The Ladies of Garrison Gardens (32 page)

“Then I guess you're out of luck.”

“What good would it do you to ruin me?”

“Why shouldn't I?”

The cold eyes were staring at her across the table, assessing and judging her as hard as she was assessing and judging him. She returned his stare and he didn't blink. He wasn't going to back down or go away either. She accepted defeat. It was time to make her bad bargain if she could.

“I can't give you money, but maybe there is something I can do for you,” she said carefully.

A nasty little smile played around his mouth. “I thought there might be,” he said.

“How would you like a job?”

She'd thrown him for the second time. “Working for you?”

“For my husband and me.”

His eyes narrowed as he weighed it. Then he grinned. “Well, now, Miss Myrtis, I'd take it right kindly if you was to put in a good word for me with Mr. Dalton.”

It was the only thing she could have done, she told herself. At least she could watch him and stay a step ahead of him. She couldn't have been more wrong.

She never dreamed sweet Dalton would find a kindred spirit in Stuart Lawrence. She'd known for a while that her husband was getting tired of wrangling with his daddy about “babying” their workers, but she hadn't realized how much it was bothering him. Dalton was an affectionate man who wanted everyone around him to be happy. The fights with his father were breaking his mama's heart, according to his two older sisters, who wrote him long plaintive letters. On the other hand, he loved his Myrtis and he still wanted to “do good.” Dalton was in the kind of mess he hated most.

It didn't take Stuart Lawrence more than a couple of weeks to grasp Dalton's situation and turn it to his advantage. He asked Dalton's wife to come into his new office. As she walked in, he shut the door so his secretary wouldn't hear them.

“From now on, all this communist New Deal crap is gonna stop,” he said. “You understand?”

“Who do you think you're talking to?”

“Darlin', I know exactly who I'm talking to. Remember? That's why you're gonna shut up and listen to me. I've been getting an earful from Mr. Grady. He's not happy about the way his son is doing business. And he's no fool. He knows where the trouble is coming from.”

“It sounds as if you've been doing a lot more than talking to my father-in-law,” she said.

“You better believe it. I aim to become his best friend.”

“I would have said
boot licker
.”

His cold eyes hardened. She'd gotten to him, but he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of admitting it. “Is that the best you can do? I thought you were better with the snappy comebacks,
Iva. . . .” He paused to let the threat sink in and then said, “I mean, Miss Myrtis.”

That was when she realized just how bad a bargain she'd made. “What do you want?” she asked, fighting to keep her voice steady.

“Like I said, Mr. Grady isn't happy about the way things are going. And what with you suggesting me for this job and you and me being such old friends—well, he's asked me to use my influence with you. You better believe I'm not going to let him down.”

He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her.

“This is the best tub of butter my behind has ever landed in, and no little nickel-and-dime vaudeville girl is gonna mess it up for me. You stick to your church, if you want to do good works, and leave the business to the men. Beats me why the hell you'd want to risk your own tub of butter by making your father-in-law mad, but that's not my business. Getting you to be quiet is, and you know what I can do to you . . . Myrtis.”

And she did.

The first of her causes to go was Dr. Maggie's clinic. “Mr. Grady don't want it on Garrison grounds,” Stuart said.

“We'll put it someplace else. I'll pay for it out of my own pocket.”

“Not if the woman is going to have niggers in there, you won't.”

“There are plenty of doctors who serve Negroes and whites.”

“But those doctors aren't getting their money from Grady Garrison's daughter-in-law. He won't like it, and I aim to see that everything goes the way Mr. Grady likes.”

There was nothing she could do. She had a second luncheon with Dr. Maggie in which she tried to apologize for withdrawing her support. Later on, when she got pregnant, she insisted on Dr. Maggie delivering her baby, which helped the little doctor get a foothold in the community. But that was the only help she could give.

Without Myrtis to back him, Dalton stopped fighting his daddy and began listening to his new adviser, Stuart. Thanks to Dalton's instinct for pleasing customers and Stuart's talent at cutting corners, they made money, even with the Depression going on. Dalton's father was proud of him, his mama and sisters were happy, and if his wife wasn't, she never said a word. She went back to writing checks for worthy causes, as she had before she was married, and closed her eyes when her husband took advantage of the employees he overworked and underpaid.

Her big log home never did become a place where great ideas were born, although famous people did come to visit. When her idols, the Roosevelts, came for a picnic, Charles Valley was thrilled. Even those who had hated
that man
were bursting with pride. It happened in the forties, during the height of the war, and by then young Mrs. Garrison understood that her role was restricted to accepting compliments for deviled eggs and pointing out the different varieties of azaleas.

Over the years she continued to be the perfect hostess. Her male guests went hunting and played golf with Dalton and Stuart while she took the women on tours of Garrison Gardens. Their visitors always said how much they enjoyed sleeping in the bedrooms she'd decorated with the Benedict family heirlooms.

Despite Stuart's presence in her life, she had been blissfully happy when she learned she was pregnant. But then she started dreaming about Mama. The dreams were always the same. She and Mama were back at Big Hannah's boardinghouse and Mama was in a rage, yelling and crying. Then the room changed and Mama was in the parlor in the house in Beneville. Myrtis grabbed Mama's arm, and Mama pulled her hand back to hit too hard.

And Mama's daughter would wake up panting and sweating in the big bed with the Benedict
B
s carved into the canopy. She'd get up carefully so she wouldn't wake Dalton and open the window for air so she could breathe. She'd look down at her swollen stomach and tell herself she'd have to be extra careful raising the child she was carrying because it had her blood. And she was a thief. And a liar. And a killer. She would have to be on guard every second.

She tried. Her son was named Grady after her father-in-law, and almost from the first moment the baby could talk she set the highest standards for him—too high, according to Dalton. She saw to it that little Grady was exposed to all the good things—books, museums, and fine music—as well as the sports his daddy loved. She enrolled her son in the best schools, and when he was old enough she filled his spare time with lessons and travel to broaden his horizons. She took him with her when she worked at her rescue missions, hoping it would make him compassionate.

By the time Grady was three he was throwing temper tantrums that terrified the other children who came to his house to play. By the time he was ten he was a full-fledged bully with a nasty temper who was, in the words of Charles Valley locals, meaner than a junkyard dog. Maybe she was too hard on him, as Dalton said. Maybe she pushed him away without meaning to, because she was afraid if she loved him too much he'd grow up to be like her. Or maybe her son was a small monster because of bad blood. Whatever the cause, she knew what Grady was. And she made sure she never had another child.

As the years passed, she missed Tassie desperately and she knew Tassie missed her. But with Stuart in such close proximity, they didn't dare get together—another reason to regret bringing the man to Charles Valley, as if she needed any more.

She was worried about Tassie. After Stuart dropped his bomb, Tassie had given up on her career because being an actress was too public. “Look what happened the last time I got my picture in the paper,” she wrote. That could have been the reason, or maybe she'd just gotten tired of fighting for her dream. But she was lost without it. She moved around the country. She tried living in San Francisco, Boston, Chicago, and Philly before she finally went back to New York. She got married and divorced twice. Tassie was trying to make a connection with someone or something, and she wasn't able to do it. There didn't seem to be any way to help her.

Then Dalton started pressuring Iva Claire to sell the house in Beneville. She never used the old place, he argued, and it was a crime to let it sit empty. She panicked. And she sent a letter to Tassie.

“I don't want anyone to live there,” she wrote. She didn't have to explain to Tassie that she was afraid a new owner might decide to have a look at the historic old cemetery behind the house. It was a foolish fear after all the time that had passed, but Tassie understood it. She offered to move into the house.

At first it seemed wrong to let Tassie do it, but then Iva Claire realized the move would give Tassie a purpose again and the connection she needed so badly. So Mrs. Rain bought the house on the hill in Beneville. Tassie insisted on calling herself “Mrs.” because someone once told her that was what actresses in the old days did.

She remodeled one room before she moved in—she had the parlor turned into a sunroom. It caused a bit of scandal in the town, because there had been a big fireplace in the parlor with a hearth that was said to have been built from some of the first bricks fired in the county, and many people felt it should have been preserved for posterity. She had it torn out anyway.

Iva Claire and Tassie—now safely established as Mrs. Garrison and Mrs. Rain—saw each other one more time. The meeting took place in a little barbecue joint halfway between Beneville and Charles Valley. It was the early fifties. Dalton's father had just died, and Iva Claire had news that was so exciting she had to celebrate with a face-to-face visit. It was worth the risk, she assured a worried Tassie. So Tassie met her and they managed not to cry so hard that they drew attention to themselves. Then Iva Claire told Tassie her news over glasses of the iced tea neither of them had ever learned to love.

“After my father-in-law died, Dalton and Stuart decided they wanted to expand the gardens and the resort,” Iva Claire said. “And they needed cash to finish the work.”

“So Stuart bullied you into giving them yours,” Tassie said wearily.

“No! I told you, this time I have a happy ending.”

“My favorite kind.” Tassie gave her the old cocky smile. “Tell me.”

“They did want me to help them. But I said if I put in my own money I should have shares in the resort, and a seat on the board at the gardens. Dalton agreed with me.”

“So what does that mean?”

“I get to vote, Tassie! Whenever they make a big decision about anything to do with the resort or the gardens—wages, hours in a workweek, any of it—I have to be in that meeting!
They have to listen to me!
”

Tassie leaned across the table to hug her, tears in her eyes. “You can do what you want now! So it was all worth it!”

Of course nothing would ever be
worth
what had happened; they both knew that. It was just that they were so glad for something good to come out of it.

When she got home that night, she was told Stuart was coming to supper. She thought Dalton seemed less than happy during the cocktails, but she was flying so high she didn't care. After dessert, her husband got up from the table and, looking guilty as sin, left her alone with Stuart. And Stuart handed her a form to sign, a power of attorney so he could vote for her at the resort and the gardens.

“I told Dalton I knew I could persuade you,” he said, smiling his cold smile. And, of course, he could.

She signed. She never sat in on a single meeting at the gardens or the resort. She watched her husband and Stuart institute polices she hated, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. And no matter how much money she gave away, she always knew in her heart she'd never make up for what she'd done so many years ago in the house in Beneville.

Chapter Sixty-seven

MRS. RAIN

2004

T
HE LETTER WAS ALMOST FINISHED
. She'd told everything. She just had one final request for Laurel.

Please don't judge my old friend harshly. Perhaps you don't know what it's like to grow up poor. When she was young, my friend wanted to go to college. It was her only dream, but it never came true. She never had a father. She watched her mother die, and she didn't have the money to make it easier. And no matter how much she loved her mother, Lily Rain wasn't cut out to be a parent. These things leave their mark on a person, Laurel. I hope you'll remember that and try to understand. Lord knows, my friend paid for what she did. She built a beautiful house, but she was never happy living in it. She did some good in Charles Valley, but she wanted to do so much more.

I've told you about her because I hope it will help you stand up to whoever is pushing you around. Take it from an old show-business trooper, no one can do that unless you let them. I hope you'll take over the gardens and the resort. I hope you'll live in Garrison Cottage and be happy—for my old friend's sake.

Then she signed her name:
Tassie Rain
.

She leaned back on her pillow, but she didn't close her eyes. Tired as she was, she couldn't rest yet. She eased herself out of bed but had to grab at its edge to keep from falling. A little wobbliness was perfectly normal after the night she'd put in, she told herself. She waited until the floor had settled under her feet, and then she made her way out of her sunroom and down the long hall.

She was still a little light-headed when she reached the living room, so she leaned against the piano as she opened the bench. The picture was on the top of the sheet music where she'd left it. She pulled it out of its envelope and looked at it. There she was, in the child's dress that was too big for her, with the large silk roses in her hair and on her skirt. Even in the faded old photograph, she still had a glint in her eye and a little grin to tell the audience that laughs were coming. God, what she'd give to make a crowd laugh again!

Her balance was still a little off, so the return trip down the hallway to the sunroom took awhile. She gathered up the pages of her letter and shoved them into the envelope with her picture. Then, even though she didn't have a full address, she wrote
Laurel Selene McCready
on the outside. She'd have to find out where the girl lived tomorrow . . . no, actually, today, because it was now morning and the sun was coming up. She'd find Laurel later, after she'd had some sleep.

When she was a kid, she always slept well after she'd done a successful show, and she knew she'd sleep well now. But first she wanted to put the letter on her dresser so she'd be sure to see it when she woke up. Otherwise, she'd never remember where she'd left it.

She started to walk to the dresser, but her right leg wouldn't move. Scared, she reached out for the bed to steady herself, but her arm wouldn't move either. She felt the letter drop to the floor and knew she was going to fall too. Then the pain came, hot and white and bright, like a crack of lightning inside her brain. And finally she knew what was happening. But it was all right. The letter was on the rug near her face. That was all right too. Someone else would find it and make sure it was sent to Laurel. She couldn't stay any longer. She had to run, because Lily and Iva Claire were waiting backstage and the house orchestra was playing the opening bars of “Beautiful Dreamer.”