When Venus Fell (31 page)

“This is ludicrous,” Emory said. He looked as if his eyes might pop. Olivia looked at me with quiet pleasure.

“No, it’s
not
ludicrous,” Min said suddenly. “If Gib feels that he’s ready to try—just two weekends a month starting in January—then we have to try. And if Venus—who is new to our family—if a newcomer like Venus has so much faith in our ability to start over, then I’m sorry, Emory, but we just have to make the effort.”

“I was ready to tell my investors we had a deal!”

“Tell them you were wrong,” Gib said.

“I’ve been placating these people for a long time. All right, all right, here’s the bottom line.” He jabbed a finger at Gib. “I predict that the opening weekend is all it will take to prove I’m right. One weekend.” He swept his hand at Min and the rest of us. “That’s all y’all are going to need to see that you can’t manage here without Simon. So I’ll come back for a vote in January. Right after the opening weekend. And it has to be a final vote. No second chances after January, Minnie. No history center named after Simon. And no college money for Dylan, Isabel. No campaign nest egg, Ruthie. If you turn me down in January you’ll regret it for the rest of your lives.”

“Your money men will wait until January,” Ruth said
brusquely. “They think we’re sitting on a gold mine here. They’ll wait.”

Min said wistfully, “Could you run the tape back and let me see the part about the history center again?”

“Run it back,” Emory ordered, snapping his fingers at Joseph, who hurried to comply. Min leaned forward with one hand knuckled to her lips, intensely studying the drawing of the center again, while the narrator described the wonderful facility that would bear Simon’s name. My eyes stung and I stared at the table. I had no idea if I’d done the right thing by interfering or not.

“You wouldn’t drop this history center from the plans, would you?” Min asked Emory. “I mean, if we told you this winter that we agreed to your development idea, this history center would still be part of it?”

Emory came to her and clasped her hands. “Minnie, I
want
to honor Simon. I promise you that we’ll build the history center in his name. But Minnie, you don’t need to wait. Don’t be confused by Gib and his … consort’s wishful thinking.” He stared at me. “Young … lady, you and your sister have ingratiated yourselves into this family in a very remarkable and sudden way. I have misgivings about your motivations.” He glanced around magnanimously, finally settling his gaze on Gib. “Let’s not mistake unflattering ambitions for serious loyalty.”

Min drew her hands away and gave him an icy look. “That’s not fair, Emory. Venus hasn’t done anything to deserve that, and I’m ashamed you said it.”

“Absolutely,” Isabel agreed with head-shaking indignation.

Ruth looked grim. “I couldn’t care less about Venus’s part in this. She’s irrelevant. The family’s objections to voting right now are sustained, Emory. If I were your judge I’d suggest that you plea-bargain.”

“This meeting’s over,” Gib announced. He had a look that could wilt flowers. He’d learned it in the Secret Service,
no doubt, where agents deliberately made eye contact with people in crowds, analyzing, warning, threatening them without a word. I’d read somewhere that the best “eye men” could make a heckler shut up or ward off much worse.

The look worked because it was backed up by a Zen-like concentration that bespoke total dedication and lack of self-concern. Even though I understood the mechanism—music is built on attitudes, and presenting music to an audience is an exercise in reckless wing-walking and crowd control—I was afraid when Gib looked at Emory that way. Gib said to him softly, “Don’t ever walk into this house again and insult anyone I invited under this roof. You think I’m not up to filling Simon’s shoes. Well, hell, I agree with you. But my brother wouldn’t allow you to insult a guest or a family member, and I won’t either.”

Emory held up both hands. He pivoted toward me. “I’m sorry. I meant nothing but the most sincere concern.”

“Oh, shut up, you bloody fool,” Bea said.

“I’ll be back in January.”

My tour de force of total showmanship had changed the course of Cameron history—at least for the next few months. And it was quite possible I’d doomed these people and the place they loved so deeply. These people included Ella now. And by extension, me.

I skittered a glance at Olivia. Her silent mouth quirked at one corner. Her eyes glowed.

Whether I’d meant to or not, I had served her purpose grandly.

“Why did you do it?” Gib asked. We stood in Simon’s office. The shades had been drawn for over a year; the big, comfortable space smelled musty.

“Because to me Emory and Joseph represent all the smug, judgmental, self-entitled
haves
in a
have-not
world. I don’t like them. I’ve dealt with men like them for years.”

“That’s not good enough. Why did you do it?” he asked again.

“Because Emory’s plan would change everything that’s
brave
about this valley and your family.”

“Why?”
he insisted.

“Because I need a job to do here.” My voice rose. “I have to stay busy or I’ll lose my mind worrying about Ella!”

“Why?” he said between gritted teeth.

I sank into an old wooden desk chair with rumpsprung damask pillows. I shut my eyes. “Because I’d like to stay here and help you if I can.”

He touched my cheek with the backs of his fingers. I looked up at him breathlessly. He sat down on the edge of the desk. “By God, Nellie,” he said in a soft voice, “if we can’t do this together then it can’t be done.”

“Was Emory right? Have you had job offers?”

“Yes.”

“Would you really rather move on? Tell me. I’m not really part of your family, so you can’t hurt me with the truth.” What a lie, but it sounded good.

“There have been days—” He paused. Then, “Weeks, months, when all I could think about was walking away from everything here. But not now.”

“Why?”

He looked heavenward. “Oh, why does she ask
why?
” Then he looked at me, arching a brow. “Turnabout is fair play?”

“Why?” I persisted.

“I’m getting stronger.”

“Why?”

“I’m accepting what happened to my brother as an accident. I don’t blame myself as much. Going back to the sawmill was a turning point.”

“Why?” I said.

“For God’s sake. Because I’m starting to think I might actually belong here, running this inn, under the right circumstances.” He slapped his legs. “Now, the first thing we
have to do is get to work on that mailing. I’ll go through the inn’s computer files. I’ll get Min to help me. But there’s a helluva lot to do, Nellie. We’ll be busy for the next three months. Painting, polishing, fixing. There’ll be menus to discuss with FeeMolly, food supplies to order, liquor and the wine cellar to be inventoried and restocked, plus the Hall will have to be cleaned from top to bottom—all the guest bedrooms, the communal rooms—and you have to do whatever it is you do to plan your musical performances or whatever you call them.”

“I’ll go to the cottage,” I said dryly, “change into some grungier clothes, and be right back to start disciplining that darned lazy piano of yours.” I hurried to the door.

“Nellie,” he called. I halted. His voice, deep and warm, went through me.

“Hmmm?” I glanced back at him.

“
Why
have I stopped thinking about leaving?” He paused, then nodded to me. “Because it’s interesting to see what you’re going to do every day. So far, you’ve put on a helluva show.”

“Oh? The prospect of aggravating me gives you a reason to get up every morning?”

He laughed, flicked a switch on a desk lamp, and turned away.

“You’re the
what?
” Ella asked. She stood in the library still holding her cosmetic bag and wearing a filmy peach-colored dress that Carter had bought for her during a shopping trip in Chicago. A pea-sized diamond perched on the third finger of her left hand. Like a hen on a nest of eggs, it sat on a cluster of smaller diamonds.

Our RV was history, my sister was gloriously happy for the moment, and Carter was being dutifully polite to me, as I was to him. I think Ella was shocked that I calmly welcomed her back with the news of my new status.

“I’m the Hall’s musical director,” I repeated. “And you’re my assistant.” I looked at her over the baby grand, where I’d spread out lists of several hundred pop tunes and classics. I’d offered to discuss the selections with Gib—not because I wanted his input, but to honor his detail-oriented angst. “The inn’s re-opening in January,” I added.

She laughed, bounded over, and hugged me. “I knew you’d fit right in here as soon as I gave you a little push!”

“You didn’t give me a push. You jumped off a cliff and I jumped after you.”

Her smile faded. “I’ve never been happier, Vee. I’ll just
be patient and let you see for yourself until you’re convinced.” Her gaze went to the lid of the piano. She caught her breath.

I’d placed Mom and Pop’s wedding photo there.

“We’ll work seven days a week until the end of the year, if we have to,” Gib said, surveying clouds of dust motes that rose every time he pushed a fist into the cushions of a couch in an upstairs bedroom. He glanced out the window. “The lawns need to be fertilized and mowed one last time before winter. There’re tons of leaves to get up. The gardens have to be plowed. And every pipe in this house has to be checked for leaks and loose insulation. All the chimneys have to be cleaned, and—”

Ruth grunted. “This is a crazy idea. We need more than three months to get ready. And we need an army to get this house back in spotless condition. We should have voted for Emory’s proposal.”

“Either leave or get to work, but don’t complain,” Gib ordered.

She grimaced. “I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”

I coughed. “I can easily picture you with a pitchfork and a forked tail.”

She looked at me. “I picture you the same way.”

I smiled.

Isabel and Min stayed in the office with Gib all one October afternoon, compiling the mailing list, writing a promotional letter, and running off thousands of address labels. Ruth called her businessman husband, Paul, who was one of the Attenborough Attenberrys and therefore a distant relation to his own wife’s family. She had him send a delivery man from Knoxville with more envelopes and stamps.

Ella and I were so tired from wrestling linens in twenty bedrooms in the main house that we didn’t bother to read the one-page form letter printed on the Hall’s handsome crested
stationery. My job was placing folded letters into the envelopes. By midnight the last envelope was done and we all got up and just stood there looking at one another, over head-high stacks bound with rubber bands.

“Maybe I’ll sleep soundly tonight,” Min said. “For the first time in months, I’m tired in a way that feels comfortable.”

She wandered away for a glass of water, Isabel followed her, Ruth went to a phone to tell Paul she was on her way home, and Jasper and Kelly staggered into the den of the family room and collapsed on a couch. Ella stretched languidly and blushed as Carter clumped into the kitchen. He’d been at the barns all day. “I’ve just about got that roan mare trained not to bite anybody,” he said. “I tell you, Gib, I’ll use her on trail rides and the guests won’t have to worry about a single nibble.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Gib said. “Next you can work on Ruth’s bad habits.”

Carter guffawed as he swept Ella into his arms. “You ready to go to our little land-boat and snuggle for the night?”

“Mind if I bite your ear?” she cooed.

“I can’t wait.”

“Good-night,” Ella called as she disappeared with Carter out the kitchen’s porch door.

“Good-night,” I said flatly. Gib and I were left at the table. I noticed an extra letter had fallen on the floor. “I’ll toss this in the trash.” I walked out onto the back porch, where moths fluttered around a small light fixture overhead. I glanced over the letter as I started to drop it in a tall galvanized trashcan.

My eyes stopped at the sight of my own name.

I read that last part several times.

“Is something wrong?” Gib asked quietly. I turned. He was leaning inside the porch’s screen door. He held a short, fresh cigar between the thumb and forefinger of his bad hand, and awkwardly moved the cigar to his lips as he watched me. He flicked a kitchen match nimbly inside the palm of his good hand, and the flame cast provocative shadows on his face as he lit the cigar.

It was an impressively macho trick, striking a match on his own skin. But the contrast between that and the stiff, distorted fingers of his right hand was distinct. He fumbled with the cigar and finally wedged it between his fingertips. When he took it from his mouth and exhaled, his expression had become strained.

“My hand must be hypnotic,” he said, “because you never answered me.”

“Maybe I needed a minute to get myself together.” I held up the letter.

He relaxed a little. “You don’t like being included? Min wrote it, but Ruth and Olivia and I agreed on the wording. Is it a problem for some reason?”

“No. It’s … just been a long time since anyone referred to me as a concert pianist. Much less a
world-class
concert pianist.”

“You think that’s false advertising?”

“I don’t know anymore.”

“Well, look at it this way. You’ve got a reputation to live up to.” He flicked a thin cap of ash from the cigar tip, studied his clumsy, scarred fingers for a moment, nodded good-night to me, and walked out onto the porch, past me and down the steps.

“Thank you for remembering what I used to be,” I said.