The Ladies of Garrison Gardens (29 page)

Chapter Sixty-three

IVA CLAIRE

1936

I
VA CLAIRE HADN'T COUNTED
on the loneliness. She was used to sharing everything, first with Mama and then with Mama and Tassie. It had been the three of them against the world, onstage and off. Now she was alone and she felt lost. She needed friends, but she'd found out fast that the old-time vaudevillians were right when they said civilians were a different breed. In Atlanta, thanks to the Benedict name and money, she'd been accepted into a circle that was young, rich, and well bred. The belles in this crowd could never have imagined rolling around on a stage in a silly costume or waiting in a dirty hotel room with a dying mother for a check that never came. The pain of Mama's last days, her horrid little funeral, and all the other memories that haunted Iva Claire would have sounded like a bad dream to them. But they were real for her.

That was the second thing she hadn't counted on. She could mimic Myrtis Benedict's speech, wear flat shoes to make herself look shorter, and play Myrtis to perfection, but she could never lose her memories of life as Iva Claire. The memories could trip her up. Theater slang she had used all her life could slip into her conversation if she relaxed her guard; so could references to Hell's Kitchen and Brooklyn.

So she was afraid to let anyone come too close for a variety of reasons—which made the loneliness worse.

It might have been easier if she'd had something to do. She'd worked since she was five, and she was accustomed to being useful. But now she was expected to spend her time going to parties and picnics. She read books, volunteered for socially acceptable charity work, and secretly gave large amounts of money to radical causes, but sometimes she thought her boring new life was worse than the old grind of doing split weeks on the Small Time.

The wealthy privileged people who had taken the wealthy privileged Miss Benedict into their homes and clubs whispered to one another that there was something a little off about her. They put it down to her foreign schooling, but that didn't stop them from wondering. All of this made friendship a gamble and romance a danger. Besides, she was finding she didn't like her new acquaintances very much.

The casual bigotry she encountered in the parlors of the spoiled never ceased to amaze her. She wasn't naïve. She'd played theaters where Negro customers had to sit in Coon Heaven, and she knew that in parts of the South they had their own circuit. Certainly, ethnic and racial stereotypes formed the basis of many successful comedy acts. But backstage, performers of every background were thrown together in the melting pot that was vaudeville, and prejudice simply couldn't last when you were trooping around the country on a five-a-day tour. But the sheltered girls and boys of Atlanta had been raised to look down on anyone who didn't look or sound exactly like they did. Being with them often meant biting her tongue until it was in danger of bleeding. And she was discovering something else about them and their parents; they were amazingly ignorant about the world around them. And they were mean.

Georgia had been hit hard by the Great Depression, and Atlanta was a hotbed of New Deal activity. People would have starved without federal relief and the jobs handed out by government agencies. As far as Iva Claire was concerned, Roosevelt was a great man.

But she was going to dinner parties where the president was more likely to be called a communist than a savior. And because she was afraid of attracting the wrong kind of attention, she was afraid to argue. In private, she read the
Women's Democratic News
and Mrs. Roosevelt's column, “My Day,” in the
Woman's Home Companion
, but she couldn't talk about any of it in public.

The worst part was, she couldn't even tell Tassie how isolated she felt, because Tassie seemed to be having problems of her own. She still never mentioned acting jobs, and she sounded discouraged. Iva Claire sent more money and tried not to think about it.

But sometimes all of it—the loneliness and the boredom and the worry—got the better of her. Then she would start remembering the night in the house in Beneville when her life changed. Those were the bad times.

She was in one of those moods when Bonnie Taylor Talbot invited her to spend a weekend in a small town a few hours outside Atlanta.

“One of Daddy's oldest and dearest friends has this garden,” Bonnie burbled. “Well, it's not just a few rosebushes. This is acres and acres of trees and plants, it's all very scientific and horticultural, and for years he had this hunting lodge there for just his friends, but now he's made it into a resort. Mama says Uncle Grady—I call him that because I've known him since I was tiny—would make money in the outer rings of H E double toothpicks. But I don't think that's vulgar necessarily, not unless you wear too much jewelry. This weekend we're going to Charles Valley for the party Uncle Grady is going to open Garrison Gardens and Garrison resort to the public. You'll love it there, it's so rustic, with loads of tranquillity.”

Normally, Iva Claire would have run from the idea of a weekend with Bonnie, her thimble-size brain, her overbearing daddy, and her hypochondriac mama. But she wanted to get out of Atlanta, and at least Uncle Grady's hunting lodge would be a change. So the next day she sat in the backseat of Daddy Talbot's Cadillac, heading for Charles Valley.

Chapter Sixty-four

T
HE GARRISON RESORT
was rustic, as Bonnie had said, but in the most luxurious way possible. The lodge's façade featured weathered wood and rough stonework. Inside, the bedrooms were palatial, each with its own private bath, thick rugs, and hand-stitched linens. There was a reception area with heart-pine floors and a massive fireplace. Behind it were two small dining rooms to be used by guests for private entertaining. Next to the smaller rooms was a large dining room that seated one hundred and opened onto an outdoor terrace. This was where the party launching the resort would be held. But before the big shindig, the host had commandeered the smaller rooms for drinks and dinner for a few select friends. The exclusive little gathering included Iva Claire, the Taylor Talbots, the Garrisons and their son—there were two older sisters who were married and lived away from home, she learned—and three prominent families from Charles Valley.

One family in particular fascinated Iva Claire. The wife had been a beauty when she was younger and still would have been attractive if she hadn't tried to fight time with too much makeup and a dinner gown designed for a girl twenty years her junior. The husband, a lawyer, was the only man in the room not wearing a dinner jacket. He had a weary, slightly twisted smile that didn't show up very often. Their daughter didn't smile much either. She was a large gawky girl, and under the best of circumstances she would not have been considered pretty. Her nose was too large, her chin was practically nonexistent, and her pale blue eyes were hidden behind thick glasses. In the beginning of the evening her hair had been styled in tight waves, but it had rapidly become a bush of frizz in the heat. She should have dressed simply, in clean lines and neutral colors, but she was wearing a yellow dotted-Swiss frock with puffed sleeves, frills at the neck, and endless rows of ruffles that went the length of the dress from the shoulder to the hem. It would have been hard to find a garment that looked worse on her substantial frame, and the poor thing knew it. Iva Claire looked at her overdressed mother and thought she knew who was responsible for the choice. The girl's father was introduced as Harrison Banning; his wife was Beth.

“And this big old giantess is my daughter, Margaret Elizabeth,” said Beth, with a smile totally lacking in warmth or affection. The daughter flushed bright red, which didn't help her looks, but she reached out calmly to shake hands.

“Call me Li'l Bit, Miss Benedict, everyone does.” Her voice was high and fluty.

At her side, her mother tittered angrily. “Good gracious, Miss Myrtis is going to think you're a fool, asking her to call you that.” She gave her daughter a quick look up and down to drive her point home. “Anyone who didn't know that's your daddy's silly pet name for you would think you're peculiar.”

The girl flushed an even deeper red. Ignoring the mother, Iva Claire said warmly, “I think Li'l Bit is a charming nickname. And you must call me Myrtis.” Mercifully, before Beth Banning could say anything more, they were called in to dinner.

Iva Claire had been placed at the end of the table. The scion of the Garrisons, whose name was Dalton, was seated at her right. At his right was Beth Banning, and across from her was Li'l Bit. Iva Claire immediately dismissed Dalton as another good-looking boy who had played football in college rather than study and now spent his time doing a token job for his family and showing up at appropriate times in a dinner jacket. Li'l Bit was far more interesting. But the girl seemed to have retreated into herself. Iva Claire was searching for something to say when Beth leaned over.

“Miss Myrtis, tell me about Atlanta. It's where I was raised, and I miss it so. And now I hear it's being destroyed by
that man
.”

When people like Mrs. Banning said
that man
, they meant the president. Iva Claire repressed a sigh. This was exactly the kind of dinner talk she'd been trying to escape.

Be careful,
warned the voice in her head.

“I'm not sure I'd say Atlanta has been destroyed—” she began, but Beth leaped in.

“Oh, please, I beg you, don't say you're a supporter of the Roosevelts! My friends say I'd just cry my heart out at the way they've destroyed my old hometown.”

“Things in Atlanta are different. . . .” Iva Claire paused and was helped out by an unexpected source.

“President Roosevelt had the runways at Candler Field graded, Mama,” Li'l Bit said, as she carefully buttered a roll. “And I believe there's a new orchestra now. You know how you're always saying you're devoted to culture.” Was she making fun of her mother? It was said innocently enough.

“I was addressing my remarks to Miss Myrtis,” said Beth.

“The president also fixed the Cyclorama. Remember how you said it just broke your heart into little pieces to see it go to rack and ruin?” There was no mistaking it, she was practically imitating her mother. People around the table were looking uncomfortable. Obviously they were used to these clashes.

A mean little smile played across Beth's mouth as she eyed her daughter across the table. “What is that funny little poem about the Roosevelts?” she asked. “Oh, yes, I remember.” She began to recite: “‘You kiss the niggers, and I'll kiss the Jews, and we'll stay in the White House as long as we choose.'”

The table became silent. Several faces were scarlet, Iva Claire noticed. But there were also a couple of grins. Beth giggled like a naughty schoolgirl. “Isn't that just awful?” she said.

From across the table, Li'l Bit said clearly, “Yes, Mama, it truly is.” She stared at her mother for a moment, then deliberately turned away. Suddenly Beth seemed to become aware of the hush in the room and the spectacle she was making of herself.

“My daughter is devoted to FDR,” she said shrilly into the silence. “And she is even more enamored of
Mrs
. Roosevelt. Personally, I can't understand why anyone would be, but perhaps it's comforting for some to see such a homely woman in the White House. Most plain girls aren't that lucky.”

There was a sudden intense fascination with the cutlery on the part of everyone sitting around the table. Li'l Bit looked like she was going to cry.

“I agree with you, Li'l Bit,” Iva Claire said, throwing away three years of discretion. “I think Mrs. Roosevelt is splendid. Did you hear her last speech on the radio?”

She was rewarded with a grateful smile and a nod from Li'l Bit.

“And I admire her work at Arthurdale so much, don't you?” That opened the floodgates. Li'l Bit Banning worshiped the president and his wife the way only a lonely, sad, smart youngster could. She shook off her mother's barbs and launched into a political discussion that soon left her listener far behind. Iva Clare's understanding of the New Deal was general, and she believed in broad issues like unionization, public health care, and the new Social Security program, but Li'l Bit knew in minute detail the history and purpose of every federal agency. She raced eagerly through an alphabet of abbreviations—NRA, TVA, NYA, WPA, CCC, FEPC, and NLRB—and documented the finer points of the anti-lynching bill and the argument for national participation in the World Court. Her face was still flushed, but with an attractive glow now, and her eyes were sparkling. Although she was plain, as her mother had said, surely the right man would see the passion in her someday.

Beth broke in again. “I do hope Li'l Bit isn't boring you to death, Miss Myrtis. You're so sweet to let her go on.”

“I can't remember the last time I've had such an interesting conversation,” Iva Claire said honestly. “You must be proud to have such an intelligent daughter.”

The woman really couldn't leave well enough alone. “You mustn't encourage her to show off,” she simpered. “I keep warning her that boys don't like a girl who's too smart. They'll always prefer a pretty face.”

“A boy might. But a
man
knows that a good mind will last long after a pretty face has” . . . Iva Claire paused to let it sink in . . . “faded,” she finished coolly. Once again silence descended on the table. Beth Banning shot her a look of pure venom, but before she could attack, Dalton Garrison intervened.

“Now, Miss Beth,” he said, “you must tell me what that scent is you're wearing. I've been enjoying it all evening.” He hadn't really distracted the woman—she was still seething—but the difficulties of waging war at a dinner party with a gentleman sitting between her and her opponent, seemed to dawn on her. She opted to let the young man flirt with her.

Across the table, Li'l Bit was smiling as she polished off her dinner. And at the other end of the table, Bonnie Taylor Talbot was staring at Iva Claire with a mixture of curiosity and disbelief.

Iva Claire kept quiet for the rest of dinner and moved with everyone else to the big reception in the large dining room. The place was pleasantly crowded, but not jammed—clearly the Garrisons knew how to entertain—and the terrace was deserted. Knowing it was only a question of time before she was accosted by Bonnie, who would be panting for an explanation of her bizarre behavior, Iva Claire ducked outside.

Myrtis would never have interfered between mother and daughter. She never would have talked politics at a dinner party either.

I was careless. I forgot.

But the truth was, she hadn't forgotten anything. For one glorious moment she'd been herself. But that was dangerous.

“I don't believe I've ever seen anyone draw out Li'l Bit Banning the way you did tonight,” said a voice behind her. She whirled around to see Dalton Garrison. He was standing in the half-light coming from the party inside and holding two glasses of champagne.

She realized he was much more attractive than she'd thought at first. His sandy hair was thick and curled over his forehead. His eyes were a hazy golden brown, and not only did he wear his white dinner jacket well, he filled it out nicely too. But there was something else about him, something even more attractive than his good looks. She saw it as he stood there smiling at her. Dalton was one of those very rare men who are totally masculine but love being around women.

This is the last thing you need.

“Doesn't anyone ever stop that woman when she's picking on her daughter?” she asked.

He had the grace to blush—at least, that's what it looked like in the half-light. “Beth Banning can be . . . difficult. Most of the town is afraid to stand up to her. But you did a fine job. Won't you have a glass of champagne with me?” He had such a sweet smile.

She'd been planning to have a headache so she could leave the party before she got herself into any more trouble. But there was a rebel in her tonight. She took the champagne.

They sat on a stone wall to drink after he brushed it off for her. “Did you mean all those things you said to Li'l Bit?” he asked. “About unions and workers' rights and all of that?”

“Every word,” she said recklessly. “Shocked?”

He shook his head. “I like it when a girl who's beautiful is also kind—like you were with Li'l Bit tonight. But when a girl is beautiful
and
kind
and
smart, she's a girl I have to know.”

He was a dangerous young man.

“I think . . . I mean, shouldn't you go inside?” she said. “Everyone will be wondering where you are.”

He stood up. “Dance with me first.”

He was
very
dangerous. But he looked so good, standing there in front of her with his happy, sweet smile as he held out his hands to her, so she moved into his arms and danced with him to the music that was playing for his daddy's big party. And when the band stopped playing, they kept on moving without saying a word. Somewhere nearby, there were early roses blooming and sending out their scent into the dark, silent night.

She didn't sleep well, and the next morning she got up before everyone else. She left a note for Bonnie, saying she'd decided to go exploring and wouldn't be back until dinnertime. That way she only ran the risk of running into Dalton at one meal, which was a lot better than two, plus cocktails.

He was sitting in the reception area with a blanket and a picnic basket, waiting, as if he'd known she'd be there.

“I couldn't sleep either,” he said, when she walked in. “Come on, I want to show you our gardens. I have some coffee and ham biscuits for us.”

She could have said no. It would have been the smart, safe thing to do. But he made her want to forget about being smart and safe. He made her want to forget everything. Just for one day, she told herself. She was going back to Atlanta tomorrow, and she'd never see him again.

He took her to a trail that had been cut through a forest of pines, oaks, and maples, where dogwood bloomed in bursts of pink and white against the green and brown of the big trees, and he pointed out the pools of dappled sunlight under the trees where hostas, caladiums, and coleus grew around lacy ferns. He showed her the sweeps of purple, pink, red, and orange azaleas that had been planted at the edge of the woods.

They left the hiking trail and he took her to see the formal gardens, where beds of tulips, irises, hyacinths, poppies, snapdragons, pansies, and sweet william bloomed behind hedges of boxwood and holly, ringed by crepe myrtle, tea olive, and magnolias. They walked past the gardens through open fields where small orchards of pecan, pear, and peach trees were flowering. There were still the remnants of cotton fields and vegetable gardens with sunflower borders, and the occasional rosebush or gardenia growing next to an old shed or fence. They climbed to the top of a hill, where he spread the blanket and unpacked their breakfast. Beneath her, patches of daffodils and crocuses dotted tall grass that sloped down to a flat meadow.

“This has to be the most beautiful place in the world,” she said.

“Daddy wants to put in a golf course down there,” he said, indicating a place where the land leveled off. “And he's going to build a lake too. The engineers say it can be done.”

“What a pity,” she said, and then realized that sounded insulting. Being with him wasn't doing much for her manners. But he didn't take offense. Something was bothering him, she could tell. She sat still and waited for him to say what was on his mind. It wasn't easy for him. He liked things to be light and happy. She wasn't sure how she knew that about him, but she did.