Magnolia Wednesdays (31 page)

“No kidding. All I said was that it would be easier to see her moves if she didn’t wear so much clothing.”

“Vivi!”

“Well, it’s true. It’s not like Ruth and I haven’t commented on the fact that she’s wearing the wrong size before.”

Hearing her name, Ruth joined the huddle in mid-stretch. “What have you done now?”

“Me?” Vivi asked. “All I said was . . .” Vivi repeated the conversation.

“That poor girl,” Ruth said. “What should we do?”

“I’m not sure,” Melanie said as class drew to an end. “But we can’t let her leave upset.”

Angela tried to slip out with Lourdes and the Shipleys, but Ruth waylaid her near the exit. Melanie slipped an arm through Angela’s. Ruth flanked her other side and they escorted her to the kitchen. Vivi brought up the rear.

Quietly Melanie pressed Angela into a seat at the table, then sat beside her. Ruth took a seat opposite. Vivi lowered her bulk into the remaining chair. “Should I get the rubber hose? Maybe a bare lightbulb for the interrogation?”

No one laughed.

“I know Vivi’s sorry for what she said,” Melanie began. “She didn’t mean . . .”

“I can apologize for myself,” Vivi said. “Angela, I’m sorry I said what I did. I just haven’t been able to figure out what you’re so intent on hiding. I mean if I still had a body, I wouldn’t be wrapping it . . .”

Melanie shook her head at Vivi. “We don’t mean to pry,” Mel said. “But none of us wants to see you upset. Is there something we can do to help?”

Angela sat for a long moment. With all three of their gazes on her she might as well have been under the glare of the bare lightbulb. She clutched her purse tightly in her lap. “No, I’m the one who should apologize. I’m just a little sensitive about my weight.” She hurried on before they could protest. “And I’m just getting kind of emotional with the wedding so close. And . . .” She hesitated. “. . . I’m worried that James won’t . . .” Angela snapped her mouth shut, but Vivi had interviewed enough people to know when someone actually wanted to spill all.

“What is it, Angela?” Melanie asked gently, perhaps sensing the same thing. “Can’t you tell us?”

Angela drew a deep breath. Vivi watched her teeter between fear of rejection and the relief of unburdening. Finally, she spoke. “I’ve been . . . dishonest. There’s something I have to tell James before I can marry him. But I’m afraid if I do, if I’m completely honest like you said, Melanie, I’m afraid he won’t love me anymore.”

They all looked at each other and then at Angela.

“He doesn’t even know who I am,” Angela said so quietly they had to lean closer to hear. “He has no idea.”

“You’re going to have to explain that,” Vivi said. “Because now I’m thinking that you’ve decided to wear a burka instead of a wedding dress, but you’re afraid it won’t match James’s tux.”

Melanie and Ruth exchanged glances. Angela almost smiled.

“And I’m worried that you’re in the Witness Protection Program. Or running from the law for a crime you didn’t commit,” Ruth said.

“Whatever it is,” Melanie said as they all processed that one, “there’s nothing you could tell us that would make us think less of you. Nothing. And I’m sure James feels the same way.”

Angela closed her eyes briefly. Just when Vivi thought she might just get up and leave, she reached into her purse and pulled out a photograph. Slowly, she held it out for them to see.

The photo was old and faded and had clearly been handled a lot over a long period of time. A large, shapeless body swathed in black dominated the center of the frame. Two flabby white arms were folded against a shelf of a chest and several chins drooped over a linebacker-sized neck. A full moon of a face perched on that neck. The head was topped by a shock of carrot red hair.

“What is that?” Vivi asked.

“It’s not a
what.
” Angela’s face scrunched up in an effort to hold back tears. “That’s the problem. That’s not a what. That’s me!”

ANGELA DRESSED EXTRA carefully for her Valentine’s dinner with James. With Vivien, Ruth, and Melanie’s assurances ringing in her ears, she pulled a black sleeveless cocktail dress out of the back of her closet and slipped it on. She fastened her good string of pearls around her neck and stepped into a pair of black heels. She smoothed her palms down the silk that skimmed over her hips, not as big as usual but not too tight, either.

Tucking the dog-eared photo into her shiny black clutch, she vowed that this was the night she’d tell James everything. But her heart sped up at the sound of the doorbell, and her palms turned sweaty when she went to answer the door.

His gaze was admiring and his kiss warm as he helped her into the car. But she barely heard what he said during the drive to the restaurant, because she spent the whole time trying to remember when food had become her refuge and the reasons why that had happened.

Should she tell him that by middle school when other girls were agonizing over their hair and their clothes, Angela was thinking about her next meal? Or should she simply whip out the photo and show it to him?

Somehow she made conversation through what turned out to be a six-course meal. They talked about his upcoming trip to the West Coast, and she told him something funny Brian had done during that morning’s photo shoot. For once she didn’t have to worry about portion control or eating slowly enough to allow herself to feel full. She moved her food around a good bit, but could hardly eat a bite. She thanked him for the beautiful jade earrings he gave her but didn’t put them on.

“Are you all right?” James asked over the flickering candle when she failed to raise her wineglass in response to his toast. “You have the strangest look on your face. Is everything okay?”

It was the perfect opening and she told herself it didn’t matter where she began the story; it only mattered that she told it. But when she opened her mouth to begin, nothing came out. The black evening clutch sat on the edge of the table. She thought about reaching for it, but James covered her hand with his and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze.

“Ang?” he said quietly. “You know I love you, right?” She nodded and swallowed, trying to find her voice, still thinking that she could get it together, but all she managed was, “I love you, too.

“James, I . . .” she began, knowing there’d never be a perfect time for what she wanted to say. Knowing how much better she’d feel once she’d told him about Fangie.

Assuming that he reacted the right way.

“James, I was . . . I wanted . . .” she said just as the waiter came over to recite the dessert menu.

“Do you want to share a chocolate mousse or a Death by Chocolate?” James asked after the waiter had described each selection in detail.

For perhaps the first time in her life the promise of chocolate meant absolutely nothing to her. “No, I want to . . .”

“Go?” he said, although that wasn’t at all what she’d been about to say.

He winked at her, then waggled his eyebrows. “I have something better in mind for dessert anyway.”

Angela took a deep breath in an attempt to steady her nerves. James was so fabulous. He would understand about Fangie. He would. He’d slayed his own dragons and he would respect the fact that she had slayed hers. Brian and Susan and Melanie had urged her to just tell him. But now he was motioning for the check and staring into her eyes while they waited for it.

She couldn’t tell him. She just couldn’t take the risk. Even if he understood, could she bear to see the vision of herself change in his eyes? Not after she’d worked so hard to
become
that person.

And so she remained silent as James took the receipt and helped her into her coat. On the way home he teased her with the details of what he intended to be her “final” Valentine’s Day present. After he’d carried her over the threshold and placed her gently on the bed, he delivered everything that he’d promised. But although Angela sighed more than once with pleasure, she kept her confession to herself.

NOT EVERYONE IN Atlanta got multiple orgasms
and
jewelry for Valentine’s Day that year. No one in Melanie Jackson’s house got either, though Shelby did receive a candy thong from Ty Womack, her date for the upcoming prom—something Vivien discovered by accident when she reached under her niece’s bed looking for the pot and pan that Shelby had stolen out of its last hiding place inside Vivien’s suitcase.

Once again she debated what, if anything, to say to Melanie. But she was afraid if she said something to her sister what little rapport she’d established with Shelby would be eliminated. And she felt a growing need to be there for the girl. She worried it over and over throughout the day and still couldn’t reach a decision. It was just one of the many things that preyed on her mind.

She and Stone traded emails on Valentine’s Day, both of them sending love, Stone promising that he’d be back in Kabul within the next few days and would reach her by phone then. Even his email sounded weary. The journalists had been found hacked to bits, and Stone had been forced to report the gruesome details after their remains were verified.

Vivien cried when she read his email and again when she watched his live shot from the site. The weekly rants of Scarlett Leigh seemed small and petty in comparison, and not for the first time she missed her former life. And especially the sense of righting wrongs that used to be a part of her investigative work.

So thinking, she went back through the GBI case file, J.J.’s Day-timer, and credit card and phone bill receipts, looking for something she might have missed. Once again she came up with absolutely nothing.

31

M
ARCH IN ATLANTA is a meteorologist’s nightmare; a time when Mother Nature frequently exercises her prerogative to change her mind. One day might be frigid with temperatures barely above freezing; the next could reach a balmy seventy-five. Sometimes after a run of summerlike days it snowed.

Nonetheless, by the middle of the month the camellias were already drooping on the branch, cherry and apple blossoms were about to burst into full bloom, and the invitation to the wedding of Angela Amelia Richman and James Coleman Wesley, engraved in a swirl of gold leaf on oversized cream cardstock, claimed a place of honor in the very center of the refrigerator door, where Vivien, Melanie, Shelby, and Trip saw it daily.

Vivien noted the date—exactly one week after she was due—as she opened the desk drawer next to the refrigerator in search of the keys for the RAV4 and wondered whether she’d be able to attend along with the other members of the Wednesday-night belly-dance class and their “significant” others. Or whether she would be at home with a newborn.

As always the thought had her counting down the days that remained and confronting the fact that soon, frighteningly soon, she would no longer be a pregnant woman; she would be a mother.

This was not a reassuring thought, and Vivien shoved it aside to focus, at least temporarily, on the intricacies of the high school prom, which turned out to be even more rigorous than Scarlett Leigh had reported. Shelby and her three girlfriends spent most of that Saturday and a fortune of money on late-morning manis and pedis, followed, after a quick bite of lunch, which the salon happily provided, by early-afternoon hair and makeup appointments.

By four P.M. they were ensconced in Shelby’s bedroom and adjoining bath, where they spent the next several hours gossiping, giggling, and dressing. Trip steered clear of the entire second floor. Vivien only ventured upstairs when it was absolutely necessary.

Melanie spent the afternoon tidying the house and preparing for the picture party that would kick off the big night; the parents’ photo op before the couples took off for dinner and then the prom in the white stretch limo that one of the boys’ mothers had reserved.

Clay came early to help, and Vivien, as always, was irritated by his automatic assumption of the role of host. The fact that he knew Melanie’s kitchen and home better than she did still rankled, and she watched him and his interaction with Melanie carefully, looking for clues to his feelings and intentions. The man was not exactly an open book, but he was the only one who had been summoned upstairs by the girls for a fashion consultation.

She sidled up beside him as he opened red and white wine for the adults and put bottles of imported beer into a bucket of ice. Liters of soft drinks were lined up nearby. “You know your way around Melanie’s kitchen pretty well,” she observed.

“Um-hmm,” he replied as he retrieved a bottle opener from a drawer, then went to the extra freezer in the garage for another bag of ice. He’d dressed for the occasion in gray slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a blue blazer, and as always, he looked annoyingly well put together.

A little before the other families were due, Melanie bustled into the kitchen in a short jean skirt and a brightly patterned silk blouse. Her dark hair swirled carelessly around her slim shoulders and her makeup was minimal, most likely applied much earlier in the day and then forgotten. She walked right past Vivien to Clay with the digital camera extended out in front of her. “It says the memory stick is full, but I don’t know how to clear it. Can you take a look?”

“Sure.” He took the camera and began to examine it. “I brought my camera, too, just in case, so we’re covered.” Clay fiddled with the camera for a while, then went over to the kitchen desk where Melanie’s desktop computer sat. “Let me see if I can download some of these shots and clear the memory.”

“Thanks. I’m going to go check on the girls,” Melanie said. “The boys and their parents should be here any minute.”

They conversed with the ease of long familiarity, but there was something underneath Clay Alexander’s easy manners that, once again, made Vivien’s investigative antennae quiver. Was he too at home here? Did he have designs on Melanie and her children? Or was Vivi just jealous of his place in their lives?

Trip appeared to filch appetizers and pour himself a Coke. “It smells like a perfume factory up there,” he said, pinching his nose. “How are you supposed to breathe?”

Clay laughed, though he didn’t turn from the computer. “You get used to it. Someday you’ll look forward to those smells.”

Vivien wandered into J.J.’s office, drawn again to the wall of fame and the family photos. Clay Alexander figured prominently in all of them, just as he did in Melanie and the kids’ lives. But so what? Weren’t Melanie and Trip and Shelby lucky to have had him in their lives after they lost J.J.? Was it possible that she was so conditioned to digging that she simply couldn’t accept anything at face value?

The doorbell rang and an upstairs door opened, allowing girlish shrieks and giggles to float down the stairs. Melanie called from the landing, “I’m trying to mend a small tear in Becca’s gown. Can somebody get that?”

Vivien headed for the front door. Clay reached it at the same time.

“I’ve got it,” Vivien said as she grasped the knob, pretty much elbowing him out of the way so that she could open it. Two tuxedo-clad boys stood on the front step. Each held a florist’s box with a corsage in it. A cluster of adults stood behind them. Vivi had no idea which ones belonged to the boys and which were the parents of Shelby’s girlfriends.

She fell back next to Clay as the guests swept into the house. “I’m Vivien, Melanie’s sister,” she said as all eyes fell on her protruding stomach. “This is Clay Alexander.”

The boys shook hands with Clay and nodded to Vivi. “When are you all expecting?” One of the mothers asked as Clay shut the door.

“Oh, we’re not,” Vivien began. “I mean, I’m not . . .”

Clay shot her an amused look.

“I’m due in mid-April,” Vivien finally said as they moved into the kitchen, where Clay offered drinks.

Melanie came down the stairs in a rush, flushed and excited as she greeted the other parents. “Wait until you see the girls,” she said. “They are simply gorgeous!” Moments later they called for Clay to come up.

The last to arrive were Ty Womack and his parents. The father was big and broad-shouldered like his son; the mother was small and birdlike. Vivien bristled as Ty and his father swaggered into the kitchen; Edie Womack trailed behind them.

Vivi hadn’t liked the boy from a distance at the football game. She’d liked him even less when Shelby had come home drunk on New Year’s Eve and on Valentine’s when he’d given Shelby the candy thong. Tonight, she especially disliked the smug look on his handsome face. The other boys looked like insecure teenagers. Ty Womack looked like a mature adult.

She realized she was frowning. Looking up, she caught Clay doing the same.

Trip had disappeared into the bowels of the basement, and the girls’ dates were now huddled with each other and ignoring their parents for all they were worth. Vivi tried to shoot Ty a strong look of warning, but he didn’t seem the least concerned. The whole silent communication thing was clearly not her family’s forte. Deciding she’d make sure to issue one in plain language he’d be sure to understand, she passed around appetizers while Clay poured drinks.

As the appetizers and wine disappeared, Vivien thought about the fact that one day her own child would be going to prom. Of course she’d be so old by then she wouldn’t have to worry about a picture party. They’d probably just ask the limo driver to stop off at the old-age home to see her on the way out to dinner.

She went to join Melanie, who was standing alone near the stairs. “I wish J.J. were here to see her,” Melanie whispered. “Or even Mom and Dad.” She sniffed and swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“Well, I have to think J.J. can see her and is probably bursting with pride,” Vivien said, slipping an arm across her sister’s shoulders. “And Caroline would just be trying to outshine Shelby and her friends and Dad would be grousing about how Republican the suburbs are. Evangeline would have enjoyed it though.”

“Are we going to forgive them?” Melanie asked.

“I don’t know,” Vivien said. “There’d have to be an apology first, and Caroline’s a lot better at demanding them than giving them. The last time she admitted being wrong was in the early seventies, and it was only a partial apology with a long list of disclaimers—remember?” Vivien sighed. “I’m not holding my breath on a satisfying reconciliation. And you shouldn’t, either. As far as I’m concerned she’s Hamas and we’re Israel; there’ll be no peace talks until she stops lobbing missiles.”

Shelby’s door opened and her head popped out. “Clay,” she hissed. “We’re ready.”

It didn’t seem to bother Melanie that her daughter was turning to Clay rather than her. Melanie took Vivien’s arm as the group gathered in the foyer. They assembled themselves in a rough semicircle so as not to block anyone’s camera angle. The only people not holding cameras were Vivi and the boys, who were licking dry lips and wiping what were probably sweaty palms on their tuxedo pants. All except Ty Womack, who looked alarmingly calm and whose eyes were lit with a different and more worrisome light.

“Boys,” Melanie said with a smile. “Your dates for the evening.”

One at a time the girls descended the stairs in regal splendor to much parental oohing and aahing. Camera flashes went off as they made their way downstairs.

As subtly as she could Vivien stepped up beside Ty Womack and spoke softly but firmly into his ear. “You’re responsible for Shelby,” she said. “If you do anything to hurt or endanger her, I will personally tear you limb from limb and feed your intestines to the buzzards.”

Ty flinched but didn’t reply. As Vivi stepped away from him she realized Clay Alexander was on his other side and was also telling him something.

“Jeez,” the boy said as he walked away from them to go claim Shelby. “Nothing like getting shit in stereo.”

And then there was a frenzy of couple and group shots that left the kids nearly blinded. “Good thing they’re not driving,” Vivien said as the flashes popped all over the place, only slowing when the limo arrived and everyone finally realized that they were going to have to actually let the kids go.

The other parents left shortly afterward, leaving Vivi, Melanie, and Clay huddled together over what was left of the hors d’oeuvres.

“Do you feel okay about Ty Womack?” Vivi asked.

“Sure, why not?” Melanie responded, stopping up what was left of the wine and gathering crumpled napkins for the trash.

Vivi and Clay looked at each other, and Clay gave a small shake of the head.

“I’ll do the rest,” Vivien said, shooing Mel away from the counter. “I know you need to get to the studio.”

“Be right back,” Melanie said. “Just have to grab my other shoes.” As she passed the basement door she yelled down to Trip, “Come on up! Clay and I will drop you at Josh’s!” And then she was hotfooting it up the stairs to her bedroom.

Vivien and Clay eyed each other uneasily.

“I would have liked to slap a tracking device on that Tyler business,” Vivien said.

“Or a restraining order,” Clay said. “He was looking at Shelby like she was his own personal hors d’oeuvres.”

“But you don’t think we should say something to Melanie?”

He hesitated. “I think Shelby can hold her own. And sometimes it’s better not to interfere. Exposing everything isn’t always in everybody’s best interests. Sometimes things are better left alone.”

“Is that right?” Vivien asked. “The people who think that are usually the ones who have the most to hide.”

“Everyone has something to hide, Vivi,” he said so quietly she almost didn’t hear him over the sound of Trip clattering up from the basement. “It just isn’t always what you might think it is.”

“Well, I don’t believe in hiding the truth,” she said, trying to ignore the hypocrisy of the remark. “I don’t believe anyone is served by that.”

“That’s too bad,” he said, and his smile was unutterably sad. “Because sometimes when the truth comes out, the ones who get hurt are the ones who least deserve it.”

VIVI WAS DOZING in the club chair in the family room, waiting for Shelby to get home, when her cell phone rang. It took a few rings for her to come all the way awake and another one or two before she located the phone, which had fallen into her lap. “Hello?” she mumbled as she squinted at the cable box in an effort to make out the time. It was just before midnight.