Temple Secrets: Southern Humorous Fiction: (New for 2015) For Lovers of Southern Authors and Southern Novels (26 page)

Her huff is followed by a yawn.
This delving into the past is quite exhausting,
Queenie thinks.

After hiding her journal again, she puts her feet up for a quick snooze. Within minutes, she settles into a nice dream about Denzel Washington giving her a sexy foot rub, and then is startled awake by a knock on her bedroom door. In her imagination she asks Denzel to come back later and then shuffles toward the door to find Rose.

“Sorry to disturb you, but I have to leave for the airport in a couple of hours,” Rose says.

Sometimes Queenie can see the young girl Rose used to be. Shy. Awkward. Serious. “Did you have a nice walk on the beach?” Queenie asks.

“I spent some time with Old Sally, so yes, it was wonderful,” Rose says.

At Queenie’s invitation, Rose sits on the end of the bed. “Have you thought about what you’ll do?” Queenie asks. She’s been so into her own crisis she hasn’t even thought about Rose’s.

“I’ll have a long talk with Max, I suppose,” Rose says. “I haven’t told him yet. I left a message that I had something to talk to him about once I got back. I guess I want to think about it more and decide how I feel. Mother sure knows how to shake things up, doesn’t she?”

“Your mother was a force of nature,” Queenie says, “and in some ways she still is.” She looks at the chandelier again, as if daring Iris to disagree.

“I doubt Max will have anything to do with Mother’s blackmail,” Rose says. “This whole day has just been unreal, hasn’t it?”

Queenie nods, her thoughts returning to the meeting in Bo River’s office. She expected surprises from Iris, but not from Oscar.

Why did he write that stupid letter?
she wonders.

Queenie was prepared to go to her grave without anybody knowing. Except that after Iris died it just didn’t make sense to keep it a secret anymore. What she didn’t expect was that finally telling the truth would feel like such a huge relief, despite the fact that Violet might never forgive her. It reminds her of those girdles she tried to wear in the 60s. Her ample body pinched and contained until finally released in the evening, so grateful to be unencumbered. That secret being out feels a little like that, too. Like finally she can breathe again.

“How did I not know that you were Violet’s mother?” Rose asks.

“I’m very good at keeping secrets,” Queenie says. “But keeping this one was selfish. I know that now.” She joins Rose on the end of the bed. “What I want to know is how I could have been such a coward? For years I convinced myself that Violet was better off not knowing the truth. She had this image of her dead mother that comforted her. A perfect mother who died too soon. How could I compete with that, Rose? I’m not a perfect anything, and I thought that if Violet found out the truth, she’d be disappointed.”

Rose takes Queenie’s hand and squeezes it. “When are you going to talk to her?” Rose asks.

“As soon as she’ll listen. Although I’m not sure what I’ll say.”

“You need to explain what it was like for you and why you felt the need to keep the secret,” Rose says. “She needs to hear the truth, Queenie. In AA they call it making amends.”

Queenie remembers Rose’s attempt to make amends with Iris twenty years before. After the letter arrived at the house, Iris read it aloud to Queenie. It was a lovely letter. Heartfelt. Sincere. But Iris dismissed it. Then marked the letter
return to sender, recipient deceased
and ordered Queenie to return it to the post office. Even for Iris, the response was especially mean-spirited. Her whole life Iris never knew how to apologize. To her, apologies were a sign of weakness, not of strength.

“Promise me you’ll talk to Violet today,” Rose says. “I don’t want what happened between my mother and me to happen with you and Violet.”

“I promise,” Queenie says and rests a hand on the shelf of her bosom to offer a solemn swear.

Rose squeezes Queenie’s hand again and stands. “I’ve got to pack,” she says.

“Can I take you to the airport?”

“I’d appreciate that,” Rose says. “I need to drop off the rental car, but if you want to wait with me in the terminal, we could have a little more time together.”

For the first time that afternoon, Queenie feels like everything might be okay again. She has amends to make, but maybe Violet will forgive her.

“If you’re hungry, we can stop by Kentucky Fried Chicken on the way,” Queenie says with a grin. “I haven’t been back since the day of the funeral.”

“I still can’t believe you put a bucket of chicken in Mother’s casket,” Rose says.

“Original recipe,” Queenie says. “You know how your mother had a thing for tradition.”

Rose laughs, as Queenie turns serious again.

“I have no regrets, Rose. Especially after that stunt your mother pulled today.” Her head upturned, Queenie waits for Iris to comment, but the room is quiet.

“I don’t think she’s been around since the reception,” Rose says. “Maybe that’s a sign that she’s finally ready to go.”

“We should be so lucky,” Queenie says. “Truth be told, I’ve had enough of your mama to last at least two lifetimes, maybe three.”

Rose leaves to pack and Queenie goes downstairs. When she enters the kitchen, Violet jumps. “You scared me,” she says with a frown.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, baby, and I certainly didn’t mean to hurt you either.”

Violet’s face softens and she bites her bottom lip as though willing herself not to cry.

“I was wondering if we could talk about all this after I get back from taking Rose to the airport,” Queenie says.

Violet looks away and doesn’t answer.

Queenie’s shame feels full-bodied now, as if a literal person standing in the room. She doesn’t like this person.

“I need to tell you what happened,” Queenie says. “You deserve to hear the facts.”

Violet wipes a single tear from her cheek and then agrees. At this point, nothing can keep Queenie from telling the truth. She owes Violet that much. This secret has stayed hidden way too long. Unlike people, secrets never die. Look at that stupid book. Just when you think two hundred years of confidences will be buried in a bank vault forever, it resurges refusing to be forgotten. It’s in their nature for secrets to surface in one way or another, and Queenie is counting on it being in Violet’s nature to forgive her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Violet

Once the house is empty again, Violet looks at the kitchen ceiling and calls Miss Temple’s name. It’s not like spirits to come when called, but she wants to know if Violet getting the house is what Miss Temple really wants. After all, the note on Miss Temple’s night stand said she was going to change the will and then her agitated spirit showed up at the will reading.

Violet leaves the kitchen and stands in the foyer listening to the tick of the grandfather clock, the heartbeat of the house. Having no time to process anything, she isn’t sure what she feels. It is a mixture of shock, sadness and exuberance. None of which she has much experience with.

As if moving through a dream, she walks from room to room. Could this house really be hers now? She walks out the front door and down the front steps, something she rarely does since she always uses the side entrance. The Temple house is one of those mansions with a gold plaque on the front giving the date it was built.

A house with a pedigree
, she thinks.

Violet has often thought that their apartment would fit into the Temple carriage house with room to spare.

After opening the gate, she steps onto the wide sidewalk, looking back at the house. She covers a smile, embarrassed by her good fortune. For years she’s wanted to away from this house—and her duties as a housekeeper and cook. Liberation was her goal. Yet even as a girl she loved this place. While Rose complained about its formality, Violet always thought it was like a castle in a fairy tale. A castle that would never, ever be hers.

Further down the sidewalk, posters are taped to the tall wrought iron fence, their messages scrawled in dark markers.
Iris Temple is a Traitor
, says one.
Keep Your Secrets to Yourself!
says another.
Who Do You Think You Are?!
says a third. Miss Temple worked so hard to make the Temple name mean something. She would hate how ordinary folks are reacting to the scandal.

A black Buick with darkened windows is parked at the end of the block. It has sat there for several days. She can make out the figure of a man inside. It reminds Violet of a scene from one of the crime novels Queenie loans her. A suspicious looking character lurks in the shadows, though you don’t find out who they are until the end of the book. The smoke from the stranger’s cigarette exits out of a one inch gap at the top of the window. The car is running, probably for the air conditioner. A soft beat of bass comes from the car radio. Rhythm and blues. She likes the music but doesn’t like the stranger.

Violet shudders, adding fear to her list of mixed emotions. She lowers her eyes as she passes, and then walks through another gate to a stone pathway that leads to the side entrance. The kitchen entrance is typically the servant entrance, although nearly everybody uses it to come and go, except for Miss Temple. While the front entrance is formidable, the garden entrance is open and inviting.

To rid herself of the fear, she focuses on her surroundings. The courtyard and garden always has a magical feel to Violet. She spends her breaks out here whenever she can. A large oak dominates the center of the garden, the ground nearby covered in a carpet of moss. It is the kind of spot that invites a picnic, or perhaps a nap, no matter what season or time of day. Not that she ever has time for such a thing. Except her grandmother used to make picnics for her and Rose to have under this tree when they were girls. Sometimes she would join them and tell them stories about their ancestors. Queenie was nearby. Always.

What did she think about while she watched me?
Violet wonders. She can’t imagine standing by and watching Tia or Leisha and not claiming them as her own. It would break her heart to do so. She pushes away the betrayal she feels. It is too big to face. Too dangerous.

A wooden bench sits under an arbor next to an ivy covered wall of the house. Blooming flowers are everywhere. In the far corner a twisted crepe myrtle tree stands, its blossoms scattered on the ground, releasing the last moments of their scent. The breeze pushes the aroma of the blossoms in Violet’s direction. She drinks in the garden’s perfume, feeling intoxicated by the events of the day, as well as nauseous.

Will she keep the gardener? But how will she afford him? She has heard of people who are house-rich and cash-poor. This is definitely her now. Although, she can’t believe she’s even thinking this way.

A warm breeze rattles the leaves of the crepe myrtle tree. Even though it is only April, the evenings are already hot and will continue to bake them to the end of October.

The squeak of the garden gate alarms her until she sees it is Spud. Now dressed in casual clothes, he is without his bow tie. Violet has never seen him without a tie. He carries an armload of posters he’s pulled from the fence.

“What kind of people do this?” He rips the posters into pieces.

“People with nothing better to do, I guess,” Violet answers. “Which reminds me, did you see that black Buick out there?”

“I did. Who is that?” Spud asks.

“No idea,” Violet says. “Queenie walked up to rap on the window yesterday and he drove off when he saw her coming. At least we assume it’s a ‘he.’ With those dark windows it’s hard to tell.”

“Do you want me to talk to him?” Spud asks, sounding braver than he looks. Something about being able to see the tiny tuft of gray hair at the V of his polo shirt makes him seem overly exposed. It occurs to Violet that earlier today they were regular, hardworking people, relying on a weekly paycheck to get by, and now they are wealthy. All because of Miss Temple. A woman he obviously loved. And a woman Violet worked hard not to hate.

“I think if you try to talk to him, he’ll just drive away again,” Violet says.

“Have you called the police?”

“We did,” Violet answers, “but since he isn’t breaking any laws they can’t do anything.”

“Doesn’t it scare you?” Spud asks.

“I guess I have a higher scare quotient since I deal with ghosts every day,” Violet says. With that she gets Spud to finally smile. “Besides, the Temple mansion is like a fortress with all the security systems on,” she adds, thinking she probably needs to learn how to operate them. Of course Queenie knows how, but she doesn’t want to talk to Queenie right now.

Violet invites Spud inside and he takes his usual place at the kitchen table. “We both got quite a shock today,” he says.

“I think I’m still reeling,” Violet says. It strikes her odd that an older white man would be such a good friend. A friend she can say almost anything to. A friend that if not for Miss Temple’s eccentricities, she might never have met. “Jack keeps calling to see when I’m coming home,” she adds, “but I can’t seem to leave.”

“How do you think he’ll react?” Spud asks.

“I honestly have no idea,” Violet says. “He’ll probably be in shock just like I am.” She pauses. “Is it alright with you if we don’t talk about that right now?”

“Whatever you need is fine with me.” Spud starts to straighten his tie but his hand hangs there a moment when he realizes it isn’t there. An awkward grin crosses his face, as though going casual will take some getting used to.

“I was in the middle of making turnovers,” she says.

While he pours himself a cup of coffee, she turns her attention back to the biscuit dough she left on the countertop when Rose and Queenie left. She rolls out and cuts several pieces—shaped like the sail of paper boats—and folds the strips of dough over sliced peaches before placing them on a baking sheet.

“You’re as good as Julia Child,” Spud says.

Violet thanks him. She always gets compliments on her cooking. At church socials, people line up in front of whatever she brings so they don’t miss out. With Spud watching, she makes a dozen peach turnovers, one after another.