The Weekenders (16 page)

“What did you say?”

“What could I say? I told her I'd try.”

Parrish nodded, then reached into the pocket of her shorts and brought out a folded sheet of paper, which she pressed into her friend's hand.

“Here. Ed flaked out on me on the lawyer front, so I made some phone calls myself.”

The paper was one of Parrish's pale, seafoam-green, heavy, linen, monogrammed notecards. Two lines. A name and a phone number.

“Sharon Douglas?”

“I don't know her personally, but from what I hear, she's a ball-buster. She's younger than us, only thirty-two, but she clerked for a federal appeals court judge after she finished law school, then worked as an assistant D.A. in Atlanta. She worked briefly for the feds, and only hung out her shingle in Wilmington as a solo practitioner last year.”

Riley studied the name. “Did she go to law school at Duke or Carolina?”

“Neither. University of Georgia. And don't be such a snob. I Googled her. She's the real deal. Editor of her law school review, finished first in her class. Divorced, no kids.”

“Okay. Thanks. I'll call her Tuesday.”

Parrish shook her head. “Sweetie? Call her tonight. I kinda went rogue on you and actually reached out to her myself after you and I talked this morning. She's expecting to hear from you.”

Riley gulped. “Oh, God. You think things are really, really bad, don't you?”

Parrish studied her old friend's face. She hated keeping secrets, but on the other hand, she'd given Ed her word. “In times like these I think it's a good policy to hope for the best but expect the worst.”

*   *   *

“Everything all right?” Evelyn asked as Riley climbed into the seat beside Billy. “Do we have a date for Wendell's service?”

“I don't know,” Riley said in a voice that was louder than was strictly necessary. “People keep asking me that, but I just don't know. I don't know when the coroner will release Wendell's body. I don't know when we can have his service. I don't even know if we will have one.”

Evelyn's eyebrows shot up in alarm. “Of course we'll have a memorial. A nice traditional service at the Chapel in the Pines. I have Father Templeton on notice. He can come down from Edenton any day this week. And the ladies' auxiliary have already started baking. We'll have people back at Shutters afterward. Wendell would want that.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Riley said. “Were you even going to consult me on any of this?”

“It's the right thing to do,” Evelyn said, settling the matter. “Think about how it would look if we didn't have a service. I wasn't going to mention this, but rumors are already swirling around the island. If we don't have a funeral, people will wonder if we have something to hide.”

“I can't talk about this right now,” Riley said, knowing that she was only delaying the inevitable.

*   *   *

They were barely out of the ferry parking lot when Ollie, always on alert for trouble, gave a short bark, and without warning, hopped off Evelyn's lap and went trotting into a thicket of palmettos.

Evelyn stomped on the brake. “Ollie,” she cried.

“Oh, let him go. Maybe a gator will get him,” Roo said.

“Aunt Roo!” Maggy exclaimed. “That's mean.”

“I'll go get him,” Billy said, jumping down to go after the errant pug. “Ollie. Here, Ollie!”

Maggy hugged Banks tightly to her chest.

“Daddy's hair was wrong,” she announced, in a very small voice. She swiveled around in her seat, turning accusing eyes on her mother. “Why didn't you fix his hair?”

“What on earth is this child talking about?” Evelyn asked.

Riley sighed. “At the hospital. Wendell. Somebody … they parted his hair on the wrong side. It was very upsetting.”

“Mom doesn't care,” Maggy said. Her arms were crossed, her chin thrust out in full pout.

“Maggy!” Riley shot her a warning look.

“She has a boyfriend already,” the girl added.

“Fuuucccckkk.” Riley breathed it out in one long syllable, then inhaled a gnat, causing her to choke and sputter.

“Oh my,” Roo said.

“What's this?” Evelyn demanded.

When she could finally catch her breath it took a moment for Riley to gather her composure.

“Nate Milas was on the ferry just now. He saw how upset I was, and he was commiserating with me, because of course, Captain Joe just passed away, too. Somebody,” she said, glaring at her daughter, “has a very vivid imagination and a very disrespectful attitude right now.”

“Oh, him,” Evelyn said with a sniff. She stroked Maggy's hair. “Nate Milas? That man is not your mother's boyfriend, Margaret. He just steers the ferry, that's all. So you ought not to go around saying stuff like that, because it will give people the wrong idea.”

Billy emerged from the palmetto thicket, bits of Spanish moss and pine needles stuck to his hair. He had the pug tucked under his arm like a football. “Got him,” he said triumphantly, handing the dog over to Maggy. “He was staring down a baby possum back up in there.”

He slid onto the bench seat beside Riley and banged the palm of his hand on the cart's fiberglass roof, as he would have for a slow-witted New York cabbie. “Come on, Evvy. Floor it! It's ten after five, which means I'm already two drinks behind schedule.”

“Me, too,” Riley muttered.

 

18

Sunday night supper in Evelyn Nolan's home was one of her sacred rituals. Even if dinner was an underdone tuna noodle casserole or an overdone pot roast, certain niceties were always observed. A crisply starched and ironed damask cloth covered the mahogany table, which was set with Evelyn's mother's china, silver, and Baccarat crystal. Attendance was as mandatory and set in stone as the dress code—which meant no T-shirts or shorts.

Riley changed into a sundress before dinner, and nagged a resistant Maggy into doing the same thing. And Billy, after downing two pre-dinner vodka tonics, had donned a too-small button-down oxford-cloth dress shirt worn with a polka-dot clip-on bow tie, in a deliberate—and successful—attempt to irritate his mother.

As always, Evelyn presided over the table wearing a dress, pearls, and heels. She glided into the dining room and slid a foil-wrapped casserole onto a silver-plated trivet in the middle of the table.

“There!” she said triumphantly.

“There, what?” Billy grabbed Riley's empty iced tea goblet and filled it to the rim with wine before handing it back to her. “What smells so good?”

“Dinner,” Evelyn said, glaring at her son. She peeled back the foil and a cloud of steam escaped. “Andrea Payne dropped this off a little while ago. It's her beef bourguignon. She made it for book club last spring, and it's absolutely divine.”

She lit the ivory tapers in the silver candelabra and dimmed the lights of the glittering rock crystal chandelier before seating herself in her chair at the head of the table.

“Andrea Payne was here? At the house? I hope you didn't let her in.” Riley took a healthy swig of wine.

“Of course I let her in,” Evelyn said. “Why wouldn't I let her in my home?”

Evelyn reached for Maggy's plate and deposited a large spoonful of meat, mushrooms, carrots, and onions, swimming in a sea of wine-soaked sauce.

“No, thanks,” Maggy said, quickly pushing her plate away. “I had a hot dog on the ferry. I think I'll just have a roll or something.”

Evelyn clucked her tongue in disapproval, but placed a yeast roll on the edge of Maggy's bone china plate.

“Andrea Payne,” Billy said, topping off his own glass with the wine, “is a notorious snoop and gossip. And a royal pain in the ass. Not to mention she's a raging homophobe.”

“What's a homophobe?” Maggy asked.

“Nothing we discuss at the dinner table,” Evelyn said quickly.

Billy waggled a finger in his mother's direction. “Tsk-tsk, Mimi. This is what we call a teachable moment. For your information, Maggy, a homophobe is somebody who doesn't approve of your favorite uncle's lifestyle. And who writes letters to the editor glorifying the sanctity of marriage, even though she herself is on her third marriage that I personally know of.”

He reached across the table and helped himself to a bite from Maggy's plate. He took a forkful of beef, chewed, and nodded thoughtfully. “I'll say this though. The bitch can cook.”

Riley laughed so hard she nearly spat wine from her nostrils.

“You're not nearly as funny as you and your sister seem to think you are,” Evelyn said, serving herself from the casserole. She stared pointedly at Billy's rapidly refilling wineglass.

“He's right, Mama,” Riley said, pushing a bite of beef stew around her plate. “Andrea probably only came over here so she could sniff around and find some kind of malicious gossip to spread around the island. If you really are worried about what people will say about my predicament—she's the one who'll be saying it. Nobody loves dishing the dirt like that woman.”

“What is our predicament?” Maggy asked.

“Now is not the time,” Evelyn said in a warning tone.

Riley sighed. “Look, Maggy. I think you're old enough to hear the truth. I don't know all the details yet, but it looks like we might be in some kind of … financial difficulty.”

“So does that mean we're broke? And homeless?”

Evelyn slapped the table with the palm of her hand, sending wine slopping over the edge of her glass. “Stop this talk right now! All of you!” She turned to Riley. “Are you happy now? Your daughter thinks she's going to be living in a shelter and applying for food stamps.”

Maggy cocked her head toward her mother. “So? Are we?”

“Thankfully, no,” Riley said. “We're not broke, or homeless. We have resources. And we have family, thank God, and we'll get through whatever is ahead of us, but I think you need to know we may be facing some tough times. That's all. And no matter what we do or say, there are going to be people spreading rumors that aren't necessarily true. So we have to just ignore that stuff and get on with our lives.”

“Okay.” Maggy gave a hopeful glance toward her grandmother. “Hey, Mimi. Did that homophobe lady bring any dessert?”

*   *   *

Riley stood at the sink carefully rinsing and stacking the same gold-rimmed Wedgewood plates she'd washed on dozens and dozens of other, far less remarkable Sunday nights.

As usual, Billy had fulfilled his proscribed after-dinner duties—clearing the table and taking out the trash, before beating a hasty retreat to the firehouse and, as usual, Maggy had disappeared to her own room, ostensibly to tackle her summer reading.

Which left Riley and Evelyn alone in the kitchen.

Under Evelyn's watchful eye, Riley dried each plate with a faded flour sack dishcloth and placed it on the lowest shelf of the cupboard just to the right of the sink.

“I wish you wouldn't do that,” Evelyn said, shaking her head. She upended the plastic tube of rose-scented lotion she kept on the counter and squeezed a dollop into the palm of her hand.

“Do what?”

“You know what I mean. All this talk about being ‘honest' with Maggy. There are some things she is too young to know about.”

“I disagree,” Riley said, folding the dish towel and hanging it over the towel bar at the end of the cupboard. “You know what this island is like, better than anybody. The coconut telegraph has been working overtime. And I've already started getting phone calls from reporters from Raleigh and Wilmington. I don't want Maggy being blindsided by this stuff. It's better she hears it from me.”

Evelyn dropped the plastic lotion tube onto the countertop, where it bounced once. “What? Did you say it's been on the news? About Wendell?”

Riley picked up the bottle and squeezed some lotion into her own hands, rubbing it onto her wrists and forearms.

“I'm afraid so. Three different reporters left messages on my phone.”

“You didn't talk to them, did you?”

“No! And I don't plan to. But the word is out. Prominent Raleigh businessman Wendell Griggs was found murdered Saturday at the resort community founded by his wife's family.” She made air quotes with her fingertips. “Film at eleven,” she added bitterly.

“Dear God. The scandal,” Evelyn whispered.

“Exactly. And just like this lotion of yours, Mama—once it's out of the tube, there's no putting it back in.”

*   *   *

Riley opened the door to Maggy's bedroom and peered in at her daughter, who was sprawled on the bed, typing something into her phone. The hated dress was tossed on the floor, and she'd changed into soccer shorts and a T-shirt.

“Thought you were supposed to be reading,” Riley said, leaning on the doorjamb.

“I read two whole chapters. Dumbest, most boring book ever,” Maggy said, looking up, tapping the open book at her side.

“And who are you texting with now?”

“Just one of the kids. Annabelle. We're thinking about maybe going shark fishing out on the beach later tonight. Shane says they'll be biting because of the full moon.”

“Nuh-uh,” Riley said.

Maggy shot upright. “Why not? I finished my reading. School's out. Anyway, it's boring as shit hanging around here.”

“Watch your mouth,” Riley said mildly. “You know the rules. And they don't change because it's summer and you're on the island. You're still only twelve, and you still aren't allowed to wander around after dark.”

“Dad always let me go down to the beach when there was a full moon.”

“Dad let you go with him—not with a bunch of kids,” Riley pointed out.

“Shane is almost fourteen. And his mom lets him drive their golf cart all over the place.”

“It's illegal for anybody without a valid license to drive one of those carts. Also, Shane's mom is not your mom.”