's dream and giving me an excuse to make regular visits to the big city,” said Lindy Lee, exploding into her cackle laugh.

“She'll be lucky if she doesn't get herself raped and killed,” said the loving father.

Without missing a beat, Lindy Lee changed the subject again. “Have the charity vultures descended on you yet, Laurel?” she asked.

“No,” Laurel said, startled.

“Well, they'll be swooping down on your poor battered head, darlin', just as soon as word of Peggy's will gets out.”

“I hadn't . . . thought of that.”

“Peggy funded all kinds of charities, you know. Everyone will be frantic to get to you. I might hit you up myself for a little cash for a friend of mine who's running for the state senate—”

“A run your friend is going to lose,” Stuart cut in. “Laurel might as well burn her money.” He stood up, indicating that the conversation was over. “Laurel and I should get started. Lindy Lee, will you have the maid bring coffee and dessert to my den?”

His wife hadn't finished eating. When he stood up, she was in the process of chewing a forkful of peas. But she scrambled to her feet. “Of course,” she said brightly. “Dessert is peach mousse. I do hope you like it, Laurel. It's Stuart's favorite in the world.”

In the den, the maid served a pinkish mess and took herself out. Junior sat behind a heavily polished and carved table that seemed to double as his desk and indicated that Laurel should settle into a puffy silk chair. There was a nasty-looking pile of documents at his elbow. “This money you've inherited is going to change your life, Laurel,” he said. “It's my challenge to make sure the changes are for your own good.”

His eyes behind the glasses were earnest, and he seemed very sincere. True, he did treat his wife as if she were the household pet, but Laurel had learned long ago not to judge a man by his marriage.

“Inheriting a fortune is not the lark everyone thinks it's going to be,” he went on. “If I may be blunt, it helps if you have a few generations of being wealthy under your belt.”

“That lets me out.”

He gave her a conspiratorial little grin. “You and me both. My daddy was not to the manner born. Lindy Lee's family is from the crowd that says ‘my people' when they mean ‘my kin.' But my daddy was just a small-town lawyer from Nowhere, Georgia.”

I'm not sure that puts you in the same class as the bastard kid of the town lush
, Laurel thought, but she nodded politely.

“Miss Myrtis was the one who discovered my father. Did you know that? She brought him to Mr. Dalt's attention. Over the years they both came to rely on Daddy, and I'm proud to tell you he never let them down.” Junior sorted through the pile of papers and pulled out a folder that he handed to Laurel. “I put together some material you can look over at your leisure. About one-third of your portfolio is invested in the Garrison resort. You own the entire company. The gardens do not belong to you; they are a part of the Garrison Trust, which is a charitable organization. However, the board of directors makes all decisions concerning the gardens, and you have the deciding vote on that board.”

Laurel's head snapped up from the pages she'd been trying to read. “Excuse me?”

“Because the interests of the resort and the gardens are so closely intertwined, when the charitable trust was formed, the Garrison family retained control of the gardens by giving the deciding vote to the owner of the resort. That means you.”

“Me?” She swallowed hard. “I'm in charge of the gardens?”

“And the resort—since you are the sole owner.”

For the second time that week, she felt laughter bubbling up inside. “Did you ever meet my ma?” she asked.

Junior shot her a relieved look. “Good,” he said, with a sigh. “I'm glad you see the . . . incongruity in the situation.”

“It's bone-ass crazy.”

“Fortunately, there's a way to handle it. If I may, I'd like to give you a little history. When Miss Myrtis married Mr. Dalt she had a substantial fortune of her own, much of which she sank into the resort. That entitled her to a voice on the board of the gardens and shares of stock in the resort. But since she felt, as you feel about yourself, that she wasn't equipped to be a part of the decision-making process, she signed over a limited power of attorney to my daddy.”

“Which meant . . . ?”

“My father voted for her at both entities. And after Miss Peggy inherited everything from Mr. Dalt, she followed in Miss Myrtis's footsteps and let my father continue in the role he had filled for so many years. On his passing, Miss Peggy transferred the authority to me.” He opened his briefcase and pulled out a form, which he slid across the table. “This is the power of attorney. As you can see, it's renewable every year.”

Laurel scanned the paper in front of her. “Miss Myrtis was the one who started doing this?”

“Yes. She felt my daddy could best look out for her interests. And Mr. Dalt's too. Although he voted for himself.”

I bet he did
. The old tyrant would make his wives sign over their authority, but Mr. Dalt would vote for himself.

“Of course, in the last years of his life, Dalton let Daddy represent him too.”
Which shot that theory
.

“And Peggy always signed? Every year?” But she already knew the answer to that. Poor Peggy hadn't had the courage to change the master bedroom in the house she'd called home for forty-five years. No way would she have insisted on having her say at the gardens and the resort, if the great Miss Myrtis hadn't done it.

“Miss Peggy saw the value of the precedent that had been set.” Junior just happened to have a pen handy. He placed it in front of her.