Hidden Memories (17 page)

“I knew I shouldn’t have come with you. We’ve been driving around the block for the last hour,” Savannah grumbled.

Edwinna puffed on her cigarette. “She usually goes home. She doesn’t stay all night. Even the weekends.”

“She’s crazy. You’re crazy. And I’m crazy to be out here with you. Take me home, girl. I’m tired of this shit.”

“All right, Savannah, but I’m not giving up yet.”

* * * * *

Sage heard voices when she entered La Touissant Gallery, but she didn’t see anyone. The receptionist area was empty, but there were signs of Tawny’s presence: a lipstick-stained glass beside the phone, invitations stacked on the desk and a sheet of labels in the typewriter.

Sage followed the voices and the hard-driving, thumping beat of a rap song. She recognized the song as one of Ava’s favorite songs of the moment that she played often. Dr. Dre’s gritty voice led her into the main gallery where she found Tawny climbing a fifteen-foot ladder with the aggressive assurance of a brakeman hopping a freight train about to roll down the track. The ladder teetered precariously as Tawny strained toward the ceiling, plugging and unplugging lighting cords.

“What are you doing?” Sage asked.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Tawny replied as she unscrewed a lightbulb. “I’m changing the lights.”

Sage looked up at the track of studio lights. No bulbs were burned out. “Why?”

“The lighting isn’t strong enough for my opening tonight.”

“Looks bright to me,” Sage said.

“No, the photos have to pop, so we need higher wattage,” Tawny said, scampering down the ladder to gauge the effect. “What do you guys think?” Tawny asked the receptionist and gallery intern who were helping with preparations for the opening.

“Much better,” the receptionist said.

“Photos will definitely pop,” the intern agreed, looking around the room at the black-and-white photos on the walls, of the civil rights movement, taken by a famous photographer.

“Perfect,” Sage said teasingly.

“Okay, Ms. Power Player,” Tawny said. “You know how serious I am about my showings.”

“I know, girl. That’s why your gallery is the hottest place in town.”

Dressed entirely in leather—black leather pants, black leather blouse and a leather skullcap—Tawny said, “Uh-huh, so how come I haven’t got the cover of
Atlanta
magazine?”

“They just haven’t called you yet,” Sage said.

“Come into my office,” Tawny said, taking quick steps. “I’ve only got a few hours to get ready, and I still have a lot to do.”

Sage inquired about the painting she’d seen in November. “What did you find out about the painting of the three women?”

“Connie can’t get in touch with the artist or the man’s wife. So if you want it, it’s yours.”

“What a generous gift,” Sage said in jest.

“Funny, Sage. I can let you have it for one thousand dollars,” Tawny said, as they entered her office. The painting was leaning against the wall, along with several others. “Excuse the mess, but I’m shuffling everything around.”

Sage peered at the vibrant, colorful depiction of three women, with a twist of contemporary realism and abstract flare. “I’ll take it,” she said. “It’s really an amazing piece. I almost believe I see them moving.”

“Yeah,” Tawny said, with a quick glance at the artwork. “By the way, I know someone who can help you find post-Civil War paintings by black artists. His name is Austin Gallagher. He knows that period like the back of his hand,” Tawny said, handing Sage the man’s business card.

“Thanks,” Sage said.

“I think you need to get rid of all that pretentious stuff. Turn the Governor’s Mansion into a gallery for black art,” Tawny said, laughing. “Every painting sculpture, picture, whatever, should have a black face in it and a black artist behind it.”

Sage laughed. “Oh, yeah, we’ll do that.”

* * * * *

“I think you better see this,” Marika said, handing Sage a letter and an envelope.

“What is it?” Sage asked.

“Another threat,” Marika said in a worried tone.

Sage sat down at her desk and read the letter:

You change the flag, you die.

The letter was computer-generated, every letter typed in a different type font, in large, bold headline letters.

“Has security seen this?” she asked, her eyebrows crinkled together.

Marika shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Did Cameron get one?”

“Yes,” Marika replied. “He hasn’t seen it yet.”

“Same thing?”

“His was different. His letter said ‘You change the flag, your family dies’.”

“This is serious. Call the FBI. Find the name of the agent who handled security for the campaign,” Sage said, as a wave of fear washed through her. “I thought all these crazy threats had ended after the election.”

* * * * *

Sage wasn’t the only person to receive threats about the state flag, as Drew was targeted for his public support of the “Change the Flag” movement. Drew retrieved the draft of his editorial for Sunday’s edition of the newspaper from the central printer. He read the copy while walking back to his desk, mentally noting what changes needed to be made.

Twenty days into the session, and lawmakers have adopted some major legislation. The House passed next year’s fifteen-billion-dollar state budget and Governor Cameron Hudson’s elimination of state tax on food. The cut in food tax sparked much controversy in the House, with several members giving emotional testimony about the state’s responsibility to provide its citizens with the basic necessities of life. Both measures must now be approved by the Senate…

The governor’s New State Flag bill remains with a House committee, where it has been sitting since January. They are continuing negotiations on the controversial legislation proposing a new flag with a different emblem.

Back at his desk, Drew was hunched over the article, marking changes in red ink, when he received an internal phone call. His editor, John Keyes, wanted an update on the police-corruption story he was investigating. “I’ll be there,” Drew said, placing the receiver on the phone. He turned to his computer terminal and scrolled through the files, searching for the draft of the article that John wanted to review. He clicked on the computer mouse to access the file.

“Hey, Drew,” said Martin Wilson, a skinny kid from the mail room, with a crew top of dreadlocks. He dropped a pile of mail into Drew’s mailbox. “How ’bout those Hawks, man?”

“It was a thriller of a game,” Drew said.

“I’ll catch you later, man,” Martin said, putting the earphones from his Walkman over his ears once again. Bobbing his head to the music, Martin pushed the mail cart past Drew’s desk.

Drew flipped through the stack of mail until a black envelope snagged his attention. He slit open the flap and pulled out a single sheet of paper.

If the flag changes, you die.

The cryptic message was the same as the previous three he had received since the publication of his editorial supporting the governor’s efforts to change the flag.

Drew was used to receiving angry letters from readers who didn’t agree with his pro-black perspective. People sometimes had extreme, even violent, views, but he’d never received actual threats before. Drew decided to show the threatening letters to his editor.

Chapter Nine

The bell tinkled when Sage pushed the door open and entered the plush offices of Weddings By Design. A stack of wedding invitations and hand-addressed envelopes were stacked on the receptionist’s desk. Recent copies of
Modern Bride
and
Brides
magazines were neatly placed on the cocktail table in front of an ivory-colored sofa. While waiting for the receptionist, Sage gravitated toward the wall splattered with pictures of wedding gowns and bridesmaid dresses in a variety of styles and colors.

“Ms. Kennedy?” a quiet voice suddenly spoke.

Slightly startled, Sage turned away from a picture of a wedding dress that she liked and made a mental note to ask about the dress. “Yes.”

A tall, willowy white woman with curly, red hair approached Sage. “I’m Rebecca Redmond,” she said, extending her hand; “My mother will be here shortly. She’s running a little late this morning. You know how bad traffic can be. Anyway, can I offer you some coffee or tea?”

“Tea would be nice, thank you.”

“Of course, follow me,” the young woman said, motioning with her hand for Sage to follow her into a conference room that reminded Sage of a Victorian parlor. Sage took a seat at a cherrywood antique table and leafed through a brochure that described the company’s services. Rebecca placed a gold-rimmed, fine bone-china cup and saucer on the table in front of Sage. The rich aroma of cinnamon-flavored tea wafted through the air.

For the next ten minutes, Rebecca told Sage about the wedding she was working on for a wealthy client, describing in detail the gowns, the decorations and the reception. “It’s really going to be fabulous,” Rebecca said.

The door opened, and an attractive woman came into the conference room. “Hello, Miss Kennedy,” she said, extending her hand to Sage. “I’m Helena Redmond.”

Sage accepted her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said, noticing that Helena was an older version of her daughter, though with deeper blue eyes and a more refined manner.

The older Redmond woman wore a sapphire-blue wool-crepe suit, the wide lapels of the stylish jacket trimmed in black and the waist fastened with a large black button that matched the knee-length skirt. Blue-topaz earrings dangled from her ears.

“I apologize for being late. There was an accident on 285, and traffic was backed up,” Helena said, placing her purse and briefcase on the table. “I see Rebecca has taken care of you. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“No, thank you. I was just reading your brochure.”

“Good. Good. Now I can give you the details.” She sat down at the table across from Sage. Using a color-slide presentation, Helena explained that Weddings by Design had been in business for five years and that she had bought the company from a friend who’d left Atlanta after a bitter, nasty divorce. Helena went on to describe their range of services, from modest affairs for the budget conscious to the most elaborate wedding where cost is not a factor.

“Weddings by Design are very orchestrated events,” Helena said. “They’re major productions, much like the making of a movie. The end result can—and should—be as spectacular as an epic film.”

Helena concluded her pitch with slides of past weddings coordinated by her company: weddings at churches, country clubs, mansions, gardens and art galleries.

“We offer a broad range of services customized to fit our clients’ needs,” Helena said, before turning off the slide projector and then walking over to the doorway to turn on the lights.

“So have we convinced you to hire us?” Helena asked, her bleached-white smile as dazzling as the large, emerald-shaped diamond on her left hand.

“It’s all very impressive,” Sage admitted, as she sipped from her Noritake teacup. “What I want to discuss is my wedding.”

“Well, that’s why we have a spec sheet for you to fill out. That way we can know what kind of wedding you want.” Helena picked up a file folder with the name “Sage Kennedy” typed on the tab. She opened the folder containing several sheets of paper. “I was thrilled to see that you’re getting married at the Governor’s Mansion. Have you selected a date yet?”

“August 15.”

“Wonderful. I don’t have anything scheduled that day. I try not to do more than one wedding a Saturday, especially if it’s an elaborate wedding.”

“That’s good to know.”

“And how many people are you going to invite?”

“Approximately three hundred.”

“Lovely. Do you wish to have the wedding inside or outside?”

“Inside, in the Circular Hall, if we can work it out logistically. If not, then outside in the gardens.”

“Lovely, those gardens are absolutely beautiful. What tier of service have you selected?”

Sage looked at the page listing tiers from A to G in descending order of cost and services. “Definitely A,” she answered.

“Lovely, lovely,” Helena said with a pleased smile. “Now we can get down to details. While we do that, Becky can work on the contract.”

“That’s fine.”

“I think the most exciting part of getting married is the bridal gown. It marks the event. After all, you are the star of the show. We can even select the gown for you if you like.”

“No, I’ll pick out my gown,” Sage said. “I’ve been waiting all my life to do that.”

* * * * *

The old man slammed down the phone so hard it fell off the desk, along with a pile of mail. “Winchester!” he yelled.

Hearing the loud thud, Winchester ran down the hall, afraid that his father had fallen out of his wheelchair. “What’s the matter?” he asked, knowing that his father’s thin-lipped expression meant he was angry about something.