The Ladies of Garrison Gardens (9 page)

“And now you want me to sign too.”

“It's your decision, obviously. But you've made it pretty clear that you don't think you're prepared to take on a responsibility of this nature.”

“I'm not.” But she didn't pick up the pen.

“Signing in no way affects your ownership of the assets. I will not be making any decision about your stock portfolio. You'll have people to advise you about that. You will still get the same allowance, the house in Charles Valley is yours, you can use the apartments in Atlanta and New York and the lodge in Colorado, you get services from the gardens and the resort, the Garrison jet is at your disposal, and all the other amenities—none of that changes.”

“I see,” she said, to say something.

“Is there anything you don't understand that I can explain?”

He wanted her to sign—wanted it bad—but was that unreasonable? Would anyone in their right mind want her making the decisions for the gardens and the resort? It sure as hell wasn't what
she
wanted. But she still didn't pick up the pen.

“Let me tell you about the men who work for . . . well, actually, many of them work for you,” Junior said. “At the resort, Peter Terranova, who was a rising star at one of the largest hotel chains in the world, is our CEO. He's put together a senior management staff of eight of the top men in the field, who run the hotel and the facilities connected to it. Sitting on the board of the foundation, we have two CEOs of major corporations, one former senator, a former head of the Canning Arts Foundation, and three lawyers who are all senior partners in highly respected firms, including yours truly. Dr. Michael Whittlesey, who headed up the Grenier Botany Project, oversees the gardens. Most of us have been involved with the gardens or the resort in some capacity for at least five years. I've been there since I took over for my father back in the eighties.”

“That's . . . impressive.”

“It is indeed. With all due respect, Laurel, do you think you belong in the room with us?”

“No.”

“Then is there some other reason why you don't want to sign that power of attorney?”

She didn't have a reason, only a mindless resistance. “I just don't know if I'm ready to give up something I didn't even know I had twenty minutes ago.”

He leaned back in his chair. “I realize this is all coming at you very quickly. But we're in a fast-moving industry. Sometimes Pete and Mike and I have to make decisions overnight. Right now we're paralyzed at both the gardens and the resort because I don't have any authority. If I seem to be pushing you, that's why.”

She smiled to show that she didn't mind his pushing. But she couldn't give in.

Stuart leaned forward again. “Laurel, I know this is going to sound old-fashioned and corny, but I feel I'm a keeper of the flame. My father helped build the resort and the gardens. Miss Myrtis, Mr. Dalt, and Miss Peggy gave him the privilege of representing them, and that torch was passed to me. Three people—all of whom were highly intelligent—chose my father and me to perform this service for them. Business aside, I have personal and sentimental reasons for hoping you want to let me continue a proud family tradition. Through me, I see a line stretching from Miss Myrtis to Miss Peggy to you.”

Maybe that was why she was balking. Stuart Junior and his power of attorney were a legacy from Miss Myrtis, just like Miss Myrtis's log house and her damn Benedict antiques. So maybe Laurel Selene McCready didn't feel like trotting obediently in the great lady's footsteps. Or maybe she was just being bullheaded.

“Can I have a couple of days to think about it?”

He wasn't happy about it, but he knew when to back off. “Take your time.”

He ushered her out into the hallway, and Lindy Lee materialized magically at his side to take over with the social chitchat as she and Stuart walked Laurel to the front door. “I've been wanting to tell you how much I admired you for the way you stepped in with Peggy,” she said. “All of us who cared about her were so grateful to you. And of course, dear Perry! Aren't we lucky he's come back home? I've been racking my poor old brains trying to find some delicious young thing for him to fall in love with, to keep him here for good.”

It would not be ladylike to tell her to mind her own business, Laurel decided.

Lindy Lee's verbal avalanche continued. “Well, now, I guess this is good-bye. You must come back and see us again soon. My, what a pretty car! It's so . . . low. Drive carefully, the deer are all over the place this time of year.”

She paused long enough for Stuart and Laurel to murmur “good night” at each other, and then Laurel was free to climb into her car and drive away. The ordeal was over.

Chapter Fifteen

L
AUREL WOKE UP EARLY
the next morning and was on the road by seven. She'd put on another of the skirts Hank had forced her to wear to work. Originally she'd paired it with the matching blouse that had come with it, but on her way out of the bedroom she'd caught sight of herself in the mirror and had quickly ditched the demure top for a scoop-neck T-shirt. It was an improvement, but still not right. She'd been about to change into her jeans when she'd had a burst of inspiration. She grabbed one of her wide belts and hiked the skirt up so it was just above her knees. The result wasn't trashy, but it didn't look like she had anything to hide either.

Now, as the Viper roared along, the skirt flared nicely over her thighs. She was headed for the old part of Charles Valley, where, sixty-odd years ago, a young Dr. Maggie had set up her clinic in an abandoned sweet potato warehouse next to the railroad station.

The trains had stopped running to Charles Valley and the railroad station had long since been turned into a tourist restaurant that featured down-home cooking, quaintly mismatched crockery, and mason jars used as drinking glasses. But Maggie's clinic hadn't changed since she'd had air-conditioning put in back in the 1960s. Entering it was like walking into a time warp. The old kitchen chairs in the waiting area had worn a pattern on the bare wooden floor, and the small icebox in the corner still held cold lemonade for those who wanted to help themselves. Hours at the clinic hadn't changed either; it was open six days a week, from seven-thirty in the morning until four-thirty in the afternoon, with half an hour off at eleven-thirty for lunch. However, now that she had a partner, Maggie allowed herself the indulgence of sleeping in until eight and didn't arrive at work until nine-thirty. Perry handled the early morning hours by himself until the nurse came in.

Laurel found him drinking a cup of coffee and looking out the window at some squirrels fighting on the rusty old railroad tracks. He was wearing a crisp white doctor's coat over his jeans.

“Hi,” she said.

He turned and his eyes lit up appreciatively when he saw the skirt. Which was no reason for her to blush, for God's sake.

“Hi,” he said happily.

“I wanted to thank you. For fixing up the CD player for Li'l Bit. She loves it.”

“You're the one who gave it to her.”

“But you're the one who set it up.”

“Well, you said you were afraid she wouldn't be able to.”

“I was. But you made it so she could.” There had to be a way the conversation could be more lame, but at the moment she couldn't think of it. “I gotta go,” she said.

“You do?”

“Yeah. I just wanted to . . . you know . . . say thank you and now—you're busy.”

He looked around the empty waiting room. “Not really.”

“You will be. And I am. Busy.”

“Oh, I thought maybe you'd come over here to say you've seen the way of the truth and the light.”

“Excuse me?”

“About what I said last night. I figured it would take about twelve hours to sink in, and here you are—”

“No.”

“No, you don't see it my way, or no, it hasn't had a chance to sink in yet?”

“You're Denny's little brother.”

“I know.”

“I babysat you. I changed your diapers.”

“Not lately.”

“I used to beat you up.”

“I forgive you. I know it's going to take awhile for you to get past the age thing. And the fact that I'm Denny's brother.”

“Denny's
baby
brother. Listen, Wiener—”

“Could you not call me that?”

“This is sweet. And I'll admit it's flattering—”

“You're just scared.”

“What? You think I'm scared of you?”

“Of what people will say.”

“I've never been scared of that in my life!”

“That's my girl.”

“I am not your girl!”

“Yet.”

“Listen, you little—”

“You really should stop calling me little. I have about five inches on you.”

“Will you shut up and let me talk?”

“Okay.”

“We're going to pretend we never had this conversation.”

“Like we did last night?”

“You're impossible.” She started for the door.

“Go out with me, Laurel Selene. I promise you'll be able to handle it. We start slow, maybe grab a little supper.”

She walked out the door without answering and heard him open it again as she strode to her car, where she lowered herself into the front seat with dignity and—thanks to the hiked-up skirt—a display of what she knew were the best legs in the county.

“I'll call you about that date,” he yelled, as she roared off.

She hadn't gotten her message through to him. He still didn't understand that they couldn't be anything but friends and that that was a good thing.

Men, and getting involved with them, were bad topics for Laurel. Not that The Wiener fell into the category of men in the getting-involved-with sense. That was ridiculous. But given her history with members of the opposite sex, when she fell for a man, it was never a positive experience. As Denny had once put it, “Honey, if you like him, I don't want to meet him alone in a dark alley.” That hadn't been altogether fair. None of her previous love interests had been dangerous; her taste ran more to cheaters and users. But since she'd started hanging out on Li'l Bit's porch she'd been avoiding the kind of one-night stands that had made up so much of her social life. It could have been the influence of the three Miss Margarets, or the fact that Peggy's illness had taken over her life. Or it could have had something to do with Josh, her last—or perhaps her first—semi-serious attachment.

Josh was a magazine writer, in his late forties, who had come down from New York to do research on a book he was writing. At first he'd run true to form, pumping Laurel for information about her father because the scandal surrounding John Merrick's death had been part of his story. But that had changed. He was the only man besides Denny who'd ever recognized, or cared, that she had a brain in her head. He even offered to stake her to a new start in New York City. She'd turned him down. While she'd never regretted it, there had been a night after Denny announced his engagement when she'd almost used the private cell phone number Josh had given her in case she changed her mind.

Three days later she'd read in
People
magazine that Josh and the fourth Mrs. Josh—an actress half his age—were on their honeymoon. The bride, who was noted for playing roles in unpleasant independent films, looked intense and a tad anorexic in the pictures. Josh beamed at her with the kind of total appreciation Laurel remembered well. And she finally admitted she missed it. Because even if he did look a little silly next to his young bride, Josh had been the pick of the litter in Laurel's romantic life.

And now there was The Wiener and his childhood crush. Which he would get over. This time next year he'd have some totally appropriate young woman on his arm, and he'd be wondering what had possessed him to ask Laurel for a date. She shifted gears and let the Viper fly down a deserted stretch of road, wishing she felt more cheerful.

Chapter Sixteen

O
NE THING WAS CLEAR
to Laurel: She had to start dealing with her holdings. It wasn't going to be easy. The fact that Garrison Cottage was stuffed with Miss Myrtis's antiques was enough to make her want to burn the place, and not just for Peggy's sake. The myth of Miss Myrtis as a great lady had always made Laurel want to gag, but now she knew about the power of attorney Miss Myrtis had signed. Unlike Peggy, who had been young and penniless when she married Old Mr. Dalt, the great Miss Myrtis had been an heiress with her own fortune, an education, and some major family clout behind her. But she'd signed over her power of attorney like a good little lapdog instead of stopping her husband and his henchmen as they set up policies that were still keeping wages in Lawson County the lowest in the state. Low wages meant low taxes, which meant lousy schools, which meant uneducated kids who had nowhere to go for jobs except back to the Garrisons.
And Myrtis Garrison could have stopped it all years ago!
Instead, she'd given handouts to people who could have helped themselves if they'd had a level playing field and she'd picked up a reputation for saintliness. Laurel hated the way everyone bought the hype about the old bat who had once been named the First Lady of Garrison Gardens by the society writers of her day.

Now Laurel was the new lady of Garrison Gardens, not to mention Garrison Cottage—which she had to finish looking over. It would be easier to do that than sitting at home and staring at the power of attorney Stuart Junior wanted her to sign. At least she could put off becoming a lapdog for a little longer. She left Maggie's clinic, drove to the big log house, went upstairs, and picked up her tour where she'd stopped it, in the master bedroom.

The room was surprisingly girly, with pink dominating the carpets and draperies. The wallpaper was badly faded, but Laurel could see that the roses in the pattern were pink too. The hateful canopy bed and a chaise with a Tiffany lamp next to it were the only freestanding pieces of furniture in the room. There were no bureaus or dressers, but two of the walls were lined halfway up with built-in drawers and shelves painted a creamy white. There were large closets on both sides of the room. In one corner, a small makeup table had been built in with a mirror and itty-bitty lamps alongside it. There certainly wasn't enough light or counter space for a woman who loved fooling with cosmetics as much as Peggy had. But then, this room hadn't been Peggy's. The inadequate makeup area made a right angle with a padded window seat that ran the entire length of the back wall under the windows. It was covered with pink silk too. Pink had never been Peggy's color.

The bed was still made up, as if waiting for Peggy and Dalton to turn in. Or Dalton and Myrtis. The pillowcases were monogrammed with the swirly Benedict
B
. Laurel turned her attention to the drawers instead.

The right side of the room must have been Dalton's. There were drawers full of men's socks that had been folded into neat little bundles and laid out in straight rows. Other drawers held stacks of men's underwear, also neatly folded. In his closet, several pairs of identical brown-and-white ventilated wing tips were impaled on racks that climbed up one wall, and at least a dozen identical lightweight summer suits hung on nice-smelling wooden hangers, along with pants, jackets, shirts, and sweaters. Old Mr. Dalt had been a natty but not very adventurous dresser.

Peggy's side of the room was empty. This made sense, since Peggy had moved herself to the little bedroom downstairs after Dalt's death. But to Laurel it felt like a sad summary of Peggy's life in the house. She wanted to lock the bedroom door and walk away, leaving it the way it was. But this house was already too full of memorials to the dead. She found some black plastic garbage bags in the kitchen, brought them back to the bedroom, and began filling them with the clothes that had belonged to Peggy's husband.

It was late in the afternoon by the time she was done. In spite of the air-conditioning she'd turned on, she was sweaty, tired, and covered with about three decades of undisturbed dust. It was time to quit. Tomorrow she'd call the ever-helpful resort staff and request that someone haul the bags down to the rescue mission. But before she left, she looked around the room one last time, to make sure she'd gotten everything. That was when she noticed that part of the window seat's top was actually a lid, evidently opening to a storage compartment. Curiosity trumped weariness, and she lifted it up. The area was much larger than she expected. Its farthest corners were dark, and the wood was raw and unpainted. At first she thought the entire space was empty, but as she was about to close the top, she saw a glint of something that looked like gold in the corner. Hoping the tetanus shot she'd gotten in grammar school was still active, she reached in, dodging rusty nails, and found the handle of an old-fashioned suitcase. It was good sized, made of leather that had once been beautiful and very expensive, with a handsome brass latch. Laurel brushed off cobwebs and a layer of grit. The leather was cracked and water stained, and it smelled moldy. Obviously it had been in the window seat for some time. But why had Peggy put it there? Laurel turned it over and found the swirling
B
for Benedict on the front. The suitcase hadn't belonged to Peggy. Like everything else in the house, it had been the property of Miss Myrtis. Who, for some reason, had wanted to hide it.

It took Laurel forty minutes and a trip to the gardener's shed for a toolbox before she finally managed to pop the rusty lock on the suitcase. Inside, she found an old-fashioned pinafore and dress. Laurel pulled them out gingerly. The pinafore was a lacy ruffled affair that had once been white but now had yellow fold lines. Threaded through the lace ruffles was a faded pink ribbon, and there was a pink sash with a big squashed pink silk rose on it. The dress, which was also liberally supplied with white lace ruffles, had probably been bright green at one time, with more roses printed on it. Both the dress and the pinafore looked like something out of a picture book of Victorian children. The getup wasn't garish, but the girl who'd worn it would have stood out in a crowd. She must have been over five feet tall and hard on her clothes. The apron had been torn and mended several times, as had the dress. The seams of the dress had been let out, and there were inserts of pink fabric on the sides—obviously, its owner had worn it long past childhood.

Laurel looked back in the suitcase to see if there was anything else. On the bottom of the case was a yellowed paper. She pulled it out carefully and found herself staring at a page of sheet music for a song by Stephen Foster called “Beautiful Dreamer.”