Читать книгу The Women of Bayberry Cove - Cynthia Thomason, Cynthia Thomason - Страница 11

VICKI MALONE CAREFULLY removed a china dinner plate from the packing box. She stacked it on top of others on an old wrought-iron and glass table in the kitchen section of Louise’s apartment. “These dishes are really pretty, Lulu,” she said. “I love the cherry blossom design.”

“The best the Morgan City Wal-Mart had to offer,” Louise responded. “And within the limits of the dollar amount I set to furnish this place.”

Vicki swiped her finger through a layer of dust on the single kitchen counter. “Are you really going to sleep here tonight?”

Louise snapped plastic gloves onto her hands and dipped a cleaning rag into a solution of vinegar and water. “Absolutely. Two nights in a motel is enough for me. I’m looking forward to all the…” she paused, glanced around the room at the work that still needed to be done, and gave Vicki a rueful smile “…comforts of home. Have I mentioned how grateful I am to you two for your help?”

Jamie Malone, intent on turning an old oak bureau into a utilitarian work of art, shrugged off the comment. “Forget about it. What are friends for?”

“Besides, you’ve mentioned it about a hundred times,” Vicki said. “With the three of us working, we actually might have this place in order by this afternoon. It’s going to be lovely,” she added. “The curtains and linens and pillows you bought are adorable and will add a lot of charm to this room.”

Louise stared at her dearest friend. Vicki loved pottery and flowers and chintz, so Louise allowed her to use words like adorable and charm. Louise’s viewpoint was that a person needed towels. So what if they had a little lacy trim on the hem? So what if a plate had a cluster of cherries painted in the center? It would still hold a microwave dinner. “That’s the look I’m going for,” she said with a grin.

When she finished unpacking dishes, Vicki picked up a candle that had been sitting on the table, and examined it closely. “I didn’t know you were into these things. Did you buy this at the Bayberry Cove Candle Company?”

“Hardly, since I’ve never heard of the place. The truth is, I didn’t buy it at all. It was outside my door this morning when I got here.”

“It’s a beautiful shade of blue,” Vicki said. “Did you read the tag taped to the side?”

“Tag? No. I didn’t know there was a tag.”

“It says, ‘Look to the sky and look to sea for this tranquil shade of blue. Light it tonight and it will bring comfort to your home and you.’”

Louise walked over to the table and took the candle from Vicki. “Very touching,” she said, “if not exactly poet laureate material.”

“If you didn’t buy it,” Vicki said, “I wonder where it came from.”

Jamie turned off the power to his electric sander and set the tool on top of the bureau. “I’d guess that Suzie McCorkle left it,” he said. “She’s interested in that kind of stuff. Candles, crystals, things like that. It’s probably her way of wishing you domestic harmony.”

Louise pictured the mousy woman with the shoulder-length gray hair neatly pinned back from her forehead with two barrettes. A New Age lady? Well, why not? Louise looked at the mattress and box springs and the “nearly new” plaid sofa she had bought from Suzie’s shop the day before, and another explanation came to mind. “Maybe she’s just thanking me for buying a few things.”

Jamie ran his hand over the surface of the dresser and picked up the sander again. “Maybe. She would do something like that—quietly leave a candle without expecting recognition. She’s a nice woman.”

The origin of the candle solved, Louise returned to her struggle with the first of three windows that looked over Main Street. After scrubbing for ten minutes with the vinegar solution and following up with industrial strength glass cleaner, she was finally able to see the sun dappling the sidewalks in the square across the street. She yanked another batch of paper towels from a roll and feverishly wiped the stubborn glass with a circular motion. “Just have to eliminate a few more streaks,” she huffed, “and then a bird with a bad case of cataracts might actually knock himself silly trying to fly into this place.”

“For the love of Saint Pat, Louise,” Jamie said above the steady whirr of his sander, “you’d better quit now before you rub a hole in the glass.”

“Jamie’s right, Lulu. You’re taking out your frustration on the window.”

Louise laid her forehead against the nearly clean pane and sighed. “You’re right. I still can’t believe I didn’t notice the name Fletcher on that lease. Four days ago, if I’d had a client who’d done something as stupid as sign a document without reading it carefully, I’d have seriously considered not representing him.”

Jamie looked at Vicki and was unsuccessful at hiding a grin. “And what difference does it really make now? You have a place to stay at a reasonable rent—the only place available, as I see it. Why do you care who owns the building?”

“But they’re so smug,” she said. “Wesley practically crowed when he told me that his family owns this building.”

“They own Buttercup Cottage, too,” Vicki pointed out. “And that didn’t bother you when you thought you could rent it.”

“That was yesterday, before I knew them.” She gestured out the window, where people in the square were now visible through the sparkling glass. “And that old guy over there…Mason Fletcher. Now that I think about it, he was smug, too. And I can just imagine Haywood. He’s probably more smug than the rest of them.”

Jamie hunched a shoulder in a sign of agreement. “Smug, clever…there’s a fine line between the two if you ask me. You have to be clever first in order to justify being smug. And as for your signing the lease, my advice is to forget about it. You’re on vacation from lawyering, so you might as well relax and enjoy yourself.” He walked to the middle window and with his fist cleared a three-inch circle through the grime so he could see the street below. “Bayberry Cove is a really nice little town.”

Louise let out a long breath and followed his gaze. It was Sunday morning, and families had gathered on the square. Fathers pushed children on swings and women chatted on benches.

“Yes, it is,” she admitted. “And you’re right. I’m going to relax just as soon as I get this place clean. And right after you tell me how old man Fletcher got all his money.”

Jamie went back to the bureau, picked up a piece of sandpaper and began smoothing the edges by hand. “That’s an interesting story,” he said, his words a soothing accompaniment to the rasp of the paper. “Mason was in his early twenties when he took a small inheritance his father left him and traveled from Bayberry Cove to Arizona. He invested in a silver mine out there with some other fellas, and as luck would have it, they uncovered a rich vein that gave them each a good stake for their futures.”

Louise dipped her rag again and attacked the middle window. “So he came back to North Carolina and bought Bayberry Cove?”

Jamie chuckled. “Not all at once. He made his real fortune in patents. Sold one to Henry Ford that revolutionized the assembly line process. And then, bit by bit, he started buying up property around here and dabbling in various ventures. He built Buttercup Cottage in 1935 for the love of his life, the woman he married.”

Louise stared down at the old man under the oak tree. She wasn’t surprised to learn a romantic soul lurked behind his knowing blue eyes. Smugness aside, Mason Fletcher had a soft spot. “Who was she?”

“An Arizona gal. He married her out there and took her away from all that soaring rock and desert and brought her to the sea. They say she loved being on Currituck Sound, and Buttercup Cottage was his gift to her on their second anniversary.” He stopped sanding and looked first at Louise and then at Vicki. “He called her Buttercup. He was a man very much in love, apparently. Still is, twenty-some years after her death.”

“Haywood was their only child?” Louise asked.

“The only one who survived the polio epidemic of the late forties,” Jamie answered. “Haywood had two younger sisters, twins. They both died.”

Louise watched as Mason Fletcher rolled a colorful plastic ball toward a group of children in the square. “That’s sad.”

“And Haywood only had one child—Wesley.” Jamie blew a film of sawdust from the top of the bureau. “Can’t say he didn’t try for more, though. He’s been married four times—which is why he shies away from wedded bliss today,” Jamie added with a hint of bitterness in his voice.

Louise resumed scrubbing. “So Haywood is quite the ladies’ man as well as a renowned legal mind. I can’t wait to meet this paragon of Bayberry Cove society.”

“You will meet him,” Vicki said. “The only woman in his life now is Jamie’s mother, Kate.”

“But didn’t you tell me that Jamie’s mother works for Haywood?” Louise asked.

“We said ‘used to,’ as in she used to be his housekeeper. Now she’s a bit more to him than that.”

“Yeah, but not his wife,” Jamie said with that same edge of rancor in his tone.

Louise spritzed a generous amount of cleaner on the window and began rubbing it dry. As the solution evaporated, a group of men standing on the sidewalk in front of the Bayberry Cove Kettle came into her view. There was no mistaking the tall, lean figure waving goodbye to the others and heading across the street. She quickly cleaned a larger section and watched Wesley Fletcher walk toward his grandfather. “Speaking of the Fletchers, the youngest one just appeared on the square.”

Vicki levered her pregnant body off the chair. She stood beside Louise at the window. “Is that him? Is that Wesley?”

“In the flesh.” Louise admired the stretch of a snug T-shirt over his chest and his muscled thighs extending from a pair of gray jersey shorts. “Or the next best thing to it, anyway.”

“Ohh…” Vicki’s one syllable rolled into several seconds of blatant admiration.

“Don’t stare at the poor man, ladies,” Jamie said from the middle of the room. “You couldn’t be more obvious.”

Vicki laughed. “You’re just jealous because there’s someone in Bayberry Cove who is nearly as good-looking as you are.”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted. “But Wes is a good friend. And he’s the town’s favorite son. He was born and raised here and all the locals followed his exploits through the naval academy and beyond. I’m content to stand in his shadow as the adopted son.”

Louise drummed her nails against the pane. “I wonder why he’s not married.”

“He was, once,” Jamie said. “To a girl he met while he was at Annapolis. She was a journalist in Washington, a couple of years older than him.”

“What happened?”

“She went her way, covering stories around the world, and he went his, to wherever the navy sent him. Tough to make a marriage work under those circumstances. They divorced after a few years.”

Louise drew her friend’s attention back to the window. “Look, he’s a runner.”

Both women watched as Wesley stretched his legs and arms. He jogged in place a moment before taking off around the perimeter of the square.

“He runs a few times a week when he’s in town,” Jamie said, adding that he started the regimen at precisely the same time each day. “Now get away from the window and give the man his privacy.”

“No way,” Louise scoffed. “He doesn’t want privacy. He’s running in the middle of the town square!” Determined to raise the window, which probably hadn’t been opened in a decade at least, she struggled until old paint finally cracked and the glass slid upward with a stubborn hiss. She waited for Wesley to sprint around to the street side again and then leaned out the window. “Ahoy, Commander,” she yelled. “Good morning.”

He looked up, shielded his eyes. “Good morning to you, Louise,” he called. “How are the new digs?”

“Couldn’t be better,” she said, propping the window up with a yardstick.

He tossed her an offhand wave and jogged around the corner. Louise continued to watch. His legs churned with nearly effortless grace. His arms pumped rhythmically at his sides. He was all fluid, powerful motion, an image of focused elegance. She nudged her friend. “So, what do you think?”

“Oh, you’re right, Lulu. I’ve never seen a man more outrageously…” Vicki fumbled for the right word and glanced over her shoulder at her husband “…sinfully smug in my life!”

Louise hooted with laughter. “See? I told you. But on him it does look good.”

LOUISE’S APPROACH TO LIFE in Bayberry Cove was characterized by good intentions. First, she intended to take Jamie’s advice. Once the apartment was in good shape, she’d kick back, relax, read a few good books. She’d definitely brightened the day of the owner of Books by the Bay when she’d walked out of the shop Monday morning with ten novels.

Second, she intended to stay a little bit angry with Wesley Fletcher. It was the safest way to combat a growing attraction to the good-looking ex–naval officer who seemed to be popping into her thoughts with alarming regularity. A man who lived his life according to regimens and schedules wouldn’t complement Louise’s more flamboyant style. More importantly, she wasn’t staying in Bayberry Cove for long. Two months in this town was the only interlude she meant to have from her real life.

And last, she definitely intended to avoid legal matters of any kind. She was in the South, where everybody understood that the livin’ was easy, and she was going to return to Oppenheimer Straus and Baker bathed in an aura of mint-julep cool if it killed her.

Unfortunately, each of these good intentions was blown all to hell on Tuesday evening.

Just two days after she moved into her little apartment, an unexpected event made her ignore every promise she’d made to herself.

Tired of reading, bored with dusting and totally disinterested in popping a frozen dinner into her microwave, Louise wandered down to the Kettle, where she’d eaten most of her meals the last couple of days. There was a good supper crowd gathered in the diner, but she found a small table and sat down.

After a few minutes Bobbi Lee came to take her order. “Hey, girl, how’s it going?” she said, her red lips curving into a welcoming grin. “How’s that place of yours working out?”

“Just fine, Bobbi Lee,” Louise said. She and Bobbi had established a friendly relationship. In fact, Louise was now beginning to worry about how this steadily increasing bond with the waitress might translate into fat grams.

“What’ll it be tonight?” Bobbi asked.

Louise folded the menu so she couldn’t see the words sausage gravy. “Just a salad.”

Bobbi sauntered off to place the order and Louise sat back and watched the people around her. Four women at a nearby table caught and held her attention. Each lady had a full bottle of Budweiser in front of her. Twice the number of empties sat waiting for the busboy to take them away.

Occasionally the women’s conversation was interrupted by boisterous laughter. But without fail, they quickly resumed a serious discussion once the joviality passed. Other sounds of the restaurant faded as curiosity made Louise tune in their voices. The ladies were obviously close acquaintances even though there was a wide range in their ages.

“All I know is that I couldn’t afford to give up another day’s wages at the factory to stay home with my son,” a young, olive-skinned Hispanic woman said. “Thank goodness he was well enough to go back to the baby-sitter today.”

“Did you tell Justin why you needed to stay home?” an older woman with a long gray ponytail asked.

“I did, hoping he’d be sympathetic. He said, ‘Go ahead, Miranda. Take all the time you need, but come payday—’”

“Wait, don’t tell us,” a slim woman with short blond hair interrupted. “He said, ‘Come payday, your check might be a little less than you expected.’”

Empathetic laughter erupted around the table until the older woman lifted her bottle into the air. “Let’s drink one to Justin Beauclaire, in honor of his unending compassion for his employees and his sense of fair play,” she said.

Something of an expert herself in the subtle deployment of sarcasm, Louise appreciated the old gal’s admirable use of it. She smiled and raised her glass of iced tea in silent commiseration.

Four bottles met and clinked above the center of the table, and each woman took a long swallow of beer. The older woman set down her bottle, wiped suds from her mouth with a napkin and gave her friend a serious look. “You know, Miranda, you could have brought Lorenzo to my house yesterday. It was my day off, and I would have watched him.”

Miranda smiled in gratitude. “Thanks, Bessie, but you’ve got enough to handle just taking care of your husband. Besides, who knows what germs Lorenzo could have brought into your house? If Pete had caught something from him, his emphysema might have gotten worse.”

“How’s Pete doing, anyway?” a woman with coffee-brown skin asked.

“Not too well, Yvonne,” Bessie said, “but thanks for asking.”

“You’ve got to get some help,” Yvonne said. “Between work and Pete, you’re wearing yourself out.”

“Without health insurance, I can’t afford to get outside help,” Bessie said. “Even if I could afford insurance, I doubt I could get coverage for Pete at this stage of his illness.”

Not an individual policy, Louise agreed to herself. But it would have been nice if you’d had family coverage provided by your employer when you started working.

Yvonne, the African-American woman, shook her head slowly. “That’s a shame. My sister’s husband over in Raleigh got coverage for the whole family when he went to work for the paper mill….”

Louise nodded. Right. That’s the way it should be.

“…and tight ol’ Justin Beauclaire won’t even provide coverage for his employees,” the woman continued.

The blonde, the youngest by several years, downed the rest of her beer in one long gulp and curled her lips into a catlike grin. “Yeah, but we get all the candles we can steal,” she said.

Candles? These women must work for the Bayberry Cove Candle Company, which Vicki had mentioned a couple of days ago. The factory was the town’s largest employer.

The young woman unzipped a huge canvas purse sitting on the floor beside her chair and pulled out an eight-inch pillar candle. “I figure this pretty one will set the mood when Luke and I are alone at his place later.”

“Shame on you, Darlene Jackson,” Bessie said. “You took that from work?”

Darlene shrugged. “Why not? I haven’t had a raise in three years. I figure the company owes me.”

Bessie sighed. “The last thing I want to see when I leave the factory every day is another candle.”

“Yes, girl,” Yvonne said, and then shook a finger at Darlene. “Especially when you’re wasting it on Luke Plunkett. When are you gonna wise up and find yourself a nice fella?”

Darlene stuffed the candle back in her purse and frowned. “As soon as Justin Beauclaire pays me a wage that allows me to put a little away each week so’s I can walk outta that factory for good. And you all know that’s not likely to happen.” She set her elbows on the table and cradled her chin in her hands. “Until I can afford to get outta here, Luke is about all I got to look forward to each night.” She gazed at the ceiling, avoiding eye contact with her friends. “Besides, he can be nice.”

Yvonne stared at Bessie and said in a conspiratorial voice, “Is it snowing in hell, Bess?”

Darlene stood up, dug into the pocket of a pair of skin-tight jeans and tossed a few bills onto the table. “I heard that, Yvonne,” she said. “But even you’ve got to admit that a girl can’t sit home with her momma and daddy every night on a big, lonely farm. And like I said, Luke can be nice.”

She draped the purse strap over her shoulder and pushed in her chair. “I’m off to the Brew and Bowl. Luke will be wondering where I am.” She straightened her spine defiantly and lifted her chin. “See you all next Tuesday night, I guess. And tomorrow at work.”

Louise munched on the last of her salad and watched with the three other women as Darlene strutted from the restaurant.

“I don’t know what will become of that girl if she stays with Luke,” Bessie said with a shake of her coarse gray ponytail. “She’s got a big heart, but I don’t think that boy will ever appreciate the goodness in her.”

Miranda ran a hand through her long dark curls and sighed. “I worry that Luke will get drunk and really hurt her. Deputy Blackwell has broken up a couple of fights between them, but one day Darlene won’t be so lucky. She needs to get away from that devil before it’s too late.”

Yvonne smirked. “Not much chance of that as long as she’s working for Beauclaire and earning minimum wage. She can’t afford a place of her own.”

Louise had heard enough. The problems at the candle factory were issues she understood well in her capacity as a corporate lawyer, though she’d never really studied them from the employees’ point of view. Her promise to avoid work-related entanglements abruptly abandoned, Louise stood up and went to the table.

“Pardon me, ladies,” she said. “I couldn’t help overhearing. I’m Louise Duncan, attorney. Do you mind if I sit down?”

None of the women spoke, apparently too surprised to respond. Finally, Bessie pressed her booted foot on the leg of the chair Darlene had just vacated, and pushed it away from the table. “It’s a free country,” she said.

Miranda narrowed her dark eyes suspiciously. “Not to an attorney it isn’t.”

Louise dropped onto the chair and scooted close. She waved off the Hispanic woman’s comment with a flutter of her hand. “Don’t concern yourself with what you’ve heard about lawyer fees,” she said. “If you ladies and I come to an agreement about some things, and I decide that I can help you, I’ll take on this project strictly for the experience—and the fun of it.” She smiled at the women.

“I know a little about corporate law, ladies,” she continued. “And a thing or two about labor regulations.” She looked at each woman. “If you three have a little more time this evening, I’d like you to tell me all about the factory and your employer, Justin Beauclaire.”

The two younger women looked to Bessie, who chewed her bottom lip a moment and finally said, “Girls, I can’t see as it would hurt to talk to her.”