Magnolia Wednesdays (32 page)

“Vivi?” Stone’s voice pulled her the rest of the way awake. “Were you asleep?”

“I must have dozed off,” she said, rubbing her eyes and straightening in the chair. “I’m waiting for Shelby to come home from the prom. Melanie’s got a late dance party at the studio.”

“God, that sounds so attractive compared to what’s going on here.” The flip tone barely concealed his distress. “I could use a little dose of normal everyday life right about now.”

Vivien rubbed the last of the sleep from her eyes and wished he were there so she could put her arms around him and draw him close. They hadn’t been able to speak in private for far too long. After they’d found Deke and his cameraman, Stone had laid low during the days and done live hits all night to appear live on the network during the day here.

“I’m so sorry about Deke and his cameraman. That must have been awful to have to keep reporting all the details.” She could feel his sadness on the other end of the line, could feel his despair clinging to him.

“I think I’m getting too old for this,” Stone said.

“Who, you?” she asked. “The original rolling stone who refuses to gather moss? And you can’t be too old for anything—you’re only three years older than I am.”

She, of course was too old to be pregnant, too old to be a mother for the first time. Far too old to do it all alone. But for Stone to feel too old for the one thing he’d ever wanted to do?

“I feel a hundred, Vivi,” he said. “I think I’ve finally figured out why you don’t see a lot of older correspondents reporting from war zones. Cronkite and Brinkley knew when it was time to take a seat behind the anchor desk. I just . . .”

His voice trailed off, and she could picture him running a hand through his hair in that way he had when he was upset. Imagined him unshaven and exhausted, needing something that she could never give him over the phone. “I’m used to being afraid, Viv. I know how to live with the fear. But seeing Deke in little pieces . . .” She could hear the pain in his voice. “There was barely enough of a finger to lift a print.”

Vivien couldn’t speak. There was no answer to such ugliness. What kind of people cut off heads and hacked uninvolved third parties to bits?

“When are you coming home?” For about a tenth of a second she considered telling him their news, offering it as an incentive to leave where he was, proof that life did renew itself. But now for totally different reasons than the ones she’d been telling herself, this was not the time. She wanted to distract him from his pain, but not with something as large as their impending parenthood. She’d waited much too long, and now she’d wait until she could do it in person.

“I’m going to finish this story. They’re hunting down the people responsible, and I’m staying here until they’re caught. But after that?” His voice broke on the pain. “You and I are going to take a nice long vacation while I figure that out.”

“That sounds fabulous,” she said.

There was a silence and she knew it was time for a topic change, to put both of their minds somewhere else.

“So do you have a minute to hear where I am with the whole Clay Alexander thing?”

“Always,” he said, and though his voice was still ragged, he listened intently as she ran through what she’d gleaned so far, including her interviews with Professor Sturgess and former Sigma Sigma president Grady Hollis. Which made the fact that Clay was considering a run for J.J.’s former seat all the stranger. As she spoke, it was hard to ignore the fact that she had a whole boatload of suspicions she couldn’t seem to give up and no basis for supporting them.

“I haven’t found a BlackBerry of any kind and I still haven’t figured out who the C in J.J.’s Day-timer is. I’m not completely prepared to give up on Catherine Dennison as a possibility, but, honestly, I can’t quite picture them together. I even Googled Clay’s ex-wife, but other than the fact that she bears a slight resemblance to Melanie there was really nothing there that has any bearing on anything. I just can’t get over the sense that he’s got some sort of guilty secret. But I don’t actually know if it has anything to do with J.J.’s death.”

“Vivi,” he said after she wound down. “If this were a work assignment, you would have written it off and moved on to something with real substance a long time ago.” He paused, and she could tell he was choosing his words with care. “Be careful. Exposing these suspicions, especially when it’s mostly conjecture, could blow a lot of people’s lives completely out of the water for no real reason. Including your sister’s.”

“You’re the one who needs to be careful,” she said. “I’m counting on you to come back to me.” She almost added “in one piece,” but even the thought of what had happened to Deke made her sick to her stomach. Tears prickled behind her eyelids, and she blinked quickly to try to keep them from forming. “There’s someone I want to introduce you to when you get back.” She drew in a breath and laid a protective hand on her stomach as the first tears began to fall. Her face contorted in a futile effort to stop them. “Someone I hope you’ll be happy to meet.”

Her voice broke on the last words and she began to cry in earnest.

“What is it, Vivi? What’s wrong?” Stone asked. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she sobbed, wanting desperately to stop. “Just that time of the month, you know?”

It was a completely inadequate answer and they both knew it. But although she managed to halt the flow of tears as they said good-bye, she simply couldn’t marshal the brain cells required to come up with anything better.

Vivi was still sitting in the club chair red-eyed and awake when Shelby tiptoed in at twelve thirty. This time the girl wasn’t drunk or laughing. Her dark hair had been pulled out of the carefully arranged hairdo and swirled around her bare shoulders in wild disarray. The beautiful wrap was crumpled and dirty as if it had been trampled on the ground. There was a fresh hickey on her neck and what looked like a bruise on her shoulder.

“What happened?” Vivien asked, struggling to her feet, her earlier despair replaced by a hot flash of anger. “What did he do to you?”

“Nothing.” Shelby’s chin shot up even as her eyes filled with tears. “He didn’t do anything to me that I didn’t want him to.”

“Oh, Shelby, honey.” Vivi moved toward her niece already opening her arms, but Shelby shook her head, warning Vivi away.

“You don’t need to be with someone who doesn’t respect you or treat you like the prize you are,” Vivi said. “You don’t want . . .”

“At least he acts like a real man,” Shelby said. “And he treats me like I’m a real woman.” She held the ball of fabric in front of her like a shield. To Vivi she looked like a little girl hiding behind her blankie.

“Shelby, you’re playing with things you don’t understand. You could end up . . .”

“Like you?” Shelby sneered, aiming a knowing look at Vivien’s stomach. “Maybe you should have followed your own advice before you ended up here telling everybody else what to do.”

Shelby turned and stormed up the stairs. The last thing Vivien heard was Shelby’s bedroom door slamming shut behind her.

32

A
T WEDNESDAY’S CLASS Melanie, Ruth, and Vivien watched Angela like worried mother hens. For the past three Wednesdays her face had been too pale and her eyes too bright. She seemed both jumpy and distracted, and the only thing she’d say was that she hadn’t told James her story yet. Her exercise clothes remained black and baggy.

They chatted normally through the stretches and isolation exercises, sharing tidbits as they went along. Ira had a flare for the Latin dances and was working his way through the rhumba and merengue; James took Trip for a practice drive and came back badly shaken. Caroline had phoned and invited Shelby out to lunch but made no mention of her mother or aunt.

They’d all mastered the veil dance, though only Lourdes and Sally had had the nerve to perform it on stage with Naranya. Now they were working with the zills, the tiny little finger cymbals, and trying to perfect their “snake arms.”

When class was over, Operation Big Good-Bye swung into motion.

“Angela,” Melanie called as the redhead moved toward the exit, “could you help me with something?”

Angela eyed the door but didn’t make a break for it. She followed Melanie down the corridor. Together they stepped into the kitchen.

“Bon voyage!” Ruth shouted, throwing confetti.

“Arrivederci!” Vivi yelled, though she wasn’t sure why. A small sheet cake with a picture of a cruise ship surrounded by waves sat on the table. A bouquet of balloons—some with a bridal theme and some proclaiming Bon Voyage! were tied to the back of one of the chairs. Three brightly wrapped gifts sat next to it.

“This is your bridal shower and going-away party,” Melanie, said leading Angela to a place at the table. Vivi slid a glass of wine in front of her. Ruth threw the last handful of confetti.

Angela contemplated them from her seat. “This is really sweet of you,” she said. “I get the wedding part, but I don’t really understand the bon voyage theme. Who’s leaving?” She studied the three of them, her gaze focusing on Vivi.

“Nope. Sorry. That’s privileged information at the moment.” Vivien smiled. “In the meantime, drink this.” She placed the glass of wine in Angela’s hand while Ruth cut three slices of cake. Melanie passed Angela the first present.

“That one’s from me,” Vivi said. “And I expect you to wear it next week.”

Slowly Angela unwrapped the oblong box. Parting the tissue paper, she lifted out the emerald green belly-dance outfit. The top was a green velvet push-up bra shot through with gold thread and encrusted with gold coins. Angela gave it a jangle.

The harem pants were chiffon with a green velvet yolk encrusted with gold coins.

“Wow. I hardly know what to say.” Angela smiled.

Vivi turned to Melanie. “Don’t you think it’s completely her?”

“Completely.” Melanie laughed. “I hope you got one for yourself.”

“Here,” Ruth said, pushing the other package toward Angela. “This one’s from Melanie and me.”

Angela pulled off the paper but not before taking a hefty sip of wine. The box yielded clothing, but with a lot less glitter and a whole lot more class.

“Oh, that’s beautiful.” Angela ran a hand over the cream silk blouse and matching shantung pants. She held the blouse up in front of her. “It’s almost the same color cream as my wedding dress.” Her smile slipped.

“It’s a perfect shade with your hair and your eyes,” said Melanie.

Angela looked inside the collar. “But it’s only an eight.”

Melanie looked at her closely. “Which may be too big.”

Angela shook her head in denial. “No, I can’t . . .”

Melanie put a finger to Angela’s lips to shush her. “This is where the bon voyage part starts.”

Vivi refilled Angela’s glass and tilted it up to her lips.

“We’re sending Fangie on a cruise,” Melanie said.

“Permanently,” added Ruth.

“It’s time to kiss Fat Angie’s ass good-bye!”

THE NEXT AFTERNOON Vivien stopped off at the grocery store to pick up ground beef and frozen French fries. She wasn’t a particularly great cook and she didn’t attempt anything fancier than the burgers and fries she planned for tonight, but the look on Melanie’s face when she got home after a day of work and running the kids and found food on the table had proven pretty inspirational.

As she pushed the rapidly filling cart, Vivien thought about last night’s bridal shower/bon voyage party and hoped Fangie’s departure would prove more than symbolic.

While they all agreed that Angela needed to be rid of Fangie, they didn’t all agree about whether Angela should show the picture to James. Melanie had argued in favor of total honesty and insisted that James would not only understand but admire the change she’d wrought in her life. Ruth had come out in favor of the past staying in the past, since, she reasoned, James had fallen in love with the woman Angela was now and it didn’t make sense to muddy the waters. It was like telling a potential husband about all the men you’d dated before you met him. Not much was accomplished, but damage could be done.

Vivi sighed as she wheeled the cart toward the checkout lines. Although she’d felt it too hypocritical to say so, she hoped Angela would tell James her secret. She wished she could do the same.

In line, Vivi perused magazine headlines. Next to the
National Enquirer
, with its headline about a minor celebrity who claimed to have been abducted and then returned by aliens and the
Enquirer’s
oversized photo of Brad and Angelina and their brood, was a fresh stack of the
Weekly Encounter
, which carried her recent rant about SAT prep and the parental obsession with their children’s scores. The woman in front of her was blatantly reading Scarlett Leigh’s column, most likely with no intention of buying. Her lips were pressed together in a tight, unhappy line.

“This Scarlett Leigh is an absolute idiot,” she said.

Vivien arranged a look of interest on her face but kept her mouth closed.

The woman nodded toward Vivien’s stomach. “Just wait until your child is ready to graduate from high school. It’ll probably feel even more like brain surgery by then than it does now. Obviously this Scarlett Leigh doesn’t know squat about raising kids or getting them into college.”

Vivien smiled in a way that she hoped could be taken for agreement. An aisle over another woman chimed in.

“How can they let some woman who has no idea what she’s talking about say whatever she feels like? Where are Scarlett Leigh’s child-rearing credentials? I bet she’s a damned man who knows as much as my damned ex-husband!”

The woman in front of Vivi had paid and was waiting for the last bags to be put in her cart. “Well, I’d like to see that Scarlett person have to tell her child he didn’t get into any of what were supposed to be his ‘safety’ schools,” she huffed. “I suppose she thinks we should just let them get whatever they get even if they never have a high enough score to leave home!”

There was a group shudder followed by a short, heavy silence.

Vivien shrank as far as an eight-and-a-half-months-pregnant woman could. Vivien felt even worse than she had when she was writing her apparently incendiary columns and more than a little afraid of what might happen if Scarlett’s true identity were ever revealed. She left the store as quickly as her swollen ankles and aching feet would take her, threw the grocery bags into the back of the SUV, and ditched the cart.

She was heaving herself up into the SUV when her cell phone rang. Caller ID said Matt Glazer. Tired of ducking him, she answered.

“Well, hello at last,” he said. “What finally made you pick up?”

“Just trying to clean up some loose ends,” she said, ignoring the whine in his voice.

“That’s all I am, a loose end?”

Not even, she thought. “I assume you had a reason for calling?”

“Well, yes,” he admitted. “I thought we might work together on something.”

It appeared Matt Glazer was not only whiny and presumptuous, but delusional. She told herself not to get worked up. Which would have been easier if the man weren’t such a complete and utter moron.

“Did you come up with that idea before or after the Christmas Day hatchet job you did on me?”

“Oh, that,” he said as if he hadn’t, in fact, told all of Atlanta that she was pregnant, long in the tooth, and unmarried. “I just hated not to use the information. You know how that is. Once you dig it up you can’t exactly put it back.”

This was true as she knew all too well, but as she had that first time they’d run into each other, she resented his putting them on the same level. “I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop digging and leave me alone,” Vivien said. “We knew each other a little bit a long time ago. I don’t think that gives you the right to print whatever you want to about me.”

There was a pause during which she assumed he realized that meant “no.”

“Well, actually,
Vivi
, my job does give me that right. As long as what I print is true.”

His familiarity had her staring out the car window, gritting her teeth. The chances of getting through the conversation without losing it completely were shrinking at an alarming rate.

“I know about the investigation you’re conducting into your brother-in-law’s death and I want in,” he said.

She grasped the steering wheel and gritted her teeth harder. Matt Glazer was bumbling around in things he didn’t understand. Hell, what she’d been doing didn’t even qualify as an investigation, though she didn’t intend to discuss that with him.

“Look,” she said, trying to tamp down her rising temper. “There is no investigation into J.J.’s death, no deep dark secrets to search out. And we don’t need to be at odds with each other. Let’s just call it a day, Matt. Okay?”

She waited, alone in the car, hoping he’d just pick up his marbles and go home.

“Oh, there’s an investigation all right,” he said, blowing that hope right out of the water. “I know you requested the GBI file. And I don’t really need your permission to conduct an investigation of my own.” His tone had turned insolent; waving a white flag had made her look vulnerable.

“Matt,” she said, still trying to control the anger that was now pounding in her temple and beating a nasty tattoo in her ears. “I’m asking you to back off. I have no intention of or interest in collaborating on anything. Not that there’s anything to collaborate on.”

“I know you’ve been talking to people,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken. He actually seemed to think that if he just explained things in the right way, she’d go along with him. “Well, I’ve been talking to people, too. About you. And what you’ve been up to since you came back to Atlanta. If we’re not working together, I’m going to feel compelled to use what I know. After all, I have an important column to fill.”

“You are way out of line,” she said, deciding that self-control was sorely overrated. She’d been the soul of reasonableness and look where it had gotten her. “And if you think you can blackmail me into anything, you are even stupider than I thought.”

She pictured his look of surprise. Did he actually think he could threaten her and she’d cave? If she’d had a story, she sure as hell wouldn’t be wasting it on a gossip column in a local paper.

“So that’s it?” he said and his own voice had a bite to it. “You still think you’re too good to write something with me.”

Was she really sitting in a supermarket parking lot listening to this crap? Not a moment longer she wasn’t.

“I
am
way too good to collaborate with you, Matt, and everyone but you knows it. Your idea of collaborating is trying to horn in on someone else’s story, threatening them to try to get a piece of their work. That is not remotely professional, Matt. And neither are you.”

There was sputtering on the other end of the line, but she was beyond caring. “In fact, if I were you—and I plan to start thanking God on a regular basis that I’m not—I’d be embarrassed. But I don’t think you’re smart enough for that.”

“You’re going to be sorry you turned me down,” he said. “And even sorrier that you’ve talked to me this way. I’m a colleague. A fellow journalist.” He was working himself into a bit of a huff, but he had a ways to go to catch up with her. Testosterone was no match for pregnancy hormones.

“Matt, at the moment I’m sorry about more things than you can imagine. But I promise you you’re not one of them. You write a gossip column!” Vivien was shouting now and it felt really, really good. “And you’re about as close to being a real journalist as a grain of sand is to being the Sahara desert.