Treasure Me (16 page)

Meade toyed with her strand of pearls. “Why are you wearing those… things? They’re far too large.”

“My galoshes? They’re just a little roomy.” Big enough for a man twice her size, but she’d stuffed the heels with balled up pantyhose. “I’ll ask you to keep your comments to yourself.”

“I’m merely saying—oh! What’s under your dress?”

Handing over her coat, Theodora hauled up the pleated hem of the crepe de chine number. “These are ballet pants. Nice, stretchy ones. I bought them online.”

“How convenient.”

Bending, she snapped the skin-hugging fabric. “Why, if elasticized fabrics hadn’t been invented, the lower half of my body would rearrange itself.”

Meade gasped with horror.

Satisfaction spread through Theodora like oil, and she switched topics. “How’s your father this morning?”

“Just fine. I asked him what this was about. He won’t explain, not without you present. What’s going on?”

“Patience, missy.” Landon had asked Theodora to come, mostly for moral support. He’d never make his daughter understand about the woman he’d seen in town without an ally by his side. “Come along and we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

They entered the library. Theodora was greeted by the pleasing sight of cherry wood shelves stuffed full of books. Landon stood with his back to the fireplace. His attention tracked his daughter as she gracefully seated herself on the couch.

How different they were. Landon never put on airs, yet Meade believed window-dressing was the end-all to life. Outwardly, she resembled him. But on the inside? She was the spitting image of Cat. If Meade’s house ever caught fire she’d walk past the family heirlooms and rescue her chinchilla coat.

Landon approached. “Theodora! Thank you for coming.”

“It was no bother. I’m not due at my daughter’s house for Thanksgiving dinner until this afternoon.”

“Should I have tea brought?” He steered her to a deeply cushioned chair.

“Let’s not dilly-dally.” Pausing, she waited as he sat on the couch. “The top of your daughter’s pretty head might blast clean off if we do.”

Meade stared haughtily at Theodora, then her father. “I don’t know what secrets you’ve both kept from me, but I’m not a child. Dad, are you listening? Stop coddling me.”

The girl looked at her father with exasperation. The urge to protect him rose quickly within Theodora. She smiled at her foolishness. It was darn ridiculous when an old black woman viewed a white, middle-aged banker as something of a son, but there it was in a nutshell.

She pulled from her musings as Meade said, “I believe my father is tongue-tied.”

Landon wavered. “I’m not sure how to begin.”

“Dad, tell me!”

“I’m trying, darling.”

Theodora jumped in. “This is about fornication and the foolishness of men. It’s about sex.”

Landon blanched and she pitied him—they
were
about to discuss his imprudent behavior. It was an old topic. Only this time they’d embark on a sordid discussion with his daughter passing judgment like Solomon on high. Hell and damnation. Throwing a harsh light on a man’s predilections first thing Thanksgiving morning was
not
the proper way to spend the holiday.

She nailed her sights on Meade. “Let me speak plainly. Your father led you astray when you spoke with him a few days ago in the boathouse.”

“He did? How?”

“He didn’t see your mother’s ghost. He knows Cat is dead.”

“Of all the… Dad, why didn’t you explain?”

Landon bowed his silvered head. “I was too ashamed to explain. It was easier to let you think I was talking about your mother.”

Meade brought her hand to her throat. Theodora frowned. Hearing about Landon’s infidelities wouldn’t sit well with the girl.

“Oh, Dad. Why were you ashamed?” She clasped his wrist. “I thought you were hallucinating. I nearly called your psychiatrist.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“I’m sure I don’t want to hear this. Who
did
you think you saw?”

The question hung in the air. Carefully, Landon smoothed his palms down the creases of his pants. If the foolish sod were searching for the right words, he’d never find them. What language existed to allow a man to discuss such matters with his child? Even with an adult child?

Theodora wondered why she’d declined his offer of tea. She was suddenly parched and more nervous than she dared to reveal. “Meade, how much do you know about your father’s relationship with the Greyhart woman?” she asked, pushing forward.

Something hard and defensive worked through the girl’s features. “The woman he ran around with while my mother was alive? I’ve never asked for the details. I didn’t have the stomach to hear them.” She pressed her hand on top of her father’s. “Dad, you didn’t actually think you saw her, did you?”

“Well, I thought—”

“What? That the woman who’d robbed you to the tune of six figures was back with open arms? She won’t dare come to Liberty! I’ll have her arrested, I’ll—”

Theodora interrupted. “Girl, calm down! Lord above, didn’t I go into The Second Chance to check her out? Well, I did.”

Clearly Meade’s patience was wearing thin. “And what did you find?” she asked.

“She’s the new waitress Finney’s hired. Trust me, she isn’t the black-hearted witch who came between your parents.”

“You’re sure she’s not that awful woman?”

“Dang it, of course I am!”

“Then why am I still worried? When my father was involved with… Theodora, did you know her?”

“Can’t say I did. But she must be past fifty by now. The new waitress at The Second Chance, why, she’s young.”

Meade’s lips tightened with distaste. “I’ve heard about her.”

“She’s not half bad,” Theodora shot back, surprised by her ready defense.

True, Birdie had the manners of a goat, strutting around in a waitress’s uniform so small it showed half her bosom and most of her butt. But she didn’t take much guff, which might explain why Theodora secretly admired her. Not to mention Birdie wasn’t the type to lure a man from his marriage bed. She wasn’t church-going folk, and the devil himself knew she enjoyed spitting hurtful words from her pretty mouth. Even so, Theodora could spot a decent soul from twenty paces.

She didn’t like most people, but she was starting to like Birdie. The way the child listened to the stories of Justice Postell, with her eyes aglitter… why, if it wasn’t evidence of bone-deep goodness, what was?

There was decency in the child even if she couldn’t recognize it in herself. No surprise there—people knew so little about themselves. Most people didn’t know themselves at all. And what to make of Birdie falling in love with the story of Justice, the story of a black woman who’d lived during awful times? Slave times, and the Civil War to boot.

Theodora wasn’t sure what to make of the child at all.

* * *

For twenty minutes, Meade interrogated her father about his relationship with the Greyhart woman. Among other sordid facts, she was horrified to learn that by the time he’d reached forty-one—the age she was now—he’d already spent years living two parallel lives. In one life, he was the quiet and dignified investment banker. In the other, he was a man bewitched.

By the time she’d finished her line of questioning, his pallid face wore a mask of tension. Mumbling about going upstairs to lie down, he left her standing before the bookshelves.

When he’d gone, Theodora said, “Let him sleep for an hour, but no longer. It does no good for a man to hide beneath the covers with the new day risen.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Meade ran her fingers across the books on one of the shelves, the rippling touch of leather-covered spines a surprising comfort. Now
that
was a common interest her parents had enjoyed—rare books. They’d made a disaster of their marriage, but they had shared some pursuits.

“Do you need a drink?” Theodora asked, moving to the bar.

“I’m not sure.”

With a
harrumph,
the old woman mixed a martini and grabbed a beer from the fridge.

“I should thank you for intervening in all of this,” Meade said, taking the martini. “The night in the boathouse… it’s no wonder my father couldn’t explain. He dreaded my reaction.”

“No man wants to discuss such matters with his daughter.”

Meade returned to the couch. “You
are
sure she wasn’t the Greyhart woman?”

“Of course!”

“But you’ve never met Greyhart.” Meade knew she was fishing.

“Never did.”

The memory of her mother climbing into the skiff grew vivid. The argument they had on the pier was heated. Cat, always headstrong, climbed into the skiff to cut off the battle, but not before she’d handed over the packet of photos that altered Meade’s world forever.

“I have some photographs of my father’s mistress that I managed not to burn or cut into pieces,” she said, willing a steadiness to her voice that didn’t sink into her bones. “You might want to look them over to be certain.”

Theodora approached, her eyes narrowing. “Lordy! How did you come by pictures of the devil herself?”

“On that day, right before Cat took the boat out on the lake, she handed me a large envelope. She was crying and slightly intoxicated, but she was determined to go. I was so upset, watching her steer toward the thunderclouds. I didn’t realize she’d given me an envelope of photographs.”

“I’d like to see them someday.” The old battleaxe surprised Meade by sitting down beside her. Light snapped in Theodora’s dark eyes as she placed her glass of beer on the coffee table and cleared her throat. “Is there anything else you’re hankering to know?”

Meade rubbed her thumb down the stem of her martini glass. Did Theodora know the specifics of the years-long affair? How peculiar that her father would share his secrets with anyone, much less Theodora. Maybe it was because they’d known each other for so long. Or perhaps compassion lurked beneath her crusty, short-tempered exterior.

“I’m trying to understand why my father…” The words lodged in her throat. How to discuss something this awful? Perplexed, she took a sip of her drink.

“Spit it out, missy.”

A frisson of impatience leapt through Meade. She set her martini down. “Why did my father cheat on my mother for so many years? I can understand how a man stumbles into a one night stand. He’s out of town on business, he has too much to drink—Theodora, I
can
understand. What’s so difficult is why Dad continued. Didn’t he feel guilt? Remorse?”

“He’s depressed, isn’t he?”

“And my mother is dead.”

“If your mother had taken better care of him, he would’ve ended the affair right quick.”

“Now it’s her fault? My father was a liar and a cheat. He ran around on my mother for years. Given everything he’s done, he deserved to be brought low by a woman like the Greyhart bitch.”

The outburst brought a low rumble from Theodora, a nearly imperceptible rasp. Her sparrow’s breast quivered with buckling fury. Age couldn’t diminish some people; frailty was a mere inconvenience to an overpowering personality. The lines carved into the sides of her mouth deepened and Meade drew back with alarm when their gazes locked.

“You want the truth?” Theodora slapped her hand against her thigh. “Now, I don’t like speaking ill of the dead. Of course there was good in your mother—Cat drew rich folks to good causes like a buck drawing doe to the rut. Women’s shelters, the arts—I was proud to work on any foundation she chaired.”

“You were involved with her philanthropy?”

“Most of the time I was willing to oblige.”

Cat’s association with Theodora made sense. Theodora struck a low profile in public, but she owned huge tracts of land in Jeffordsville County. The depths of her wealth went back generations. Any foundation would covet her as a benefactor.

Meade looked at her squarely. “Are you saying you were friends with my mother?”

Theodora drew a gnarled finger in lazy circles on the fabric of her dress. “I was your father’s friend. When he fell in love, I was happy for him. Cat was a young thing the first time we worked together—your parents were newlyweds. Not that anyone saw much of your father on the social circuit.”

Unlike her mother, he hadn’t come from money. “The world she grew up in… he probably found it overwhelming.”

“I’m sure he thought she was quite a catch. People loved Cat, loved the way she’d float down a staircase in her Tiffany jewels and sweet-smelling perfume.” Theodora frowned. “Your father, on the other hand, was a quiet man. He worked hard investing her inheritance and building a fortune in his own right while Cat, why, she had more than enough beaux to squire her around to the charity balls.”

Beaux?

A bitter taste bloomed in Meade’s throat. Had Cat also been unfaithful? So many secrets, and she didn’t have the stomach to hear the awful details. Yet she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “For the record, my mother was a great philanthropist. She did a lot of good in Ohio.”

“Stop thinking with your heart! Those charities—do you think she cared a hoot about homeless women or the art museum? She worked the circuit for the men.”

“Stop it.” Meade stumbled to her feet.

“Cat, then the Greyhart woman—your father got himself bound up with two great performers. Each knew how to use him for her own gain.”

“How dare you compare my mother to her! Greyhart’s a criminal. She took everything from my father.
Everything
.”

“And your mother didn’t?” Theodora stared at her as placidly as a Sphinx. “Cat and Greyhart were both alley cats. Don’t you know they could’ve come from the same litter?”

Praying the rubies were in the storeroom, Birdie hung up with Delia and slipped out of the apartment.

Hurrying down the stairwell, she recalled the clue found in the bunting draped across the restaurant’s picture window.
Brick by brick, my love. My life built alone without you.
The building was built of bricks. For days, she’d tapped on bricks in the dining room searching for loose spots and chipped at mortar in the kitchen when Finney went on break. She’d thought she’d checked every blasted one.