Hidden Hearts (6 page)

“Wow.”

She leaned over a worktable and studied several discarded sketches. A supply cart sat nearby, overflowing with markers and trays of watercolors. She was so tempted to scavenge through the contents of the drawers that she gripped her briefcase tighter to prevent herself.

“Do you work exclusively in watercolor?” she asked.

“For Chloe, yes.
Her adventures have always been watercolor, but I dabble in other mediums. Are you an artist, dear?”

She shook her head.
“No, not an artist.
I’ve just always liked to draw. I did it in school.” Completely lost in the moment, she added, “I invented my own character because I loved Chloe so much.”

Viv touched her heart. “I’m flattered, my dear. You’ve paid me the ultimate compliment. If I die today, it will be with a smile on my face.”

“Viv!”
Penn groaned.

“Maybe you could show me your character sometime?”

She blinked, suddenly remembering why she was here. Her gaze fell on Penn, leaning against a filing cabinet, her chin resting in her palm.

Viv grabbed her by the arm.
“How about some tea and pie?”

They followed her through a completely updated home. She expected a seventy-year-old woman to have dark oak furniture with doilies and knickknacks scattered about the tops of multiple hutches, buffets and tables, but there was none of that. The floors were bamboo, the walls adorned with contemporary art and the furniture minimal and functional. Viv’s tastes mirrored her own, not her grandmother’s. She thought of Grammy’s Iowa townhouse, a mausoleum filled to the brim with family history. Viv was the exact opposite. Two framed black-and-white photographs sitting on a sideboard were the only traces of personal memories.

They sat down on a leather couch facing a sixty-inch flat screen TV, while Penn went and retrieved the tray of refreshments. 

“That’s for watching my Cardinals play,” she said.

“Your house is beautiful. I love what you’ve done with it.”

Viv leaned closer and whispered, “It wasn’t always this way. It took me a while to realize what I wanted in life.”

“I’m still figuring that out,” she said.

She patted her arm again and offered a smile full of wisdom. “You’re young, sweetie. It takes time.”

She immediately decided she liked Viv very much. Her clear blue eyes were kind, and CC could still see her outward beauty between the age spots and wrinkles. It made it that much harder to do what she had come to do. Her gaze wandered to the far corner of the room. An oil painting of a young African-American woman wearing a white dress was the only piece of art on the wall and a display light hung over it. Alone, it looked important.

“That’s an exquisite painting,” she said. “Did you do it?”

“Yes, it’s the only oil I’ve ever finished.”

“It’s exceptional. No wonder you’ve displayed it so prominently.”

“No dear, that’s not the reason. I’ve displayed it as such because of
her
.”

Penn reappeared with a tray while CC opened her briefcase and withdrew a file. “I’m here on behalf of the Rubenstein family. Do you know them?”

“Of course.
Jacob Rubenstein was one of the most important people in my life. He bought my family’s land, everything except the farmhouse and this piece of property, the enclave.”

“The what?”

“That’s what we call this area,” Penn interjected. “An enclave is a piece of territory unique unto its own. That’s us,” she said proudly.

“Before we talk business, you eat your pie.”

She quickly obliged as it postponed the reason for her visit that much longer. Sweet potato pie wasn’t one of her favorites so she readied a lie—until she ate the first bite.

“This is fabulous,” she said.

“Thank you, dear. It’s my mother’s recipe. In fact, Jacob Rubenstein liked it so much he served it at his restaurant. As far as I know, they
still
serve it.”

“Well, it’s the best dessert I’ve ever had,” she said honestly. She devoured the rest in four bites and withdrew a map of the subdivision while Viv and Penn finished.

“Tea’s too sweet,” Viv scowled. “I put too much sugar in it.”

“
It’s
fine,” Penn said flatly, and CC noticed the shift in her tone. Penn was watching her carefully, not with interest but with wariness—like a lawyer.

She took out a pen, hoping her hands weren’t shaking. Penn’s gaze felt like an arrow stuck in the side of her neck.

“Now, this is the original piece of property that Mr. Rubenstein purchased, correct?”

They all studied the square half-mile that now sat in prime Phoenix real estate and Viv nodded. “Yes,” she said, pointing. “All of this used to be beautiful orange orchards when I was a
girl.”

CC took her pen and drew a circle around the farmhouse, the carport and the cottages. “And so this is the area you refer to as the enclave?”

“Uh-huh, that’s us.”

“And your family has retained the rights to this property, correct?”

She nodded assuredly.
“Absolutely.
That was the deal. He bought everything around it and we kept this.”

“And as far as you know, that’s never changed?”

“What’s your point, Ms. Carlson?” Penn interrupted. “Apparently there’s a dispute or you wouldn’t be here.”

She took a sip of the too-sweet tea. She felt like she was standing in a desert. There was nothing friendly about Penn’s tone now. She reached into her file and withdrew a photocopy of a handwritten note dated August of nineteen fifty-five and watched as they read it together, while her foot clicked against the bamboo.

She knew what it said. She’d read it several times over the last few days after Blanca had dropped the file on her desk. She’d read it carelessly, while she was eating lunch or taking notes on the case, recognizing none of the ramifications. But as she sipped tea and watched Penn’s face turn angry and Viv shake her head, she realized she’d missed a critical piece of processing the case.

She heard Blanca’s monotone voice say, “We’ll make it easy for your first time in the field.”

“This is bullshit!” Penn exclaimed, jumping off the sofa. “Have you authenticated it?”

She couldn’t look at them. She withdrew the next paper in the file, for she’d made sure she was highly prepared, and handed it to her.

She turned to Viv and said, “It’s a request from the court, ordering you to produce correspondence from your father that can be examined by a handwriting expert.”

“Why are we hearing about this now?” Penn asked acidly.

 She avoided the question and looked at Viv. “We’ve attempted to make contact several times, but you’ve never returned our calls.”

She shrugged. “Well, thanks to caller ID I don’t answer the phone unless I know who it is. I’m too busy. I guess your number came up as unknown caller. I thought you were a salesman.” She looked up at Penn. “What is she saying?”

Penn glared. “You tell her. I’m not doing your dirty work.”

She swallowed hard. “If this is valid, it means that in nineteen fifty-five your father sold the enclave, and you’ve lived here illegally ever since.”

February, 1954

By the time I’d climbed halfway up the orange tree, my legs and arms were covered in scratches. Thin and spindly, the tree was nothing like the solid oaks in Iowa and the limbs sagged under my weight.

I was a tree expert, having fallen out of practically every type that grew in the Midwest. After so many times Mama no longer ran outside with her hands covered in flour or furniture oil. Instead she’d just call from the back door, “Vivi, are you hurt or just being a moron?”

“Just a moron,” I’d call back most times, but once in a while she’d have to haul me to the doctor. Yet my falls never stopped me from climbing up high.

I wasn’t sure what she’d say when she saw me in the orange tree. She was at the store, and I was staging a protest against the destruction of the orchard now that I finally understood that to build all of his homes, Mr. Rubenstein would be
killing
my beautiful trees. I’d assumed men with big shovels would come and gently remove each one and plant it somewhere else, just like Pops did at his new job with Harper’s Nursery. People came in and purchased huge trees that sat in enormous square boxes, and then he went out and planted them in their new yards. I’d imagined my beautiful orange trees waiting to be picked up by Pops’ truck.

But instead I’d come home from school to find a bulldozer smashing against the frail trunks until the trees toppled against each other. Without thinking I’d climbed up the nearest one while a man maneuvered the huge steel bucket. When he saw me, he jumped down and stared up between the limbs. 

“I haven’t got all day, missy,” he called. “I’m on a schedule.”

He was a large black man wearing jeans, a work shirt and a green baseball cap that covered most of his face. I couldn’t tell how angry he was, but his tone was much nicer than Mama’s would be when she found me. I knew she’d yell and carry on, and I imagined I wouldn’t be listening to the radio any time soon. But I didn’t care. I loved the trees and it wasn’t right to cut them down.

A breeze sifted the leaves and the heady smell of blossoms made me dizzy. I sulked, thinking about the oranges that would never grow again.

Our new black Cadillac, that was the first purchase with Mr. Rubenstein’s money, growled up to the house and I prepared myself for Mama’s wrath. The workman took off his cap and squished it in his powerful hands. I thought he might be just as nervous as me.

She wasted no time confronting him and pointing to the quiet bulldozer. “What’s going on, Mac?”

“Well, ma’am, we have a situation.” He pointed up and her gaze followed until she saw me.

“What in the world?” she asked. “Vivian Battle what are you doing? Get yourself down here right now!”

“No!”

She moved closer to the trunk and stared up at me, her gloved hands resting on her tiny hips. Although she wore a simple cotton dress, she’d put her flowing blonde hair in the chignon. 

“Get down,” she said slowly.

I shook my head. “I don’t want them to take the trees.”

She glanced at Mac, and I could tell she was trying to hold her temper in front of him. Normally she’d be shrieking at me after the first
no
, but it wouldn’t be proper to call me an idiotic moron in front of a stranger.

“Vivi, this isn’t ours anymore. We sold it, and you need to get down or you’re going to get in real trouble.”

I imagined I was sitting at the edge of a waterfall and was about to plunge into the rapids. “No!”

She threw up her hands and whispered to him. I was fascinated. I’d never seen either of my parents talk to a black person.

He cleared his throat. “Vivian, you need to come down now. You’re upsetting your mother.”

“No!”

Mama screamed, “Vivian!”

He held up a hand and she closed her mouth just like she did with my father. Maybe it was the universal way women responded to men, but I couldn’t imagine ever silencing myself because a man wanted me to.

I’d barely blinked and he was in the tree. He moved like Spiderman, standing on a limb about four feet from the ground. He was probably a little older than Mama with soft brown eyes and a bald head. He had a square jaw and his shirt clung to the muscles in his arm. Everything about him looked strong, and I was a little scared until he smiled. His bright white teeth consumed his dark face and I felt the corners of my mouth turn up.

“You didn’t think I’d come up here, did ya?”

I ignored him and gripped my limb tighter in case he wanted to grab me. Mama paced below smoking a cigarette. She always looked so glamorous when she smoked, just like those ladies in the magazines.

“How old are you, Miss Vivi?” he asked.

I blinked in surprise. Adults rarely asked me a question outside of school, and then it was usually in a tone that only half expected me to know the answer.