The Blue Bottle Club (9 page)

Tish looked, but all she could see were high weeds, dried and brown, left over from last year's planting. "Look at what?"

"See, over there in the corner next to the wall—crocuses. Yellow and purple crocuses."

Now that her mother had pointed them out, Tish could discern a flash of color low to the ground amid the weeds. A surge of hope rose in her heart, that breath of air she had been struggling to find since January. But her mothers smile had more to do with it than the blossoming crocuses.

Tish poured herself a cup of coffee and sat across from her mother at the table. "What are you doing?"

"Figuring." Mother raised an eyebrow "Coffee?"

Tish shrugged. "I'm getting used to it. You okay?"

"I'm fine, honey. But we need to talk, if you're awake enough."

"I'm awake."

"All right. Now—" She turned the envelope so that Tish could see the columns of figures listed on it. "Here's what we've got, from the sale of the furniture and the little bit of money we had left after your daddy's funeral expenses."

Tish felt her chest tighten, and she turned away. "Mother, I don't think this is the time to—"

"Yes, it is the time," Mother said firmly. "According to my figures, we have enough to rent this house for almost a year."

"A year!" Tish thought wistfully of her huge, bright bedroom in Cameron House, with its fireplace and canopied double bed. Here she had a room no bigger than a closet, with a narrow single bed, a small chest of drawers, and a tiny window. She couldn't live here permanently; she'd die of sheer claustrophobia. "Surely you don't intend to stay here for a year?"

"I intend to stay here forever, if need be."

"Mother, you can't mean it. We're in the servants' quarters, for heaven's sake! We've barely got room to breathe."

Tish's mother cleared her throat and shifted in her chair. "We have plenty of room, Letitia. The parlor is spacious enough, and what do we need bedrooms for except to sleep? There's a nice bath, and a workable kitchen—" "Mother, there's not even a proper dining room!"

"And just who, pray tell, do we expect to be entertaining?"

The question drew Tish up short. She looked at her mother and saw on her face an expression of benign amusement. "You're actually enjoying this!" she snapped, dismayed at the accusing tone in her voice but unable to stop herself. "What—do you think I need to be taught a lesson in humility?"

"It might not hurt," her mother replied softly But her tone was gentle, without rancor, and Tish felt a wave of shame wash over her. "Let's be realistic, daughter. We have very little left, and we were fortunate enough to find a place that's warm, dry, and comfortable."

Against her will, Tish found her mind wandering to images she had seen in the newspapers—people who, displaced by the looming Depression, lived in tarpaper shacks next to the garbage dumps of large cities. Homeless, jobless people with haunted expressions and tattered clothes. Mothers on the streets, with dirty children in tow Perhaps she and her mother didn't have it so bad, after all.

"You're aware of what's happening around us," Mother said as if she'd read Tish's mind. "Many, many people are worse off than we are. People who were like us, once, with good jobs and nice homes and a bright future."

"If you're trying to get me to be thankful for all of this, Mother, you're wasting your breath," Tish muttered. But the images had taken their toll. She
was
thankful. Thankful, at least, that they weren't completely destitute. They had a place to live. And she, of course, had a future. A future with Philip Dorn.

Daddy had been right, in the long run. The market had begun a gradual recovery. And Stuart Dorn hadn't panicked, the way Daddy had. The Dorns still had their fine house, their place in society. They stood to regain most of what they had lost in the initial crash. There would be no partnership for Philip in Daddy's firm, of course—there was no firm left. But Philip would find another position, they would be married, and things eventually would get back to normal.

The worst of the damage had hit not the wealthy, who would recover their losses, but the middle class—people whose jobs had suddenly terminated in the panic as factories and businesses shut down and banks went under. They were the ones standing in interminable bread lines, wandering the city streets. They were the ones whose pitiful life savings had vanished in the bank closings, whose homes had gone into foreclosure, whose lives were devastated.

Letitia Cameron still had hope. Still had a future to look forward to.

It was true that Philip hadn't been around very much. He had been busy, undoubtedly, trying to get his own future prospects in order. But she and Mother, too, had been occupied with the grim business of divesting themselves of the house and other possessions. Now that they were moved, once everything was settled, she would begin seeing Philip again on a regular basis.

And in seven months she would turn eighteen. They would be married immediately. Surely she could hold out until then.

"This is, I think, our best option," Mother was saying when Letitias attention returned to her. "We have to be practical."

Tish stared at her. "What did you say?"

"I said, we have to be practical."

"No, before that. About options."

"Letitia, please pay attention. This is important."

"I'm sorry, Mother. Now, what options?"

"Several women we know—Alice Dorn, for one, and a few of her friends, have approached me about doing some work for them. Preparing food for dinner parties—rather like what I used to do for your father's business gatherings. They would pay me well, and—"

Tish shook her head, unable to believe what she was hearing. "You'd be a—a
servant
—for other people's parties? A
cook!"

"It wouldn't exactly be like that," Mother hedged. "I would prepare food and serve it, yes. But I'd do the preparations here, in our own kitchen, then take it to the party, serve, and clean up afterward."

"And how do you intend to manage that?"

"We still have your father's car. I'll learn to drive. Pastor Archer will teach me."

"Mother, you absolutely cannot do this. Alice Dorn is my future mother-in-law!"

"Yes, and she's been generous enough to offer—"

"This is not generosity, Mother!" Tish interrupted. "It's—" The word stuck in her throat, and Tish fought back tears. "
Charity!"

Mother clasped her hands on the table and looked Tish squarely in the eye. "It is not charity to do honest work for honest wages. Besides, I love doing this, and you know I'm good at it. I will do it, Letitia. For myself. For you. You have to finish school."

"I graduate in three months, Mother. And then Philip and I will be married, and you won't have to worry about anything, ever again."

"And you think taking the Dorns' money and living off my son-in-law is not charity, just because my daughter marries into their household?"

"That's not charity, Mother. Be sensible."

"I am being sensible, Letitia. And you're right. It's not charity—it's prostitution."

Tish sat back in her chair. She wasn't certain what shocked her more—her mother's use of the word
prostitution,
or the backbone Mother had shown by coming up with this idea in the first place. Either way, it was completely out of the question.

Letitia had to do something and had to do it fast.

The Dorn residence, a sprawling brick-and-stone home off Edwin Avenue, lay like a jewel against a vast lawn, bright green with new growth. In the carefully-sculpted flower beds, crocuses bloomed, and the first blades of the daffodils pushed through the mulch.

Tish had been here any number of times, both for parties and for private family dinners. But as she stood before the massive double oak doors, she felt small and strangely out of place. She knocked, timidly at first, and then with more boldness. She was the fiancee. She belonged here, if anyone did.

The door creaked open to reveal Miles, the ancient butler who had been with the Dorn family for ages on end. When he saw her, he raised his bushy eyebrows, then composed himself and said somberly, "Miss Letitia."

"Hello, Miles," she said as brightly as she could. "I've come to see Philip. Is he home?"

"Master Philip is expecting you, Miss?"

Tish faltered. "Ah, no, I don't believe he is. But if you'll announce me, I'm sure he'll make time for his fiancée."

She followed Miles through the massive entryway into the formal parlor and waited, fidgeting, as her eyes took in the opulence of the place—the imported marble fireplace and hearth, the crystal chandelier, the customloomed English floral rug in shades of ivory and pink. There had been no selling of possessions in the Dorn household, that much was obvious. But then Stuart Dorn had wealth that was unaffected by the price of stocks. He could afford to bide his time.

"Letitia?"

Philip's voice, when it came, sounded odd—strained and distant. Tish turned.

He stood in the doorway, tall and handsome as ever, his broad shoulders thrown back and his hand resting casually on the doorpost. She waited for the smile that did not come and finally whispered, "Philip, I need to talk to you."

"All right."

He took her hand and led her to the settee, then sat in a chair adjacent to her and crossed his legs. Tish scanned his face for any hint of warmth, any sign of affection, but there was none. Only a practiced graciousness, an aristocratic lift to the eyebrows, a thoroughly Philip-like composure.

"What is it, Letitia? Is something wrong?"

Tish pushed from her mind the awareness that he never called her "Letitia"—only when he was rebuking her for some infraction of social protocol or introducing her to some superior being far above her own social standing. She reached for his hand, but he was too far away, and he didn't reciprocate. With a flush of shame for her forwardness, she let the hand fall into her lap.

"You haven't been to see us since we moved." The words weren't consciously intended as an accusation, but he obviously took offense. He drew back in his chair and his eyebrows went up another notch.

"I didn't know I was expected to report my whereabouts," he answered smoothly. "But since you asked, I've been out of state for a few weeks. Father has some business associates in Atlanta, and I've been negotiating with them about an opportunity in their firm. It looks like a very promising possibility."

Atlanta! Tish shuddered at the thought. She had been to Atlanta once or twice and remembered it as a teeming, noisy place with a pace that made her head spin. She couldn't possibly move to Atlanta, couldn't possibly . . .

But she'd deal with that later. One thing at a time. Right now, the important thing was getting Philip to understand her predicament without demeaning herself.

"Well, isn't that wonderful, Philip!" she forced herself to say. "Imagine, Atlanta!"

"But I gather you didn't come here to talk about my future possibilities."

Ah! He had given her the perfect opening. "No, Philip, I came to talk about
our
future possibilities." She took a breath and rushed on before he had time to comment. "Since Daddy's—ah, passing—Mother and I have been forced to face some difficult decisions. Now, I know that we had originally planned to wait until I was eighteen to marry, but given the circumstances, I'm sure Mother would give her permission for us to go ahead."

He stared at her blankly. "Excuse me?"

She held out her arms and gave him her most brilliant smile. "Let's get married, Philip—now, this spring. It would only be pushing the ceremony up a few months, and I'm certain we could get ready by May, or—"

"Married? Now?"

"Well, not now as in today, Philip. But soon. I never considered the possibility of moving, especially to a place as big as Atlanta, but I'm sure you have other offers as well, maybe right here in Asheville. We could—" She looked up at him, and his face had gone hard as iron. "What's the matter, Philip?"

"Tish, I'm sorry I just can't discuss this. Not right now."

"But we have to discuss it," she protested. "We have to make a decision. Do you know that Mother is planning—"

She stopped short. She wouldn't bring Mother into this, wouldn't humiliate herself by telling him how her own mother had every intention of hiring out to the people who had once been their peers, their social equals. But he was nodding. He knew. He already knew all about it.

"You know?"

"Yes."

"But how?"

"Listen, Tish," he said with a dismissive gesture. "Things have changed."

"They haven't changed for you," she shot back. "Look around. Everything here is the same. Everything between us is the same." She fixed her eyes on his face, but he wouldn't meet her gaze. "Isn't it?"

"I don't know, Tish. It's a confusing time for everybody. I'll admit, it was my idea for my mother to hire yours. I wanted to do something to help."

"This is
helping!"

"I thought so. Your mother does enjoy that kind of thing—cooking for fancy dinners and parties. She's a natural at it. And, well, I just thought—"