Magnolia Wednesdays (12 page)

“That’s great.” Stone’s happiness for her was so genuine it hurt. He’d always been her greatest supporter. He didn’t understand why she’d quit CIN or why she’d gone to Atlanta. Nor did he know how many jobs she’d already interviewed for. “Do you want me to make some calls for you? I might be able to get you in to talk to some people at CBD; Randy Langford owes me. In fact, maybe I could get back to New York at the same time. Even a quick in and out would be better than not seeing you.”

Vivien’s gut clenched at his eagerness. “No, um, no,” Vivien said. “I mean, the appointments aren’t totally firmed up. I wouldn’t want you planning a whole trip around my schedule when it’s so . . . uncertain.”

“Vivi,” Stone said. “I know you. You need to be working. I could help.”

Vivien could hardly believe how hard it was to have this conversation, to offer lie after lie to the one person she’d always told the truth to. “I guess getting shot threw me a little more than I realized. I just need to take it easy a while longer,” she said. “I want to hang out with my family
.”

There was another silence. Even she couldn’t believe she’d just said that.

“We’re actually going to my parents for dinner a little later,” she added. “When Melanie and the kids get back from church.”

“That’s great,” Stone said. “Be sure to give everybody my best.”

His tone telegraphed his hurt and surprise at her refusal to meet him. And who could blame him? If she were her usual proactive self she would meet him either in New York or Europe and explain everything face-to-face, being sure to let him know that he was under no obligation whatsoever. But between her whacked-out hormones, her inability to come to terms with her impending motherhood, and her loss of the career that had so defined her, she was about as far from herself as it was possible to be. And she couldn’t face the possibility that by telling him the truth she might lose him. Or worse, bind him to her for the wrong reasons.

She, who had always sought the truth regardless of how deeply it was hidden and with little regard for the possible repercussions, was now afraid of it.

“Yeah. I will,” she said, hating how things had been left but unable to say the things that would fix it. “I’ll be watching for your reports. I know you’ll get the story you’re going after. You always do.”

“Things will work out for you, too, Vivi,” he said, making her feel even worse about deceiving him. “You’re way too talented and experienced not to find something even better than what you left. Dan was an imbecile to let you go.”

“Yeah,” she said. Dan was an imbecile not to ignore her rantings and ravings. A moron for listening to consultants who’d told him she needed to be replaced.

As she and Stone said their good-byes Vivien knew exactly who the real imbecile was, and it wasn’t her ex-boss, Dan Kramer. It was the middle-aged pregnant woman presently cowering in her sister’s guest room bed, staring forlornly into the dresser mirror.

12

T
HE DRIVE TO Magnolia Hall was not an especially cheerful or talkative one. Vivien rode silently beside Melanie, her gaze on the traffic, her thoughts her own. In the backseat Shelby’s thumbs flew over her cell phone keyboard in constant communication with . . . someone. Trip listened to his iPod, his eyes closed, his head nodding to the tinny beat.

Melanie, who with Clay’s help had wrestled both children out of bed and then threatened them into continued wakefulness through what even to her had felt like a never-ending church service, was already exhausted. Finding her sister still lolling around in bed when they returned at noon hadn’t helped her mood one bit.

Driving south on Highway 400, she struggled to tamp down her irritation; going to her parents already agitated was like taking coals to Newcastle. As she wove in and out of traffic, she noticed a spanking-new sign declaring 400 the Hospitality Highway, but none of the other drivers looked any more hospitable than she felt.

At the Lenox Road/Buckhead exit she merged off of 400 and turned eastward, taking Piedmont across Roswell Road. They were now in the heart of Buckhead’s residential neighborhoods, which the same people who’d tried to make the Atlanta interstate system kinder and gentler liked to refer to as the “Beverly Hills of the South.”

On wooded multiacre lots mansions in the making sprang from gaping gashes in the red earth, their massive footprints declaring their owners’ wealth and aspirations. There were European and Mediterranean villas next to the latest version of Tara, shiny new and trying to look historic. But there were also original Greek Revival and southern Colonials built by Atlanta’s leading architects. Of these, Magnolia Hall, barely visible from its gated entrance on Tuxedo Road, was one of the best known.

Four breaths were drawn in a silent girding of the loins as Melanie punched in the security code and waited silently for the massive iron gates to swing open.

Inside they crossed a wooden bridge that spanned the small creek that ran along the front of the property. From there, the drive wound gently upward through a stand of trees and up the swell of a hill.

Once this had been virgin forest belonging to the Creek Indians. After the United States government wrested it from its original owners, it held a lottery. And in the early 1820s a Gray widow by the name of Matilda won fifty-five acres, on which she and her young sons built a farm. During the Civil War Federal troops closing in on Atlanta camped in fields around the area, including those belonging to the widow Gray.

Melanie smiled as she remembered her grandmother’s telling of her ancestors’ harrowing story. The widow Gray was buried on the land she’d won; her descendants sold off parcels of it to fund a lavish lifestyle and to underwrite their social and political ambitions. In the early 1900s, when the increasing popularity of the automobile turned the still-rural area into a year-round residential suburb, the current crop of Grays retained Neel Reid, one of Atlanta’s most prominent architects, to draw up plans for a magnificent Greek Revival-style mansion. He positioned this masterpiece at the top of a hill in the very center of Widow Gray’s remaining six and a half acres. They named it Magnolia Hall.

Melanie had often been uncertain about her role as a Gray and her relationship with her parents. But she’d never questioned her love for the home in which she’d grown up, or the pull she felt each time she passed beneath the allée of massive oaks that led her to it.

Pulling to a stop in the circular drive, Melanie nudged Vivi, who’d fallen asleep, her chin digging into her chest, her breathing slow and even. If sleeping were an Olympic sport, Vivien would have more medals than Michael Phelps. “Wake up,” Melanie said. “We’re here.”

Vivien’s return to consciousness was slow; Shelby and Trip’s less so. By the time Melanie had gotten Vivien out of the car, the kids were already up the front sweep of steps, past the initial phalanx of Doric columns and halfway across the sprawling porch. Evangeline, Magnolia Hall’s longtime housekeeper, stood in the opened front doorway, a huge smile on her elegant ebony face. Her arms were open. One foot tapped impatiently.

Evangeline, who was approaching her eighth decade, stood tall and regal as befitted the descendant of Nubian royalty she claimed to be. She had come to Magnolia Hall while Warren Gray was a teenager and had never left. After a brief power struggle with Warren’s bride, the two women had ultimately created a working relationship both could live with; Caroline told Evangeline what to do and Evangeline sometimes pretended to do it.

“Why, I swear you two are lookin’ mighty fine,” Evangeline said to Shelby and Trip as she took them up in a bone-crushing hug and then released them to the basement rec room, where they would hang with their older cousins.

Melanie noted Evangeline’s impression of Mammy from
Gone with the Wind
, a delivery she used to irritate Caroline. She could tell from Vivien’s grin that she had caught it, too.

“Now you two,” the housekeeper sniffed at Melanie and Vivien. Her dark eyes glinted with affection. “You two look a might too much like something the cat drug in.”

Melanie ignored the jibe, which she suspected was all too true, and instead focused on the accompanying hug, an embrace she knew would not be duplicated by their mother.

“Darlings,” Caroline drawled as she descended the central staircase. “How wonderful that you could come.” If Evangeline sometimes channeled Mammy, Caroline Baxter Gray did a mean Ellen Robillard O’Hara, with the tiniest touch of Zsa Zsa Gabor.

As a child, Melanie had taken the two women’s dueling impressions for granted. As a teenager, she had wondered whether Caroline and Evangeline needed an audience to perform these roles or if they did so for their own amusement.

Evangeline was now busy squeezing the life out of Vivien, who hadn’t arrived with a whole lot of life in her to start with. When the hug was completed to her satisfaction, Evangeline took Vivi by the shoulders and held her at arms’ length so that she could study her more closely. An odd look passed over her face.

“If you’re finished here, Evangeline, you may go see if Mr. Gray needs more ice for the bar,” Caroline said.

Melanie perked up at the mention of alcohol. Her father was undoubtedly already mixing martinis, which he and their older brother, Hamilton, would have already sampled.

“Why, yes’m,” Evangeline said as Caroline air-kissed Vivien and Melanie’s cheeks. Both sisters watched surreptitiously to see if Evangeline would throw in the bob or curtsy that she sometimes tacked on to her servant routine, but she managed to refrain, then headed for the kitchen. Whether she was planning to retrieve ice while she was there was anybody’s guess. More likely she’d pass some time arguing with Cook, who’d been at Magnolia Hall almost as long as Evangeline. Or harass the two other live-ins—Yolanda and her husband, Ben, who served as maid and man of all work. The couple had only been with the Grays for a decade; Evangeline had been heard referring to them as “fresh meat.”

In the study Hamilton and their father talked politics while Ham’s wife, Judy, sipped, somewhat desperately, Melanie thought, at her martini. J.J. had once commented on how important alcohol was in smoothing out the rough edges of this family’s extended relationships, and Melanie had been forced to agree. A well-stocked bar had gotten them through countless elections and more than a few scandals, including the one that had launched Vivien’s investigative career as well as Melanie’s shocking marriage to a Republican.

“Thirsty?” Their father, who was freer with affection if not approval, hugged them both and then held up the pitcher of martinis.

Vivien, in the process of greeting Ham and Judy, declined. Melanie accepted the proffered drink gratefully. Caroline, too, was quick to accept.

They made small talk for a time. Here that meant politics, particularly Democratic politics and Hamilton’s plans to run for governor in 2012. Evangeline stepped into the study and retrieved the martini pitcher off the sideboard, which was the signal that drinks were over and supper was served.

In the formal dining room they took their accustomed places around the Regency table without discussion, sitting in family groupings and, although no one acknowledged it, in order of age and rank.

This meant that Warren Emerson Gray sat at the head of the table as had his forebears, with Caroline on his right. Ham, as the eldest son and the only one who had not only married acceptably but gone into the family business of politics, sat at the opposite end. Judy sat on his right with their children seated in descending birth order beside her.

Vivien sat to Caroline’s right, where she had been placed when they were children. Melanie sat next to her with Shelby and Trip following. Idly Melanie wondered whether the relative gravity of their “sins” might warrant a reversal; she had only married a Republican whose shocking accidental death had made unwelcome headlines. Her parents had barely mentioned J.J. in the last year.

Vivien had destroyed a political ally, lived in Yankee-land for a decade and a half, and been shot in the butt in front of a national audience.

Then again, Melanie wasn’t sure she wanted a seat upgrade; getting closer to Caroline didn’t necessarily belong in the “win” column.

The table was already set with big platters of Cook’s fried chicken and bowls of homemade coleslaw and potato salad. A basket of warm biscuits and pats of butter with an elegant G impressed into each sat at both ends. Their father bowed his head and led them all in a brief prayer of thanks. Before it had ended, Trip and Ham Jr. were reaching for fried chicken. Soon there was a universal chowing down accompanied by desultory conversation.

Vivien picked up an oversized chicken leg and devoured it. She did this without looking up from her plate and with an economy of motion that would have done a competitive eater proud. Caroline’s eyebrows jerked upward in surprise. Soon Vivien was the center of attention; even the boys appeared fascinated by the thoroughness with which she consumed her food.

“I don’t have the first idea whom you’ve been eating around, but Grays do not eat like truck drivers.” Caroline had dropped the cultivated southern accent and even her inner Zsa Zsa. She sounded now like the queen of England.

“Sorry.” Vivien’s fingers were halfway to her lips. She lowered them to her lap and wiped the grease on her linen napkin. “I was just so hungry. I . . .”

“Is there no food in Melanie’s home?” their mother asked.

Vivien swallowed.

“If you’re eating like this every time you have the opportunity, it’s no wonder you’ve put on weight,” Caroline commented.

Vivien clamped her lips together, though whether it was to stop what might come out or prevent herself from stuffing more in was unclear.

“Who will put you on the air if you get too heavy? And what will Stone think when he returns?” Caroline paused. “That is assuming you two are still together?”

Evangeline, who’d just delivered another platter of fried chicken to the table, shot a look at Vivien. Actually, everyone was looking at her now, waiting to see the reaction. But for the first time in Melanie’s memory, Vivien didn’t lower her head and charge.

“Don’t worry yourself about it, Mama,” Vivien said in the slower cadence Melanie had watched her eradicate years ago. The use of the word “mama” was downright shocking. It was what they’d called Caroline as children, before Caroline had announced her preference for a more formal form of address. “Melanie’s already vowed to whip me back into shape. Why, she has me hauling Shelby out of bed in the mornings and racing around east Cobb at a pace that would put a born New Yorker to shame.”

Caroline’s mouth pursed in disapproval. Still Vivien had managed to disagree without declaring war; Melanie had never seen her exercise this degree of restraint. And if anyone knew how hard it was not to engage with their mother, it was Melanie.

“Melanie?”

“I’m sorry?” She realized with a start that her sister-in-law, Judy, was speaking to her.

“I said Ham, Rebecca, and Rosalee will be graduating before Shelby even gets to UGA. It’s a shame she won’t have her cousins there to show her the ropes, like you had Vivien.”

Grays had been attending the University of Georgia since its founding in 1785. Even Vivi, who had been accepted at Michigan and Northwestern’s journalism schools, had ended up there, though not exactly by choice.

“Think you’ll be all right there on your own, Shelby?” Judy asked, still trying to turn the conversation.

Melanie dragged her thoughts from her sister to her daughter, who seemed as surprised as Melanie that she was now the center of attention.
Please, God
, Melanie prayed.
Do not let Shelby choose now to mouth off.

Shelby opened her mouth, closed it. Melanie had bribed her daughter with a trip to Abercrombie and then closely supervised her dress and makeup today, so she looked like a well-mannered seventeen-year-old.
Please, God, let her act like one.

But it was Vivien who saved Shelby from having to answer. “Well, good grief,” she said. “Has there ever been a Gray female who couldn’t have that entire university just eating her up with a spoon?” She smiled like her name-sake playing Scarlett O’Hara, then batted her eyelashes, something Melanie was willing to bet she hadn’t done since moving to New York. Apparently, batting lashes was like riding a bicycle; you just never forgot how.