The Cherry Cola Book Club (12 page)

Connie gave her a heartfelt hug and pulled back. “I can't believe there's even the slightest possibility that you might be leaving us. Cherico needs more people like you. And I feel so bad that our meeting tonight got sidetracked. You went to so much trouble, and I was looking forward to getting my teeth into
To Kill a Mockingbird
again. Actually, I was proud that Douglas was, too. That sneaky man of mine had been reading chapters in between his beer and fishing expeditions. How about that? Maybe this retirement of ours will turn out to be fun for both of us, after all.”

Maura Beth waved her off, smiling pleasantly. “Oh, I'm sure it will. And I can reschedule our
Mockingbird
discussion down the line. In fact, I fully intend to, even though we might have to take Stout Fella's recovery into consideration. I'm sure we'd want Becca to be a part of it.”

“I just wish Councilman Sparks would stay out of your business,” Connie said. “He found a way to almost get the girls fighting with the boys tonight, and he also went after the lawyers with a vengeance. I saw that exasperated expression on your face at the podium.”

Maura Beth exhaled, unable to put that particular mischief out of her head. “I tried my best not to let it show too much. But don't worry about me. I'm not giving up so easily. Scarlett wouldn't have.”

Connie turned to get a glimpse of the front desk clock. “Oh, it's almost ten-thirty. We have a lot of packing to do, so I better get going. And I'll give you a call tomorrow morning from the hospital as soon as we know something definite. Then you can phone the others, if you don't mind.”

A minute or two later, Maura Beth stood outside the front door, waving to her friends as Douglas pulled away from the curb with a staccato honk. The prognosis for Stout Fella looked promising, and she was pleased with herself for coming up with the concept of balloon therapy. But as she went back in to turn out the lights before locking up and heading home, she could feel depression spreading over her like the precursor to an oncoming cold.

Recently, she'd read a very interesting and somewhat controversial book in the collection about chaos theory. She hadn't completely understood all of it, but the gist was that random events sometimes coincided to scotch the best-laid plans of the most organized and intelligent minds on the planet. She certainly wasn't about to hold Justin Brachle's heart attack against him, but that unfortunate occurrence, along with Councilman Sparks's concerted attempts at disruption, had effectively rendered the second meeting of The Cherry Cola Book Club less than successful.

It was time to rev things up a notch, to treat the book club more like a political campaign. Somehow, some way, people must cast their votes by walking their warm bodies through the front door of the library to take advantage of its services. Maura Beth's job was at stake, and there were people in Cherico who had stated to her face that they didn't give a flip about that.

M
iss Voncille and Locke Linwood had been the first to leave the vigil at Cherico Memorial once Stout Fella had been stabilized in the ICU. “I know you'll call us if you hear anything further,” Miss Voncille had said to Maura Beth, who assured them that she would.

But after they'd climbed into Locke's Cadillac in the hospital parking lot below, an awkward silence overtook them both. They sat there for a while, listening to the muted sound of the engine and looking straight ahead with emotionless faces.

It was Miss Voncille who finally verbalized what they were both thinking. “Does what just happened change where we're headed?”

He continued to idle the engine and turned her way. “I assume you mean the physical address.”

“Yes. Will you be taking me to your house on Perry Street or mine on Painter Street?”

He did not hesitate. “My invitation is still open.”

But she posed another question instead. “Do you think we should have stayed longer? I hope the ladies won't think we abandoned them.”

“We couldn't have done anything but sit there. The crisis seemed to have cooled by the time we left. We made our manners and showed the proper respect. I know who the Brachles are, but Pamela and I never socialized with them because they're so much younger. They're a different generation.” He put the car in gear and started to pull out into the street. “I don't want to do anything tonight that will make you feel uneasy, so tell me which way to head.”

“I'm still fine with your invitation,” she said finally. “Go ahead and drive us to your house on Perry Street. I was looking forward to seeing it. And also seeing you in it.”

They drove through the heart of a mostly deserted downtown, passing the always-spotlighted City Hall, eventually entering the oldest residential neighborhood of Cherico. Tree-lined Perry Street was its crown jewel, featuring a good many more restored Queen Anne cottages than Miss Voncille's fixer-upper on Painter Street on the other side of town. Here was where the Crumpton sisters, Councilman Sparks, and other well-to-do families resided, not necessarily side by side, but well within shouting distance of each other.

“The crepe myrtles are lush this year,” Miss Voncille noted, making small talk during the short drive. “Especially the pink ones. Personally, I prefer the whites. I think they named them after Natchez in the southern part of the state.”

He nodded enthusiastically. “I think I read that somewhere, too. And as you'll soon see, those are the only kind I have in my yard.”

A minute or so later they had pulled into the driveway of 134 Perry Street, and the front porch lights enabled Miss Voncille to appreciate the sprawling, superbly manicured lawn, dotted with the crepe myrtles Locke had described. She had, in fact, driven the length of Perry Street over the years just to admire its perfection but had never had a reason to pay particularly close attention to Locke Linwood's house and grounds. She knew only that he and his wife lived there and religiously attended her genealogical lectures at the library, and that was the extent of her interest. Now, however, the ante had been upped, and the time had come for a sincere compliment.

“If your decorating is anything like your landscaping, I know I'm going to love your house,” she said, as he opened the passenger door and helped her out.

“Pamela did all the decorating. Most all the furniture is from her family. She was an Alden from over in the Delta, you know, and they had all that soybean money,” he explained as they headed in. “I just sold life insurance for my keep.”

The living room they entered was as graciously appointed as Miss Voncille envisioned it would be: It included a spotless wool dhurrie on the hardwood floor, a mahogany linen press against one wall, an English bookcase against the other, a Victorian what-not in the corner, and an Oriental ceramic cat lamp on an end table beside a comfortable contemporary sofa. It was both eclectic and elegant, while at the same time calling to mind the museum-like quality that Locke had confessed to previously.

“Your wife had the touch,” Miss Voncille said, her eyes roving around the room in awe. “This is just lovely. Puts my jungle to shame.”

Locke shook his head with authority. “Nonsense.
Architectural Digest
is not for everyone.” Then he gestured toward the sofa in front of them. “I'll give you the rest of the tour later. But first, why don't you have a seat, and I'll go get us those sherries we talked about?”

While he was gone, Miss Voncille passed the time studying the oil portrait of Pamela hanging beside the bookcase. It had obviously been done when she was very young—perhaps somewhere in her twenties—and it was easy to see why Locke had fallen hard. Here was a gently smiling woman with shoulder-length brunette hair and light brown eyes that suggested a benevolent prescience. They seemed to be looking off in the distance at something wonderful to behold.

“How old was your wife when that was painted?” Miss Voncille asked as soon as Locke had returned and handed over her nightcap.

He settled in beside her and took a sip of his sherry. “That would have been a year or so after we were married, so she was about twenty-five. She wanted one done of me, but I told her I couldn't sit still long enough. The truth is, I didn't want anything in the room to distract from her beauty.”

“And nothing does,” Miss Voncille remarked. “She aged very well, too, I always thought. I would never have known that—” She broke off, realizing just in time where she was going.

But Locke rubbed her arm gently as he finished her sentence. “That she was so ill there at the end?”

Miss Voncille sipped her drink and nodded.

“My Pamela was a trooper. She spent a fortune on designer scarves to cover up the chemo, and she did it with the same great style she used throughout this house. She wouldn't have made her exit any other way.”

He rose from the sofa and headed toward the bookcase, pulling a letter out of a leather-bound journal. “I'd like to take the time to read this out loud to you. I only read it myself the other day, and it was what brought me to my senses regarding our friendship. Pamela wrote it while she was still pretty cogent, and the instructions on the envelope were that it was to be read by myself two years after her death. I kept it in a safety deposit box to avoid temptation, but above all, I wanted to honor her wishes, and I did. So, if you wouldn't mind indulging me?”

“Of course not, Locke. And I have to say again that you are the most constantly surprising man I've ever known. At my age, that's just so much fun, I can hardly stand it.”

He smiled, resumed his seat on the sofa, and began:

Whatever words she had expected to come out of Locke's mouth, Miss Voncille considered these a universe away. She had to take a generous swig of her sherry to steady herself and give herself some time to think of what to say. But another quick glimpse of Pamela's portrait gave her just the inspiration she needed.

“It's almost like your wife was thinking of that letter when her portrait was painted so long ago,” she observed. “Otherwise, I can't think of a thing to add to the sentiments she expressed.”

Locke looked consummately pleased with her and himself. “Pamela was like that. She was forward-thinking, even though she wanted to know everything about people here in Cherico. That was why we first started going to ‘Who's Who?' meetings. But it was the big picture that really interested her. Not just what came before, but what comes next? That's why having breast cancer never really changed her. She always thought it was part of something that would eventually make sense to her, and when I read her letter the other day after two years had passed, I teared up and laughed at the same time. She really knew me, and I have no choice now but to keep following through on what she's asked me to do.”

Miss Voncille exhaled, enjoying the slight buzz from the sherry. “I assume the single rose was your idea, though?”

“That it was. Give me credit for some originality.”

“Oh, I do,” she said, inching closer to him. “As I've said to you several times, you're a surprising and original man.”

The kiss that followed was gentle and brief but held the promise of more to come.

“So, here's a question for you—what's your opinion of four-letter words?” he said, pulling away slightly.

Her expression was skeptical but amused. “I don't use them. Well . . . not unless I hit my thumb with a hammer putting up a picture. You know how that goes.”

“No, I meant the four-letter words that Pamela used in her letter,” he explained with a mischievous grin. “She talked about
risk
and she mentioned
love
. Those four-letter words. Here we are getting ready to greet our seventies. Are we willing to take the risk of again losing someone that we love?”

For the first time all night, Frank flashed into Miss Voncille's head. She had put his picture away in a brave attempt at moving forward. If she became further involved with Locke, it would be impossible to predict how many years they might have together.

“It's been a while since I've risked anything in the love department,” she answered. “You pose a very pertinent question.”

Neither of them said anything for a few minutes, sipping their sherry for courage.

“So, where do we go from here?” he said, finally.

She turned to him with a sweet, reassuring smile. “I'd like to stay here tonight. Is that enough of an answer?”

“More than enough,” he replied, matching her smile. And then they kissed again, this time lingering tenderly.

“Then by all means, show me the rest of the house,” she added, pulling away with an expectant sigh. “It's gone unappreciated for too long.”