Bed & Breakfast Page 13

  “Of course I remember you.” The old goat had chased her into a corner at Lila’s wedding and Lila had blamed her for it.

  “And this”—Jasper gestured to a couple in the semicircle that had already formed around them—“is Jerry and Ruth Cremoni, remember them? They’ve been neighbors of mine for years. You and Jerry did a tarantella at Lila and Orrie’s wedding.” Cam nodded uncertainly, wishing they’d come in the back door as Dozier’d suggested. “And this here is Orrie’s special assistant, Jennifer.” Cam extended her hand to the woman with the oversized glasses and protruding teeth, who said, “I’ve heard so much about you, Miss Tatternall,” before Jasper interrupted with, “So whatta you think of your brother-in-law becoming a politician, huh?”

  “Congratulations, Orrie.”

  “Could be governor someday,” Jasper persisted.

  “Today Beaufort County, tomorrow the world.” Cam smiled and scanned the crowd. “Where’s Mama?”

  “I’m right here.”

  For a moment she saw her mother as though she were a stranger. Few women over seventy could honestly be described as pretty, but there was a softness about Josie that made her so. The tension and disappointment that had spoiled her features when she’d been middle-aged had relaxed, so that, Cam thought, she actually looked better than she had ten years ago. But all objectivity vanished as Josie took her in her arms. Cam clung to her, thinking, “This is my mother. This is the body I came out of,” feeling slightly dizzy. Josie released her and took her chin in her hand, asking, “Are you all right?” It was both a question and a reminder to behave, like the soft pinch Josie would give her arm when she was a child and they were at a public ceremony and she wasn’t standing up straight.

  “I’m fine.” She caught a glimpse of Lila over Josie’s shoulder. Lila was hurrying toward them, one hand raised, looking slightly miffed, as though she’d been hailing a taxi that had just whizzed past.

  “So you’re finally here,” Lila said. “We’d almost given up on you.” She kissed the air next to Cam’s cheek, smiled all around, then, as though realizing that her embrace had been too swift and perfunctory, added, “It’s good to see you. Merry Christmas. I’m in a bit of a dither because we were just about to go in to the buffet.”

  “Bet you didn’t eat on the plane,” Ruth Cremoni said. “Knowing you’d have all this fine Southern food waiting for you. I just don’t know how you stand to live in New York.”

  “Sometimes I wonder myself:” Oh, no, please don’t start in with the clichés about the big, bad city.

  “ ’Course we go up there a couple of times a year for the culture. To see the shows and exhibits, you know.”

  “They don’t feed you on planes anymore,” Jasper informed them. “Cutbacks. Throw a bitsy bag of peanuts at you like you’re a monkey.”

  “The last time I was on a plane . . .” someone else put in, retelling a story Cam had heard on some late-night comedy show. Everyone laughed dutifully. Orrie took her by the arm and started to steer her through the room. “Cam, I’d like you to meet . . .” She was moving in slow motion through a gauntlet of people dressed in bright, paint-box colors. Their faces were mostly middle-aged, uniformly well cared for (though some hadn’t gotten the message about sun damage in time), their smiles made her think about advances in cosmetic dentistry. Here was eternal summer—or at least eternal autumn. But really there were no seasons here, she thought as she looked over people’s heads to the swimming pool and the lighted patio. “I-know-we’ve-never-met ...” and “We’ve-heard-so-much-about-you,” and “You probably don’t remember but . . .” She thought she remembered, or said she did, Mrs. So-and-so from her mother’s garden club. And there was a fit-looking man with snowy hair and a needle nose who looked familiar, but he was such a Captain of Industry type that she wasn’t sure if she’d actually met him or just seen him, or someone who looked like him, on the cover of Forbes or Business Week. Josie was next to her, a hum of concern underneath her social voice. “So glad you’re here, darlin’,” Josie whispered. “We’ll be able to talk soon.” Then, glancing around, Josie saw Lila trying to shepherd guests to the buffet. Knowing how much it bothered Lila when things weren’t going according to plan, Josie said, “I think I’ll set a good example and fill my plate. See you in a bit,” squeezed Cam’s hand, and left her side.

  “... and I hope you brought some lighter clothes,” a woman in a dress vivid as a Gucci scarf was saying.

  “Well, it’s pretty cold in New York,” Cam replied, pulling at the neck of her sweater. A little later, after Orrie had been buttonholed by a short and insistent black man who wanted to talk about funding for a Gullah Arts Festival, someone else commented on her dark clothes and said they made her look like Anne Rice. A few steps further on, in response to still another comment about her outfit, she said, in a throaty, accented voice, “ ‘I wear black because I’m in mourning for my life,’ ” and seeing the look of bewilderment that produced, added, “That’s a quote from Chekhov.” Oh, get a grip, she told herself. She lowered her head to compose her face, put a smile on it, raised it, and found herself looking at a man with a ponytail.

  Bedford Bethune. She’d been on the debating team with him. She’d gone skinny-dipping with him. She’d smoked dope and talked politics with him. She’d even made love with him at the beach on Hunting Island. And she’d let him think he was the first when the fact was that she’d lost it to Chet Sumter in a tussle in the backseat of his daddy’s Olds. And she’d never even liked Chet Sumter. Chet was a beefcake, dumb as a post. She’d known that at the time. What had she been thinking? Well, she hadn’t been thinking at all. After her fine officer’s daughter upbringing, all the rules and injunctions and warnings—the things she’d done! At the time she’d thought promiscuous meant “wild,” but now she knew the real definition, and it was even more shameful: indiscriminate; casual; lacking in standards. She, who’d wanted to define her own standards for everything, had been totally lacking in standards when it had come to boys. And poor Josie must’ve known and it must’ve made her frantic. Why had she put her mother in the miserable position of constantly lying and covering up for her? Why had she risked Bear’s anger? Because if Bear had found out it wouldn’t have just been anger, it would have been wrath, rage, The Death of a Thousand Cuts. But oh, those big ol’ daddy cars with their roomy backseats, the smell of gasoline and leather, the steamed-up windows . . .

  Bedford cut through the crowd. “Remember me?”

  “I do indeed. You’ve hardly changed at all.”

  “Nor have you. But then, I have a theory that strong personalities don’t change all that much.”

  Was he putting her on or had he morphed into some New Age guru? “I knew you were back in the States but I certainly didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Didn’t you know this is the place to be? Yankees retire down here, even blacks who went north are coming back.”

  “And you got homesick?”

  “Not so much for the people, I know ’em too damn well, but for the Lowcountry itself. Want to see the sun go down over those marshes while we’ve still got ’em.”

  “But what do you do with yourself down here?”

  “I’m a country gentleman, or maybe rabble-rouser would be a better description. I run a little newsletter on environmental issues. Try to convince the local politicos to do the right thing, and in some cases,” he said, sotto voce, nodding in Orrie’s direction, “that’s no small job. Yes, ma’am, things have changed. Land grab is called development and management, fanny-patting has given way to family values, hunting has been replaced by golf, the preachers’ wives wear false eyelashes, and we’re growin’ our own lawyers. So ...” He paused. “How long are you going to be in town?”

  “I’m going back to New York right after Christmas.”

  The man standing next to them said, “I just don’t understand how anyone can live in New York.”

  “It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it,” Cam an
swered.

  The man laughed. “You’re in publishing, right? So I guess you’ve got to live there. I do a little writing myself. I wonder if you could . . .”

  Lordy, Cam thought, if you met a dentist at a party could you open your mouth and show him your molars? “I’m afraid I can’t help you much. I work for a feminist press.”

  “You only publish women?”

  “Not exclusively, but mostly so. We publish books dealing with—”

  “You’re not a femi-Nazi, are you?”

  “A what?”

  “Femi-Nazi,” a woman with her arm looped through the man’s arm explained. “That’s what Rush Limbaugh calls them.”

  “Calls who?” Cam asked.

  “Hey, we’d better join that chow line or we won’t get anything to eat,” Bedford said, though there was enough food to supply a small army. “Saved you,” he said, moving close behind her after she’d excused herself and they’d headed for the dining room. “How long is it since you’ve been back?”

  “Since my father died. About this time of year, over ten years ago.”

  “Lotsa changes, Camilla. Lotsa changes.” As he guided her through the crowd she heard snatches of conversation.

  “If they close the bases the economy of the whole state . . .”

  “They close Parris Island, we ought to secede again.”

  “Too damned cold to play golf, so ...”

  “Of course you know Peatsy Gibbs! I heard she’s not expected to pull through.”

  “I already opened it. The most darling little solid gold teddy bear with ruby eyes and . . .”

  Bedford said, “Well, this is no place to have a civilized conversation. I think I’ll skip the food, pay my respects to your sister, and hit the road. You’ll be staying at your mother’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay if I drop by?”

  “Please do.”

  “Maybe we could take a drive out to Hunting Island. I’ve got a place out there.”

  “That would be nice. I like the beach best in winter.”

  “You would.” Praise or criticism? She couldn’t tell. “So I’ll call you,” he promised, starting to leave. “Give you the real skinny on everything that’s happened since you left. Great to see you.”

  “Oh, Cam ...” Evie, at the head of the candlelight buffet table, waved a napkin. “Come on over here. You don’t mind if my big sister cuts in, do you?” she asked the bald man next to her with coy charm. “ ’Course not,” he said, stepping aside. Cam thanked him, picked up a plate, and felt her mouth water at the barbecued shrimp, roast beef, smoked turkey, vegetables, crudites, and assortment of breads and cheeses. “You’re not going to stay at Mama’s the whole time, are you?” Evie asked.

  “I’m not going to be here that long, so I guess I’ll just try to fit in with whatever holiday plans are going.”

  “Why don’t you come on in to Savannah? You could see my apartment, we could do some last-minute shopping, or just have lunch—we’ve got some really first-class restaurants now—and play catch-up. It’s just sinful to think we’ve gone so long without quality time together.” Evie’s voice was just a tad louder than was necessary, like an educated supermom talking to her child in public and showing the bystanders what a fine job of parenting she was doing. The buzz and chirp of conversation kept up all around them, but Cam was aware that she and Evie were the focus of attention.

  Don’t be paranoid, Cam told herself. People aren’t just looking at you. They’re looking at her. Little Evie’s a local celebrity. Her eyes swept the table and met those of a tall black man about her age who was standing across from her. He was possibly the most conservatively dressed man in the room, in a dark suit, pale blue button-down shirt, and striped tie. Though she couldn’t imagine where or how they might have met his eyes were warm with recognition.

  “I love your columns,” a woman with a helmet of gold hair who was helping herself to the asparagus said to Evie. “They’re just so honest.”

  “I try,” Evie said with an appropriate mix of pride and humility. “I guess writing’s in the genes. My great-grandaddy on Mama’s side wrote these wonderful Civil War letters, and my daddy tried to write a book about his experiences in World War II, and Cam published a short story just before she went off to New York.”

  “I remember that,” the black man said, giving Cam another don’t-you-remember glance.

  The woman with the gold hair turned to him. “Oh, H.A., where’s Constance tonight?”

  “She wanted to come but . . .” He made a palms-up, apologetic gesture. His hands were large but had an almost feminine grace. “... our daughter’s flying home from Howard for the holidays, so Constance and I flipped a coin and Constance lost, so she’s gone to pick her up.” His head, like his hands, was beautifully shaped. “Positively Rodin,” as Reba would have said. But she was still trying to place him. Had she ever known anyone called H.A.?

  “And,” Evie went on, recapturing the floor, “after they fired that political consultant, Lila wrote some of the copy for Orrie’s campaign literature. Whoops,” she covered her mouth with mock horror, “I don’t think I was supposed to tell that. And of course Mama published a book. Just a cookbook, but they sell it at local bookstores as well as the Chamber of Commerce and she gets some little royalty checks.”

  “That’s nice,” the woman agreed, giving Cam a sidelong glance as she reached for the hollandaise sauce.

  “Cam, you aren’t putting anything on your plate,” Evie noted.

  “I’m slow tonight. Jet lag, I guess.”

  “Jet lag from New York?” the woman asked. “We’re in the same time zone.”

  “I didn’t sleep much last night.” And the pressure of making small talk with so many strangers was making her feel positively catatonic.

  “Would you like a drink?” one of the servers who was replenishing a bread basket asked her.

  She laughed. “How about a double scotch with a hemlock chaser?” But if she were pregnant, she shouldn’t drink.

  “Say again?”

  If she were pregnant. The bottom dropped out of her stomach again. “Just some seltzer, please.”

  “ ’Scuse me, ma’am?”

  “Uh—club soda.”

  “Club soda,” the server repeated, and turned away.

  “Oh Cam,” Evie said, “I’m so glad you’ve given it up. What with the history of alcoholism in our family . . .”

  Cam moved her head, part question, part protest. What the hell did Evie think she was doing?

  “I know they’ve yet to prove a direct genetic link, at least with daughters, but what with Daddy’s drinking problem . . .”

  Cam’s mouth opened. When the words finally came out she sounded as censorious as a toffee-nosed matron in a British comedy. “Evie, I don’t think . . .”

  Evie was as wide-eyed as a four-year-old who didn’t understand why it was wrong to point out the hump on a stranger’s back. “But it’s the truth, Cam. There’s no point in staying in a state of denial.”

  Cam’s look of disbelief hardened into one of recognition. Here was Evie the Innocent, the “I don’t know why you’re mad ’cause I told” tattletale, the kid who’d started acting dense at such an early age it was impossible to tell if she were really stupid or deeply conniving—or if she knew the difference. “Our father . . .” Cam began, aware that the chatter around them had all but stopped. Her throat closed and she felt a prickly flush come over her neck. “A lot of military men are hard-drinking,” she said offhandedly. “It goes with the territory.”

  “Not anymore,” a barrel-chested man standing next to her said with a chuckle. “At least not in public. Not after the Tailhook mess. The brass frowns on it now. Hurts their image. You can go to the officers’ club on a Friday night and it’ll be all but empty.”

  Evie nodded. “You can call it hard-drinking if you like, but that’s just a euphemism. Daddy might have made it to general if it hadn’t been for the drinking and”—she
gazed at the ceiling—“other things.”

  “Evie!” Cam shot her a look that would have frozen a rabbit in its tracks. Evie looked surprised and hurt. The gold-headed woman started talking about cut-rate flights to Cancun, but no one was listening. Cam felt as though she couldn’t breathe. Evie said, “Well, Cam, if you’re not drinking, you should have something to eat. You must be starved. Here, take mine,” and offered her plate, piled with food, with a conciliatory gesture. The barrel-chested man, seemingly unaware of the tension, persisted with, “Fellow at my local liquor store tells me his sales are up because servicemen would rather pay full price than be seen loading up at the PX.”

  “Don’t know why I piled all this on my plate,” Evie chatted on with forced gaiety, “ ’cause I’m watching my waist.”

  There was an instant of silence, then the black man across the table said, “A waist is a terrible thing to mind.” Apparently Cam was the only one who got it, because she was the only one who laughed, but others joined in just to be polite, and conversations resumed. When she made eye contact, the man gave her a complicitous smile. It was that shy but sly expression that jolted her memory: Hannibal Attucks Staples. To say they’d been good friends would be an exaggeration. More properly, because they’d recognized the similarity of their experience and circumstances, they’d been unspoken allies.