Hidden Hearts (16 page)

Her sarcasm evaporated.
“And?”

“And nothing.
He’s an ass and he doesn’t care.”

She attempted a smile. “Thanks for trying.” She held up her glass again.
“To chance meetings.”

They studied each other, and CC saw in Penn’s eyes that Viv wasn’t the only one with secrets. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“I do a lot of legal work for the association. Family members don’t know what to do when their spouses or partners start losing their memories. And if they have to put them in a facility, there’s a ton of paperwork. It’s such a rotten disease.” Her voice cracked and she looked away.

“It’s great that you help like that.”

She looked up, obviously disarmed by the kindness of her tone. “It was Viv who got me involved. She’s on the board of directors.”

“Really?
Is she here tonight?”

“Yeah, somewhere.”
She looked around and her eyes settled over her shoulder. “I think your
associate
needs you.”

She turned as Alicia sidled up next to her, standing just close enough to seem possessive but not overtly demonstrative. She stuck out her hand. “Hello, I’m Alicia.”

Penn assessed her shrewdly. “Hello, I’m Penn. Do you work with CC?” CC and Alicia glanced at each other, and Penn picked up on the awkwardness immediately. “I see. You’re not
work
friends.”

“Actually, we’re exes,” Alicia said.
“At least for now.”

Penn raised an eyebrow and CC looked away. “Well, I should go find Viv. It was good to see you, CC. Nice to meet you, Alicia.”

“Who was that?” Alicia asked as she wandered away through the crowd.

“She’s Vivian Battle’s attorney. Apparently she and Viv are affiliated with the Alzheimer’s Association.”

“So that’s the attorney you’re against?”

She shrugged. “I suppose, but I’m hoping there’s a way to fix this.”

“Don’t count on it,” she said.

She realized Alicia was working the room. Her eyes landed on Blanca. “So what’s it like to work for her. I mean, really? She comes across as a grade-A bitch, but she’s so good in court.”

“I guess she’s okay,” she said simply. “I’m—”

Alicia touched her arm. “Hey, I’m going to go mingle. Can we meet up in a little while?”

“Sure,” she said.

She disappeared and CC felt completely discarded. She headed in the direction she’d seen Penn go. Perhaps she could locate Viv and tell her she’d started drawing again.

She’d nearly crossed the entire room when she spotted them chatting with an elderly Hispanic man. He barely filled out his suit jacket and was severely hunched over. She guessed he was over ninety.

She didn’t want to intrude but perhaps if she caught Viv’s eye, she’d invite her to join them. “Where’s your ex?” Penn asked, making her jump.

“She’s back there,” she answered absently.

“So are you two getting back together?”

The warm connection she and Alicia had enjoyed for a few fleeting moments had disappeared.

“I have no idea.”

“Do you
want
to get back together?”

“That’s a tough one. I don’t know.”

She shoved her hands in her pockets and rocked on her heels. “Probably an important question if you’re still having sex.”

She blinked and nearly fell backward. “What are you talking about?”

Penn leaned very close and CC’s arms immediately sprouted goose bumps. “Your vest is on inside out.”

Her gaze shot to her top, and it was only when her fingers found the tag in the back did she realize she was right.
“Oh, my God.”

“It’s okay,” she assured her. “I’ll stand here and block the view and you fix it.”

“Please,” she said.

She stepped in front of her and CC quickly slipped the vest off and back on.

“The tag’s stuck out.” Penn shoved it back inside, her cool fingers trailing across her neck. “So are you dating, getting back together or just hooking up?”

“We’re not hooking up,” she said acidly. “We were together for two years.”

“Then you’re dating again?”

“Well, maybe. I’m not sure. Stop asking me questions. This isn’t court.” She flared her nostrils. “I don’t appreciate your judgmental tone.”

“I wasn’t being judgmental at all. You’re as scrupulous with your personal life as you are professionally.”

“There.
Right there.
That wasn’t judgmental?”

“Yeah, I guess it was. I take it all back. I’m totally judging you.”

CC turned on her heel, determined to storm away when she saw Viv motioning to her.

“CC, how wonderful to see you!”

At the most awkward moment possible, Viv had finally noticed her. She pulled her into a tight embrace like an old friend, and CC imagined
everyone
was her friend after the first meeting.

“Are you a supporter of the Alzheimer’s cause?” she asked.

“My firm is. But I hear you’re a member of the board of directors.”

Tears filled her eyes. “It’s the least I could do. A lot of people were there for me when my mother got sick in the seventies, long before they knew what to call it.”

“I think it’s wonderful that you give back.”

She took her arm. “I’ve often thought that if my dear Chloe wasn’t a two-dimensional character, she’d have been sent to a home for reptiles long ago. And don’t forget that I want to see your sketchbook soon.”

“I’d love that,” she said sincerely.

Viv introduced her to Manuel Munoz. His handshake was frail but his gaze was alert and he greeted her with a bow.

“Manny worked on our land. When things started to fall apart he was the one who held it together.”

“Stopped a few fights as I remember. Your little community,” he said with a cough, “was the talk of the town. I was surprised they didn’t run you and your mama out of there.”

Viv snorted. “We weren’t afraid of them. They were the cowards. And when it was over we were still standing thanks to you.”

“Well,
you
were,” he said softly. “Others weren’t so lucky.”

July, 1954

“The key to sweet potato pie is the mashing,” Mama instructed.

Kiah and I nodded dutifully. I was sure she was committing everything Mama said to memory since she was determined to bake one for her father. Mama made Mac a sweet potato pie at least once a week, and I thought Kiah was a little jealous. Every time Mama would drop one off, he’d fuss over her as if she’d handed him a million dollars. I think Kiah wanted the same attention.

We followed her around as she stirred and measured. I was already bored. I hated baking, but I’d learned not to complain or I’d face a long lecture about my unfortunate future as an old-maid spinster-moron.

“How in the world, Vivian, will you ever land a husband if you won’t learn to cook? It’s a wifely duty.”

“Then I won’t get married,” I’d said.

For some reason that always shut her up. She’d look at me with a raised eyebrow, but it was almost like she was agreeing with me.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the bandanna I kept in the back pocket of my cutoffs. The July heat was worse in the kitchen and our old swamp cooler didn’t help at all. I went to the icebox and stuck my head inside.

“Vivian Battle, get out of there! You’re letting all of the cold air out.”

I slowly closed the door, imagining I was sitting on an ice block in Antarctica.

There was a knock and the three of us turned. Mac stood on the other side of the screen door with his toolbox in his hand.

“Hello, Lois. I’ve come to fix your faucet.”

“Hi, Mac.
Please come in,” she said brightly. She glanced at the clock. “Isn’t this your lunch hour?”

“Yeah, but I don’t mind.” He knelt down by the sink and prepared to work.

“Oh, no, this can wait. You need to eat.”

She went to the icebox and grabbed the fixings for sandwiches, the sweet potato pie forgotten. I slid against the open door for a few more seconds to cool down before I let it close. God, it was hot.

Kiah handed Mac the tools he requested while Mama made ham sandwiches. I wondered what Pops would say if he knew a black man was eating at his table, but I knew he’d never find out. I’d heard Mama tell Mr. Rubenstein, “Chet’s gone all night and then tells me a story,” but I wasn’t sure I understood what she meant.

Will was gone too. He and Mama had a huge fight after the school had phoned because he was ditching and failing his classes. He’d called Mama a name and she’d slapped his face. Then he rode away and didn’t come back often. He spent most of his time on his bike, riding the trails around Squaw Peak with a bunch of dropouts. He hadn’t offered to go riding with me in months, which was fine since I spent every minute I could with Kiah. For some reason I tied his absence with Pops’ and didn’t think much of it.

It became routine to have Kiah and Mac at the house. It never happened on purpose with a formal invitation, but we’d be coming home from the grocery store and Mac would be on his porch smoking his pipe and he’d offer to help carry in the bags. Then they’d start talking and Mama would invite them for dinner. If they met up between mealtimes, he was always ready for some sweet potato pie to go along with his lemonade. He
did
make the best lemonade I’d ever tasted.

“Mrs. Battle’s teachin’ me how to make pie,” Kiah announced proudly as we sat down for lunch.

“Well, it’s about time,” he said with a laugh. “We can’t be bothering these fine folks every time I get a hankerin’ for some sweet potato pie.”

“Oh, it’s not a bother at all,” Mama disagreed. “I enjoy it.”

I blinked but said nothing. It was the first time she’d ever admitted to liking any type of work in the kitchen. While I knew she enjoyed the compliments about her pie, there was ample swearing during each phase of its creation, and I’d always thought she’d gladly stop making them if Pops didn’t like them so much.

Mama pulled a cigarette from her case. “Well, you’re about to get one all for yourself made by your daughter with a tiny bit of help from my daughter, whose only talent seems to be opening the icebox.”

She scowled at me playfully while he whipped out his Zippo. She cupped his hand to steady the flame and leaned closer until it looked as if they were whispering. It was an odd picture, but Kiah obviously didn’t notice.

“Yoo-hoo, Lois, dear!”

At the first syllable Mama dropped his hand and he stood up, knocking over his chair in the process. Ila Partridge waltzed through the door, assuming her announcement was enough permission. She glanced at the overturned chair, Mac, Kiah and the four place settings and immediately frowned. Mama took her elbow, leading her into the living room, away from the evidence that we were eating with black people. I crept to the archway, dying to know why she would come by. She didn’t visit unless it was Mama’s week for sewing circle time.

“Ila, what a nice surprise.
What are you doing here?” she asked in a sugary voice.

They sat down on the couch, and
Ila
removed her gloves. Her yellow dress and shoes looked expensive but she was so homely that there wasn’t much to be done. Her horn-rimmed glasses could barely stay on her tiny, upturned nose, and her eyes were huge like a squirrel’s. I hated her because after church one day, I’d overheard her tell two of the other sewing circle ladies that some women weren’t deserving of the beauty God had given them. She’d been staring straight at Mama when she’d said it.

“I was on my way back from prayer group and wanted to drop off this porcelain thimble before sewing circle tomorrow.”

She held out a white thimble with a gold band around the bottom edge and presented it to Mama like a treasure. “I
remembered how you’d told the story of losing your grandmother’s
thimble when the tornado struck your childhood home.”