Venom and the River (18 page)

Large dark eyes, thick hair loosely piled and held in place with a scarf, voluptuous curves under the modest eastern dress. A better-fed, prettier Susan Lucci. Leigh shook her head. No, that’s not what seemed familiar.

“Sweet mother of god,” she whispered as she studied the photo and recognized what she was seeing.

Geneva had liquid dark eyes, luxurious brown hair, long legs, strong arms, full breasts. Sweet, heartbroken, Geneva—doppelganger and substitute for the unattainable Sylvia.

“Sad night.” Phil stood in the doorway.

Leigh set the photo down. “Yes. Thank you for helping out.”

“No problem. It was nice to visit with Terry again, even though he was preoccupied. Tucker crashed pretty fast. He’s an adaptable little guy and didn’t seem to mind being handled by strangers as long as he could keep Terry in sight. I told Terry I’d be near. There’s a sofa in his room and I’ll sleep there. He liked that idea. He seemed pretty agitated.”

“I can listen for Tucker.” Leigh reached for the handset of the baby intercom on the floor. “I’ll sleep in here.”

“I like your daughter, Leigh. She’s a very skilled and aggressive poker player.”

“I had no idea, but I’m not surprised; so was her father. Did she clean you out?”

“No, but Kate and Marti might not play with her again. I know things are probably different with Emily here, but are we still on for a Thursday night sometime?”

“Please, yes. Soon.”

They both laughed. She was glad the room was lit by only a single lamp, certain her middle-age blush would be obvious. “Phil, what do you say…”

Oh god, those hands. What do you say we both listen for our charges from Geneva’s bed?

“Yes?”

Was he waiting for an invitation? Why not give one?

What would Marti do?

Leigh smiled. “What do you say that the first one up makes a pot of strong coffee?”

He nodded. “Good night, Leigh.”

Part Three

1.

They came in private cars, rental cars, chartered buses, and the regular shuttle from the Twin Cities airport two hours away. They came in large groups, small groups, pairs, alone. They formed long lines and clusters in motel lobbies, restaurants, the library, the town’s historical society, the riverfront park, the museum by the Dairy Queen. The convention headquarters—the fellowship hall of the Methodist Church—was open for the duration fifteen hours a day, coffee always on. Dee’s Café now opened at seven a.m.

Two women from Australia rented a red convertible at the airport and arrived in Pepin with music blaring and scarves streaming. Their arrival was witnessed by several women who were waiting to get into the Little Girl Museum, and they immediately dubbed the new arrivals “the perfectly awful girls,” a phrase used in the final book of the series
(Little Girl Gone)
to describe three brazen visiting showgirls who almost led one of Maud’s innocent male friends astray.

The Little Girls brought their daughters. Young girls wearing tiaras and beautifully designed and carefully crafted period dresses were displayed and admired wherever they appeared. Teenagers—reluctant, eager, cheerful, sullen—eyed each other silently.

A few women were on solo pilgrimage, and they resisted the chatter and laughter of the groups, choosing to seek out and explore the Little Girl landmarks on their own. They could be seen trudging the streets and the river walk. Daypacks, floppy hats, European sandals, expectations.

There were not many men. Whenever one appeared he was instantly assessed: a good-sport husband, a children’s literature specialist, an obsessed fan of the TV show or one devoted to Petra Sinclair.

They started showing up at the cottage.

“Mom, another one got by the guard and is coming out of the trees,” Emily called from the brown chair where she was reading.

Leigh closed her computer. “What do you say we go to Wal-Mart and buy some pellet guns?”

“Good idea. I made sharpshooter at summer camp three years ago. Want me to handle this one?”

“No. Your language got a little rough the last time.”

“But it worked. This one looks grumpy. Oh-oh—camera alert.”

They quickly pulled closed the window curtains, triggering a stream of invective from the thwarted invader. “Christ!” she shouted, “just open the damn curtains!”

“Emily,” Leigh said, “I’ve changed my mind; this one is for you.”

*

“I warned you.” Terry pointed to the coffee pot. Leigh refilled his cup and set it down on the side table. He stared at it a moment, then rubbed his eyes. “I keep thinking it has to end sometime, but no. Year after year, people still come here to touch the hem of that writer.”

“That writer seems to have inspired a lot of women and a range of conversation.” She pulled a paper from the outer pocket of her backpack. “Listen to these conference sessions. ‘Ida May’s Literary Heirs: A survey of current innovators in children’s literature.’ ‘Build Your Own Cottage: A workshop in dollhouse and miniature construction.’ ‘Welcome, All: Why minorities feel at home in Maud’s River Valley.’” She tapped the paper. “These women must have boundless energy. Besides attending the various break-out sessions they can participate in Tai Chi on the museum lawn every morning, paddle an authentic dugout canoe, and attend twice-daily choir practice, where, according to this, they’ll ‘learn and sing all the songs mentioned in the books in preparation for a performance at the closing ceremony.’ Huh. I wonder if the choir practice will be as well attended as the nightly Little Girl Karaoke down at Dee’s that she and Kate are running all this week. This convention doesn’t even start until tomorrow and they’ve been sneaking in to see the cottage for two days now. I hate to imagine what it would be like if you hadn’t hired security. Even so, every few hours another one gets past the guard. Emily’s very good at dealing with them.”

“When’s she coming back, Leigh? It’s been a week. I miss the boy. This is their home, they should be here. She’s so lovely, isn’t she?”

Leigh put down the convention schedule. “Yes, Geneva’s a beautiful young woman.”

He’d aged terribly in one week. She was lucky now to have thirty minutes a day where his mind could track a straight line and he’d be able and willing to answer questions or review pages.

“Want to know how it started, Leigh?”

“She told me. You met over the sock bins at the outlet mall.”

“I’d almost forgotten that! Excellent socks, by the way. No, I meant the seduction. And let’s be clear about who seduced whom. She is not a gold digger. One night I was listening to music. Sinatra, ‘Fly Me to the Moon.’ Geneva was clearing out the dinner dishes and she said how that song always made her wish she could dance. Two years ago I wasn’t like this, Leigh.” He swore and kicked the cane away.

She picked it up and put it by his chair. “So you got up and taught her how to dance. Smooth move, Terry.”

“It wasn’t a ‘move’ because I didn’t intend anything to happen, but once she was in my arms… Stop it, Leigh. I don’t like being laughed at by someone young enough to be my child.”

“Really? Yet you have no scruples about bonking someone who could be your granddaughter.”

“I’m not the first person in the world to hunger for love, Leigh, I’ll tell you that. What’s your heart’s desire? I’ve shared mine, so play fair.”

“You’ve pretty much made it happen, Terry.”

His eyes cleared and focused, and he tilted his head and studied her. “Daughter under your roof, right?”

“Exactly.”

“Is the longing quelled? Desire sated?”

“No, it’s all much worse. Now I want more of her. More of what she’s thinking, her confidences, everything. We have moments, but then a wall goes up. She remembers she hates me and I remember…much more and then I feel unworthy.”

His head dropped. He’d drifted away again. Finally he said, “Geneva’s not coming back.”

“Another week, Terry. I talked with her today, and that’s what she said.”

“She told me the same thing. She said that she’s enjoying being with her mother for the first time in years and she wants to stay there while that lasts. Well I’m not enjoying it, and I’m sure as hell not enjoying taking orders from that Nazi replacement you found.”

“I’m sorry she hasn’t worked out. Maybe it’s time you call your kids, Terry. I’m happy to help, but there are some issues I just don’t feel I should be deciding.”

“I called ’em. Dana’s coming. Friday.”

“Good. Thank you. I’ll call the employment agency again and see who else they have.”

“She’s not coming back,” he whispered. “She knows it and she can’t tell me. How wonderful it was to hold a beautiful woman in my arms again.”

Leigh picked up the Instamatic photo of the three friends in India. “Geneva looks like Sylvia’s modern twin.”

“You’re the first to say that. I sure don’t see it. Rob and Sylvia have met her, and they certainly never mentioned a resemblance. Before Sylvia had the first stoke they’d come down for lunch from time to time. Their daughter would drive them. Oh, what fun those lunches were. The girls would get busy in the kitchen, Sylvia and Geneva laughing away.”

“Same lovely brown hair, Terry. Same bedroom eyes, same knock-out body. Did sleeping with one quell the longing for the other?”

“You know the answer, Leigh.”

“Now you want more. Now there are two women you think about.”

A brown-spotted hand rose and carved out the shape of the oak tree. Terry nodded. “Morning, noon, and night.”

2.

“You can’t be serious, Mom.”

Leigh studied her daughter. She was, in fact, dead serious. She had no plans and certainly no desire to go to the Little Girl parade, the opening night event of the four day convention, but her answer to Emily’s abrupt invitation—
Comin’?—
was clearly not the right one.

Emily waited, blue eyes darkening to indigo as they heated with accusation. Leigh lowered the lid of her laptop. “I guess it’s been a long time since we’ve gone to a parade together.”

“If ever.”

“I’d happily give up an evening of work, if I thought you’d stick with me and not run off on some Little Girl errand or convention assignment. Not that I’m complaining about how much time you’ve been spending with them.”

“You are complaining and you shouldn’t. It’s not like you’ve made time for me. Forget it, don’t bother.”

Leigh grabbed her jean jacket and checked its pockets for keys and wallet. “Let’s go.”

*

Leigh had grown up in a small town and had been to plenty of parades. For the first five minutes, this one looked like all the others she’d ever attended, from the volunteer fire department truck clearing a path on Main Street to the tiny summertime contingent of a high school marching band that followed right behind. Just as the solitary bass drummer shuffled by, a wind gust yanked loose one end of a banner (“Welcome Little Girls!”) that had been strung across the street between light posts. Two teenaged boys immediately grabbed the free end and pulled until the entire banner came loose. They raced away, gathering the cloth in their hands as they ran. The boys and their prize disappeared around a corner amid much booing and shouting from the crowd.

Emily leaned over. “That’s for sure going up in someone’s bedroom tonight,” she whispered. Leigh nodded, unsnapped her jacket and sighed happily as Emily’s arm slipped through hers.

It was there for only a moment. A wave of applause grew louder, and Emily pulled away to join in. Leigh peered down the street. One by one, a line of very old cars approached.

Peach and Petra were in the first one, sitting atop the backseat of an ancient convertible. They waved and tossed candy.

Petra had gone period. She wore a white shirt with a high collar and a fitted, long skirt. She saw Leigh and waved vigorously.

Nice hair, Leigh thought as she waved back. Great color.

Peach was in one of her lilac dresses. She tamped down its billows with one hand as she tossed candy with the other.

There was a large sign on the car’s side door:

Petra Sinclair, Grand Marshall

1911 Torpedo Courtesy Dolly’s Vintage Fords

Peach apparently needed no signage.

The cheering and applause was continuous and loud, and then louder still when their driver, another of Pepin’s male teens, honked the anemic car horn.

“Cute kid,” said Leigh.

“Cute?” Emily

“What do you want your mother to say—he’s hot?”

The horn tooted again, and Emily waved at the driver. He saluted with an arm wrapped to the elbow in a blue cast, then pulled antique goggles down over his eyes and braced his arms on the wheel. The car sped away. Emily laughed.

“Do you know him?” Leigh asked. Her daughter shrugged. “You do know him.”

“Maybe.”

“You’ve been here less than two weeks, Marti and Peach have been keeping you busy getting ready for this madness, and still you manage to…”

Something in the set of Emily’s jaw silenced her. Manage to consort with the local males, Leigh finished silently. So this was a pattern with her daughter.