Venom and the River (27 page)

After a moment Peach quieted the wild crowd with a flourish of her arms.

“Because I will be assisting Petra with the new project, I will be traveling often to Hollywood. And so it is with great sadness I have decided to resign as your president. But it is with great joy I present to you the new Little Girl leader, your good friend Ellen Blaney.”

Peach cut the cheers and whistles short. “Donnie and I have made a parting gift, in commemoration of the joyous experience I’ve had as your president.” She untied the rope from the railing.

Leigh said, “What just fell from under the balcony?”

Emily said, “There goes another one.”

Marti said, “I hope it wasn’t a bolt or something. She’d better hurry up. That balcony probably wasn’t built for all that weight.”

Peach yanked on the rope and the tarp flew off the statue. Hundreds of Little Girls cheered.

“Well, crap,” Marti said. “That’s as bad as I thought it would be. Maud’s supposed to be pointing across the river, not up at the sky. And Lucy wasn’t even in this scene, and—oh my goodness.”

Roberta, Ellen, and Petra had moved to the front of the balcony with Peach to get a closer look at the statue. Just at that moment, a third object fell to the ground and the balcony listed.

The four women lurched forward. Under the balcony, something cracked loudly.

One by one they fell.

Petra hit the ground first. Ellen landed on Petra with a thud.

Peach landed ass-first on the grass. “Donnie!” she screamed.

Her husband rushed forward from the crowd. “Darling, oh darling!” he cried, and he scooped Ellen Blaney into his arms.

Roberta hung from the statue, impaled on Maud, her hand pierced all the way through by an extended bronze forefinger. The bleeding wound grew wider as the writer’s body sagged toward the ground.

Leigh and Emily rushed to her. Emily grabbed hold of her legs, set her head on Roberta’s hip, and pushed up as Leigh lifted the hand from the statue. Roberta released a bark of pain, then collapsed onto Emily.

Roberta looked at Leigh before her eyes closed. “My writing hand, Leigh,” she whispered. “I guess there’s justice in that.”

Part Four

1.

The hospital room was crowded. At least a half dozen faces looked toward the door when Leigh knocked. A large infant sitting on the bed next to Roberta remained focused on banging a spoon against a plastic bed pan.

“I’m sorry,” Leigh said. “I’ve crashed a family party.”

A man rose from the one visitor’s chair and held out a hand. “Ben Garibaldi. You’re Leigh. Gosh, how grand of you to visit. And yes, this is the whole crew!” He rattled off a succession of names, then added, “Leigh was your mother’s host, everyone. The occupant of the famous cottage.” There was an appreciative murmur.

Leigh set Roberta’s suitcase next to the bed. “I think I got it all.”

“Thank you.” Roberta’s right arm was encased elbow to finger tips in a complicated splint fashioned of rods and wires. Her palm was bandaged. The infant leaned over and started banging the spoon on his grandmother.

Roberta’s husband scooped him up and out of the way. “We were about to go down to the cafeteria for a snack. Roberta can tell you about the surgery. These Mayo Clinic doctors are brilliant. They say there will be no permanent damage. But she can fill you in. Thank you, again, Leigh.”

His expression was kind, warm, with no suspicion at all that Leigh and Roberta were anything but the newest and best of friends.

The Garibaldi family made a noisy departure toward the elevators.

“Take a chair,” said Roberta.

“I shouldn’t stay long.”

“I’m sorry you had to pack up all my crap and drive over here to Rochester.”

“I truly didn’t mind. It’s a beautiful drive from Pepin.”

“Emily get home okay?”

“Yes. I just got off the phone with her. She sends her love.”

“A sweet girl.” She nodded toward her arm. “Quite a contraption, isn’t it? Prognosis is good, some nerve damage but no real limitation. Peach is scared shitless I’ll sue.” She looked at Leigh. “I have no intention of suing the Little Girls, but she just doesn’t believe me. Can you calm her down?”

“I doubt if I’m the one to do that, but I’ll pass the word along.” Leigh looked down and reached into her purse. “I have something for you.” She pulled out a blue envelope. “I haven’t made a copy. This is it. It’s yours. I have no intention of telling anyone it even exists. I’ve returned the others to Terry. As far as he knows, there are only four letters from Ida May.”

Roberta’s mouth opened, making a tiny O. She looked at Leigh, looked at the envelope, looked again at Leigh. “Thank you,” she whispered. She tried reaching for it with her good hand, but fell back. Leigh dropped the envelope on her lap. “No,” Roberta said. “Ben will see it and wonder.” Her eyes skitted about. “My notebook. Did you pack that?”

Leigh nodded. She unzipped an outer flap of the suitcase and pulled out a small three ring binder. She slipped the blue envelope into a pocket of the inner cover.

“Ben’s such a hen,” Roberta explained as Leigh repacked the suitcase. “He’ll empty my suitcase and do my laundry, but he’d never touch my writing. Oh, Leigh, thank you.”

“He seemed very nice, Roberta. Please understand: I never wanted to mess with your life.”

“My husband and children would have been devastated. They mean everything to me, Leigh. I’m a lucky woman.”

“And a good writer. I finished the second book last night. It’s even better than
Paris Nocturne.
I kept thinking of what Ida May said in the letter, how she bows down to any writer who could—”

“Don’t mock me, goddam you, do not do that.”

Leigh set a hand on the bed. “I wasn’t, Roberta. I truly wasn’t. The novels you’ve written are wonderful. I wish Ida May could read them.”

Roberta looked away. “Then…thank you. Especially for—” Her right shifted as she tried to gesture toward the suitcase. She grimaced at the sudden pain.

Leigh said, “You don’t feel well. I should go.” She’d reached the door when Roberta called her name.

“Yes?”

Roberta said, “You don’t have to worry, either. I won’t say a thing about you or your work with the vice president.”

“Thank you.”

“Leigh Burton.” Roberta repeated the name twice, in whispers. “You know, I have no trouble thinking of you as Leigh Burton.”

“Nor do I, Roberta. After all, it’s my name.”

2.

“I keep telling you,” Terry said, “don’t be so stingy when you pour.”

Leigh set down the Scotch. “I think Dana checks the level on the bottles. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

He laughed and raised his glass. “Once again: To daughters!”

Leigh echoed the toast and pretended to sip as he drank his down. Barely past noon and she had work to do.

“When will Emily be back? Thanksgiving? Christmas?”

“We haven’t talked about it.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t see more of her. But I won’t apologize for monopolizing you. Now, what was it you wanted me to read?”

“This section on the bomb threat at the UN. I’m not sure I transcribed your diary entry perfectly.”

Terry reached for the papers and began reading.

Leigh was sitting at the desk in the corner checking dates in one of his diaries when she became aware of a new, slightly uric odor in the very quiet room. “Terry?” She rose and walked over to his chair. His head had dropped. His chin lay against his starched and pressed blue shirt. There was a wet spot on his pants. “Terry?”

She crouched and gently pressed a thumb against his neck. No pulse. She sighed and looked out the window. The branches of the oak swayed in a light summer breeze. She traced its shape in the air, then she picked up Terry’s hand and held it tightly as she stared at the big river.

*

He’d left instructions that there be only a graveside service in Pepin.

Leigh went to the cemetery with Phil and Marti. They arrived just as Terry’s children and grandchildren alighted from long black cars.

“I don’t suppose Geneva’s in one of those cars,” Marti said.

Leigh shook her head. “We had breakfast this morning. She was going to the house to clear out her things, and she wasn’t sure she’d stay for the service. I told her she could avoid the family and stand with us.”

“You can’t really blame her for not wanting to be here,” Phil said. “And I wish I could stay with you two.”

“Be a big boy now, Phil,” Marti said. “If your ex wants you with the family, that’s where you go. First, Leigh, tell him how nice he looks in a suit. I bet he could use a little support.”

Leigh let go of his hand. He did look nice, but she didn’t say anything.

Delia looked up as he approached, then smiled at Leigh, and playfully swatted Phil’s arm and whispered something to him.

“My kind of girl,” Marti said. “Flirting with an ex at her father’s funeral.”

“I like her,” Leigh said. “The other one is a different story.”

“Is she really kicking you out in two weeks?”

“As soon as the historical society carts away his papers, I’m gone.”

“Including those wonderful letters?”

Leigh nodded. “Four letters from Ida May.”

Marti sighed. “You should have lifted them when you had the chance.”

“And have Terry’s daughter on my trail? No thank you.”

“You’ll introduce me to the oldest one today, won’t you?”

“Sure, but why?”

“The house will be up for sale sometime. Oh you should see your face. Don’t worry, I’m not going to try to do business at a funeral, but after a proper amount of time, I’ll get in touch, remind her where we met, and then see if she wants to talk about the future of the property. I’ve got some investors who are interested.”

“And the cottage? Will you bulldoze that down to make condos?”

“Don’t be silly. No one’s going to touch the cottage; even if I have to buy it myself and give it to the town, which just might be the sweetener the city needs to approve a development deal. Speaking of deals, have you thought about my offer?”

“I’m a writer, Marti. I don’t want to sell real estate.”

“Why not? You can write on the side. I can give you health insurance, for god’s sake. It’s a perfect plan. Hell, once you get your license I’ll make you a full partner. In five years you’ll have made plenty of money and then you can go back to writing.”

Leigh shook her head.

“Then at least take some time off, and lets you and I go on a road trip. Tucson, Sante Fe. Think about all those cowboys! Phil’s going to be so busy playing daddy he won’t have anything left for you so—”

“Would you hush? People are listening.” Leigh crossed her arms. “I have a book to write, Marti.”

“I would have thought his kids cancelled that.”

“A different book. And the only trip I can afford is the one I’ll be making to South Carolina this fall. My ex is letting me have the beach house for a visit with Emily.”

“That’s nice.”

“Middle of hurricane season—how nice is that?”

Marti laughed, then pointed. “Late arrivals.”

A green Jaguar had stopped on the small gravel road. Marti and Leigh watched as a woman their age got out of the driver’s seat, walked around the car, and opened the passenger doors.

An old man swung his legs out of the car as he planted the tip of a cane firmly on the ground. He stood, steadied himself, and then stepped to the rear passenger door.

A white haired woman in a yellow suit leaned out and reached for his hand.

“That looks like vintage Chanel she’s got on,” Marti whispered. “What a beautiful woman. A little slow on the step, but good lord, we should look so good when we’re that age. Know who she is? One of his movie star lovers?”

Leigh said, “I think her name is Sylvia.”

Terry’s children rose from their chairs, walked toward the latecomers, and greeted them warmly. Dana reached for Sylvia, but was shooed away, as the older woman tightened her grip on her husband. She tilted her head and whispered. He nodded and walked away slowly. A few yards from the gathering he raised a hand in greeting to Geneva, who was nearly hidden behind a tree. He offered his arm and they walked slowly toward the chairs circling the gravesite.

Dana shrugged and turned to the minister. “Let’s do it,” she said. “Everyone’s here.”

Geneva hesitated when her escort nudged her toward a chair. She looked around, smiled wanly at Leigh, then turned to the woman in the yellow suit, who now held her hand firmly in her own.

*

Leigh traced the bumps of Phil’s spine with her finger. He tightened and then loosened his grip on the corner of a pillow, but his eyes stayed closed. She quietly got out of bed, pulled on a T-shirt and tip-toed out of the room.

She tapped a key on her computer. It whirred back to life and soon the living room of the cottage was illuminated by its light. Two weeks to go. How much could she get done before she was kicked out of the cottage and lost her access to the big house and all of Terry’s journals and papers? There was no time to waste, even if it meant sneaking out of bed while her lover dreamed.