Woman in Red (49 page)

Then all at once Carrie Ann’s face crumpled and tears began rolling down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said, in a low voice that was almost a whisper. “Please don’t hate me.”

He didn’t know if she was sorry for what she’d done or if it was because she lacked the courage to make it right. But Jeremy recognized that there was nothing more he could do, at least not tonight. Tomorrow, when she’d sobered up, he’d try again. He touched her gently on the arm. “Come on, let’s go back inside. You must be freezing.”

“I feel like dancing. Will you dance with me?” She blew her nose into the crumpled napkin and a wobbly smile surfaced on her tear-streaked face.

“You’re not afraid of what people will say?” he asked.

“Fuck it,” she said, and laughed.

Then they were plunging back in through the fire exit, into the pulsing heartbeat of the music and the heat of all those bodies crammed together, into the mingled smells of sweat, perfume, sticky spilled drinks, and the burnt-toast stink of overheated amps, as if he and Carrie Ann were being swept along by a riptide, with only each other to hold on to.

Alice had been mulling over Randy’s proposal for more than a week when her mother stopped by the restaurant one morning to drop off the last of the rosemary from her garden. Lucy stayed to chat while Alice cracked Dungeness crabs for the stuffed tomatoes that were today’s appetizer special. It wasn’t until she was getting up to leave that she happened to mention, “I don’t know if you’ve heard—Nana’s old place is up for sale.”

Alice paused in the midst of her cracking, brushing bits of shell and crabmeat from her fingers. “No, I hadn’t heard,” she said, looking quizzically at her mother. “I thought the people who bought it were planning to stay there until they retired.”

Lucy shrugged, reaching for the blue quilted bag she carried with her everywhere she went. In it, along with the usual items, like wallet and checkbook and keychain, was a small arsenal of emergency supplies: breath mints and dental floss; ibuprofen and gum for when her ears plugged up on airplanes; a pocket-size Kleenex dispenser and little foil
packets of pre-moistened wipes; a pen light, should she happen to get lost while driving after dark and need to consult a map (though there was little likelihood of that, on an island where she could’ve found her way around blindfolded); a small spiral-bound notebook with a pen clipped to it; a collapsible umbrella and a rain slicker that folded up into a pouch, in the event of a downpour. Her mother was too much of an optimist to live in fear of the sky falling, but should that ever come to pass she would be more than prepared.

“Herb Crenshaw? He’ll never retire,” she said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “He can’t afford to. I’m sure that’s why they’re selling. Don’t repeat this to anyone,” she dropped her voice and leaned in close, “but Darlene Overby, down at the savings and loan, let it slip that they’re behind on their payments.” Lucy prided herself on being the kind of person who minded her own business, and when passing on such tidbits of information she was fond of prefacing it with
Now you know I’m not one to gossip,
but very little happened on the island that she didn’t know about.

“I wonder what they’re asking for it,” Alice mused aloud.

“The land alone has to be worth a fair bit. Prices have really gone up. I should probably think about selling myself. I could always get one of those nice little condos.” Ever since Alice’s dad died, Lucy had been talking about selling her house and moving into something smaller, but Alice knew it was just talk—when her mother moved, hopefully a long time from now, it would be to the burial plot next to her husband’s. “Well, I’ve got to run. I have to get those jars of piccalilli over to Cora’s. Did I tell you she’s one of the judges this year?” Lucy hoisted her quilted bag onto her
shoulder, waving good-bye to Calpernia, who was busy washing lettuce at the sink.

Alice recalled that today was the cutoff date for entries in the annual winter crafts fair, held ever year at Christmastime. Along with the crafts and edibles for sale, there was a booth displaying various baked goods and homemade preserves that had been submitted for judging. At last year’s fair, her mother’s pumpkin streusel tart had taken home the blue ribbon in the pie division.

“Then you can’t miss,” said Alice, with a smile. Cora Bradley was one of her mother’s oldest friends.

Lucy pretended to be appalled that Alice would even suggest such a thing. Cora wouldn’t let friendship sway her opinion, she declared staunchly. And while Alice thought that might be true, it was also true that, here on the island, it was all about who you knew.

Watching her mother fly out the door, clutching her coat with one hand and holding onto her quilted bag that held the cure for every one of life’s ills with the other, Alice was thinking that the network of old ties and alliances by which business was conducted on the island had a dark side as well. One that Owen White had used to his advantage. He’d been like a spider sitting in the middle of his web, a web he himself was now snared in. For, just days ago, Gary had made a full confession. Not only owning up to the bribes he’d taken, but the mayor’s role in it as well, how Owen had used the evidence that would have incriminated Gary to blackmail him into doing things that, if not exactly illegal, were highly unethical. In the fire storm that ensued, Owen had been forced to resign. Construction on the Spring Hill project had also ground to a halt, pending an investigation.

Unfortunately, none of this had altered Jeremy’s case. Gary would testify on his behalf, of course, but he had little to offer that wasn’t hearsay. Besides, in Gary’s present condition, how credible a witness would he make? Now, with the trial date just weeks away, she’d given up hope of an eleventh hour save. They’d simply have to see this through to the end and pray that the jury would believe Jeremy’s side of the story.

Alice’s own attempts to do an end run had only made matters worse. The other day she’d driven out to the Flaglers’s thinking that if she could appeal to Mrs. Flagler, one mother to another, she might still be able to short circuit this whole thing. But Warren Flagler had arrived home as she was winding up to give her pitch, and had all but physically ejected her from the property.
You have a lot of nerve, lady
! he’d shouted, thrusting his angry bulldog’s face into hers.
You and that kid of yours, you’re two of a kind—a couple of bad apples. If I ever catch either of you anywhere near my family again, I’m calling the cops!

But it wasn’t all doom and gloom. At least now she knew Jeremy would be getting a fair trial. For one thing, the D.A., rather than currying favor with the mayor, would be distancing himself instead. For another, Judge Voakes had just this past week resigned, purportedly for health reasons (though Colin believed it was because he’d been in tight with the mayor and was looking to avoid being tarred by the same brush) and a new judge had been assigned to the case, whom Colin seemed to think would be more sympathetic.

Colin
. As always, the thought of him brought a keen sense of regret. But maybe it was just as well that nothing
had come of it. Maybe it was Randy who she was meant to be with. Could that be why he’d never remarried? Because deep down he’d been waiting for her all this time?

She was roused from her thoughts by Calpernia, who’d planted herself in front of Alice. Calpernia waved her arm in a shooing motion. “Go. Get. Baby, if you don’t take a break, get yourself some R and R, you gonna trip on that long face of yours.”

Alice shook her head and smiled, pretending to search for her claw cracker amid the pile of shells on the counter. Was she that transparent? With Colin, too, her feelings must be written all over her face. The realization made her cringe inside, feeling as vulnerable as she had in prison when her cellmate, Norma Fuentes, had gotten hold of her journal and read passages aloud.

When Calpernia showed no sign of backing off, Alice protested, “I can’t just
leave
. What about all this?” She gestured to take in the crabs still to be cracked, the vegetables to be chopped, the chickens breasts to be butterflied. And that was just for starters.

“I ain’t exactly sitting here on my butt.” Calpernia planted her hands on her hips, wearing an obstinate look. The word no wasn’t in her vocabulary. “And if that homie can’t handle a little heat in the kitchen, he in the wrong profession,” she said, referring to Terrel Louis, the short order cook who’d responded to the Help Wanted ad they’d placed and who, according to Calpernia, was the only other black person on the island. So far he was proving to be a good hire, but at the moment he was in town on an errand; he wouldn’t be back for another hour at least. And Alice still had so much work to do . . .

“Really, I can’t. I’ve taken so much time off already,” she insisted, thinking of all the hours lost due to court appearances. It was amazing she was still in business.

“An hour or two won’t kill you. Won’t kill folks’ appetite none, either. They be eating that food, same as always, if it was the devil himself who cooked it.”

Seeing that her friend wasn’t going to budge, Alice gave in at last. “All right. I’m going. But if we fall behind on orders, it’s on you,” she grumbled, slipping out of her not-sowhite chef whites.

“Fine. Just tell me where you goin’ off to, ’case we accidentally set the place on fire or something and need to reach you.” Calpernia flashed her a wicked grin.

Alice had no idea where she was going, but on a whim, she said, “I may take a drive out to my grandmother’s old place. I hear it’s for sale.”

She’d hadn’t been back since it was sold, years ago, and as she headed out back to where her car was parked, she was reminded of all the happy times she’d spent there. Her nana hadn’t been one to sit still—the only times Alice could remember her being off her feet was when she was knitting or sewing, and even then her hands had never stopped moving—but she’d never been too busy for her grandchildren.

Alice smiled, as she climbed into her car and turned the key in the ignition, thinking that if she knew how to cook, it was mainly due to her nana, who’d taught her to trust her instincts. She recalled her first attempt at making cornbread, when she was nine, with Nana supervising.

How much flour, Nana?
she’d asked, poised on the step stool at the kitchen counter.

Oh, I always put in a couple of handfuls,
Nana had said, standing at her elbow, wearing the flowered apron, faded
from many washings, that had seemed as much a part of her as the hand reaching into the flour bin.

But my hand is smaller than yours
, Alice had replied, frowning down at her stubby fingers.

That’s why we have eyes and mouths.
Nana had smiled and tapped the side of her head, where her crinkly hair that was the color of old pennies was growing gray.
You don’t become a good cook by following recipes, Allie—
Nana was the only one who’d called her that—
any more than you can learn to ride a bike by reading a manual. It’s about feel and taste, and having the courage to experiment.
When the batter was ready, she’d had Alice dip a finger in to taste it.
Now tell me, quick, does it need more salt? Is that the right amount of sugar?

Alice had told her it could use a bit more salt and Nana had beamed at her as if she’d solved a difficult math equation.
You see? You’re a natural. Next time, you won’t need my help.

Thinking back on it now, Alice realized that it had been a lesson in more than cooking. Her nana had wanted her to have the courage to experience life in the same way. Maybe because her own had been one of compromises. Alice pondered that as she made her way in her car along the familiar winding road to Eleanor’s house, a road lined with trees—Douglas firs, madronas, maples—that grew as thick as the memories crowding her head. Memories she’d drawn strength from while in prison, for that was what had been at the core of Eleanor’s strength as well: She’d endured. Not only the war and the loss of her husband (for the man she’d seen off to battle wasn’t the same man who’d returned) but the greatest loss of all, that of her true love.

Alice remembered the far-off look her nana would sometimes get. She’d be in the midst of some task, peeling potatoes
or pulling weeds in the garden, when suddenly she would pause to gaze sightlessly out the window or to rock back on her heels on the loamy ground, staring off into the distance. The muscles in her face would loosen, and it would grow soft, girlish almost, with the same dreaming-awake look she’d worn in the portrait William McGinty had painted of her.

It was the portrait that had provided the final clue to the mystery. Now, piecing it together with what she’d learned, Alice finally understood: It was William for whom Eleanor had yearned.

There might still have been a chance for them late in life, but, sadly, when Grandpa Joe died of a stroke, in ’86, Eleanor had followed shortly after. There had been a small tumor on her liver that her doctor had been keeping his eye on. While she’d been caring for her husband, it had remained inactive, neither growing nor shrinking, but as soon as she was no longer responsible for him it had begun to metastasize at an alarming rate. Almost as if, having willed it into submission, she could finally let go of her grip. Within six months, she was gone, buried beside her husband in the small graveyard behind the church of which her father had been pastor.