The Weekenders (23 page)

“How bad have things gotten?” Parrish asked gently.

“On a scale of one to ten, I'd say my life, right now, is a ten in terms of awfulness. I'll just give you the condensed version. The foreclosure is legit, my house is going to be auctioned off to the highest bidder next week, and that won't be me, since I'm basically destitute.”

“That bastard,” Parrish said.

“Exactly.”

Riley filled her friend in on all she'd learned that day.

“So … Wendell got a new mortgage from a bank you'd never heard of, but it's no longer that bank?” Parrish asked. “Not to mention he used your trust fund as his personal piggy bank?”

“As far as I can tell. And I guess I only have myself to blame.”

“Bullshit,” Parrish shot back. “This is all Wendell's fault. What he did was totally illegal.”

“But it's all on me, now. I'm the dumb bunny who let her big, strong, brilliant husband take control of all our family finances. I should have known better. I did know better, but with Maggy's diabetes and all, I just allowed myself to slip into that clichéd helpless Southern belle stereotype.”

“I disagree,” Parrish said. “But do you really think Wendell took everything? I mean, how did he manage to access your trust fund?”

“Easy-peasy,” Riley said bitterly. “When Dad set it up, he put Wendell's name on the account, too. It kind of bothered me at the time—I mean—it was supposed to be
my
inheritance—the same way he set up Billy's trust. He certainly didn't put Scott's name on Billy's account.”

“I'm assuming your inheritance was a pretty substantial amount?”

“Only if you consider six million dollars substantial.”

Riley paused a moment after Parrish's eyes widened.

“I'm holding out hope that maybe he just opened another account at the bank that gave him the new mortgage on Sand Dollar Lane. But I won't know anything until I get Melody Zimmerman the death certificate and the other documentation she says she has to have.”

“Melody? What's she got to do with anything?”

“She was the loan officer who gave Wendell the mortgage. Apparently they were pals from Kiwanis. And now she's some muckety-muck at the bank that took over the old bank. She was perfectly sympathetic, but she says that the banking privacy laws say I can't access our financial records until I get the death certificate.”

“She's probably right about that,” Parrish said. “I know after my dad died, it took my mother weeks and weeks before the bank would turn over her accounts. Can you imagine? She didn't even know the passwords to their joint accounts. It took Ed forever to get everything straightened out. And then the insurance company was even worse to deal with. Hey!” She grabbed Riley's elbow.

“What about Wendell's life insurance? And a will—tell me you guys have wills.”

“I've got to see if I can find a copy of the insurance policy in Wendell's office. All my papers are boxed up in storage in Raleigh. And yes, we did get wills done before I had Maggy. As I remember, it was all pretty basic. In case of either of our deaths, the surviving spouse inherits. That is, if there's anything left to inherit.”

 

25

Billy Nolan could never keep his time zones straight. He'd tried calling Scott off and on all day Wednesday, but all his calls went directly to voice mail.

It was always like that when Scott had a big install. His total focus was on the job. When he was working he'd forget to eat, take his blood pressure meds, check his e-mail—or return his partner's phone calls.

Billy wondered what that would be like—to be capable of that kind of concentration.

At the third or fourth private school he'd been bounced out of, his parents finally took him to a shrink, who gave them the news that their son had ADHD—attention deficit hyperactive disorder. He'd read up on the symptoms on the Internet and concluded that this, finally, was the reason his head often felt like a pinball machine—with ringing bells, flashing lights, and a little metal ball that careened wildly in one direction and then the next.

Although he'd always loved music and had taught himself to play piano and guitar, the ADHD diagnosis became a gift, because it helped him recognize that music quieted the constant noise in his head.

Finally, he gave up trying to reach Scott and headed over to Shutters for dinner.

*   *   *

As soon as he walked into his mother's kitchen he wished he hadn't come. The tension between Evelyn and Riley was palpable.

“Where's Maggy?” Evelyn asked.

“Upstairs. I've called her twice, and she says she isn't hungry.”

“Well, she has to eat, or she'll get sick.”

“I'm aware of that, Mama,” Riley said, rolling her eyes.

“Call her again and tell her Mimi said we're having Janice Snider's chocolate delight for dessert.”

“Is that the stuff with the layers of cookies and chocolate pudding and cream cheese and Cool Whip?” Billy asked. “I friggin' love that stuff.”

“It's Janice's signature dish,” Evelyn replied. “And it's Maggy's favorite.”

“Mama!” Riley exclaimed. “You know she can't have all that sugar.”

“Hush. A little taste or two won't kill her.”

Riley stalked out of the room. Five minutes later she was back with Maggy in tow.

Maggy's slight form was ensconced in a blue-and-white-pinstriped men's dress shirt with a button-down collar, which hung down to her knees. Her hair was mussed and her face was set in an expression best described as mutinous.

“Good heavens, Margaret, what on earth are you wearing?” Evelyn asked.

“She found one of Wendell's old shirts in the laundry room,” Riley said, taking her seat at the kitchen table.

“But why is she wearing it?” Evelyn asked. “Has she taken up finger painting?”

“Because I want to,” Maggy said. “It's Daddy's. It smells like him, and it reminds me of him. Is that okay with you?”

“Maggy!” Riley said.

“She was rude first,” Maggy said defiantly. She looked over at the CorningWare dish in the center of the table. “Is that dinner?”

Riley shot her daughter a warning look and spooned a small helping onto her plate.

“This happens to be Helen Meehan's Chinese Chicken Surprise,” Evelyn said.

Billy took a gulp of the vodka tonic he'd toted along in his plastic tumbler and wished he'd thought to bring a refill. “And just exactly what does Helen know about Chinese cuisine? I didn't know she'd ever been out of Baldwin County.”

“I think it's called that because she tops it with chow mein noodles,” Evelyn explained. “All the girls in book club just love it.”

He took a taste and promptly got up and dumped the rest of his portion in the trash.

“And just what was wrong with that?” his mother demanded.

“I don't know which is worse, the cream of mushroom soup, the water chestnuts, or the Velveeta cheese goop. Don't your friends know how to make anything that doesn't call for canned soup or imitation cheese product?”

“If Bebo doesn't have to eat it, neither do I, right, Mom?” Maggy said, following suit.

Riley sniggered, which triggered an instant reaction from their mother.

“Fine!” Evelyn threw her napkin down on the table and glared at Riley. “You and your brother insult the delicious foods my friends have contributed out of the goodness of their hearts, in our time of bereavement. You make ugly comments, and then wonder why that child's manners are so appalling? I really don't know how I managed to raise two such ungrateful children. I hope you two are happy. I have lost my appetite, and now I have a screaming headache.”

She pushed away from the table and swept out of the room.

Billy took a gulp of his cocktail. “Was it something I said?”

“Partly. But mostly she's just pissed at me.”

“You? What did you do?”

“Nothing, really,” Riley said. “Maggy, Mimi is right. It wasn't nice of Bebo to make fun of Helen's casserole, and it was rude of you to throw it away without even tasting it. Now you still have to eat something.”

“Peanut butter and jelly?” Maggy said hopefully.

“Only if you have some salad with it.” Riley got up and fixed the sandwich and put it on a plate along with a helping of tossed greens. At the last moment, she added a teaspoon of Janice Snider's chocolate delight. “Why don't you take that upstairs to your room? And if I were you, I would stop by your grandmother's room and apologize.”

*   *   *

“Want a drink?” Billy asked, as soon as he was alone with his sister.

“God, yes,” Riley said. “What kind of wine do you suppose goes best with Cool Whip and instant chocolate pudding?”

“The only kind Evelyn Nolan buys. Cheap stuff. Allow me.”

He poured Riley a huge goblet of red wine, fetched two plates, and then plopped a mound of chocolate delight on each one.

Riley took a bite, licked her lips, and groaned. “I'd forgotten how amazing this stuff tastes.”

“Huge improvement over ersatz Chinese whatever,” Billy said. He leaned back in his chair. “Now, to get serious. What have you figured out about what was up with Wendell? I know things weren't great with you and him. Is there something you're not telling me?”

“Where do I start?” Riley asked.

*   *   *

Somehow, as his sister poured out her story, Billy managed to stay in control of his emotions. Maybe it was the massive amount of vodka he'd drunk, maybe it was the Valium he'd started taking again right after the discovery of his brother-in-law's corpse.

“All of it?” he asked, when Riley told him about her trust fund.

“He left me some pocket change,” she said bitterly.

“And there's no mistake?”

She shrugged. “I've been holding out hope that maybe he transferred the money into an account at Baldwin Community Bank. But they won't tell me anything about Wendell's accounts there, because of some stupid banking confidentiality laws.”

“But it's your money. Daddy left it to you.”

“And he left Wendell in charge of it. But, supposedly, once I have the death certificate, they'll unlock the keys to the vault. Until then, I'll be sucking off Mama's goodwill.”

“That's gonna get old fast,” Billy predicted.

“It already has.”

“You haven't told her yet about all the missing money?”

“No. I don't want to say anything until I know everything. But, Bebo, I'm afraid to keep looking for fear of what else I might find. We were married for almost twenty years, and I had no idea Wendell was capable of something like this. How could he do this to me? And his daughter? I thought he loved us. I thought he was a good person.”

Billy was almost tempted to tell her the full extent of Wendell's capabilities. But if he told her the truth about her husband, she'd know the truth about her brother. And that he could not bear.

 

26

It had been nearly three years now, but the memory of that night had never dimmed.

Billy had been sober for eleven long months. Every Wednesday that summer, he'd take the late-afternoon ferry to Southpoint, then drive over to the Methodist Church hall in Snead's Ferry.

His AA sponsor was a black, tattooed ex-Marine named Calvin—an unlikely but surprisingly effective mentor for an effete New York jazz pianist like Billy.

Calvin's life—what he knew of it—fascinated Billy. Calvin usually listened more than he talked, but from snippets of information he'd gleaned, Billy knew his sponsor had seen combat duty in Afghanistan, and the inside of a prison. Prison was where Calvin had gotten sober.

He made a living as a sign painter, and he lived on the cheap, renting a tiny apartment above a Mexican restaurant in the downtown business district. Calvin's driver's license had long ago been revoked, so he got around town on foot or on a rusty beach cruiser, usually accompanied by his German shepherd, Heidi.

It was late August, a Tuesday. Scott hadn't been down that week, and Billy was lonely and restless, which was a dangerous combination for a recovering drunk. He took the afternoon ferry to town, picked up the battered, maroon Delta 88 he kept in the marina parking lot to run errands and, like he'd done hundreds of times before, set off for the Harris Teeter.

He was in the produce department when he spotted a display table heaped high with limes. Limes.

Only a lifelong drunk would see limes, abandon his cart, head directly for the checkout, and then make a beeline to the nearest liquor store for a fifth of Grey Goose and a liter of tonic water. He bought a bag of ice at a convenience store, along with a sleeve of plastic cups and a cheap knife, and poured himself that first drink. The first in nearly a year.

He drove around the countryside with the Olds's windows rolled down, a John Coltrane CD playing at top volume, sipping and savoring life. He felt so fine he couldn't remember why he'd ever wanted to quit drinking. It was nearing dusk when he tipped the last of the tonic water into his cup and was suddenly struck with the reality of what he'd just done. The tonic water was gone and so was his hard-won sobriety. The half-empty bottle of Grey Goose was rolling around on the passenger-side floorboard. And then it came to him. The hangovers, the blackouts, the shame, the ruined relationships, the self-hate, all of the damage his drinking had done.

Without hesitating, he dialed Cal. “I fucked up,” Billy cried, when his sponsor answered.

“Where are you?”

“I don't know. Maybe ten miles out of town?” He'd stared out the window, searching for a landmark, but all he saw were more farm fields.

“Did you take a drink?”

“Yeah. I'm such a fuckup.”

“It's called a relapse, man. It happens,” Cal said calmly. “What triggered it?”