Just Kiss Me (8 page)

“You mean ‘God’s tender mercies?’” He grabbed a couple of forks from a drawer and moved toward her. “Mother can justify anything and doggedly stick to it. It’s how she wins most arguments.” He stabbed a small chunk of broken cake and held the fork out for her. Vivien looked at the fork but didn’t take it.

“It’s been a long time since I had coconut funeral cake.” He took her free hand and placed the handle in her palm. “Don’t make me eat this alone.” He stabbed another piece and stuck it in his mouth.

She looked at the fork in her hand then up at him as a frown pulled at the corners of her full lips. “I’m not a fan of cake.”

He swallowed and stabbed another piece. “Since when? I recall one of Mother’s garden parties and the theft of those fussy little cakes she serves.”

“Must have been Spence.”

He took a bite and chuckled. “A lot of things got blamed on Spence, but he didn’t like those sissy cakes any more than I did.”

“I don’t remember that.” She took a drink of her coffee and a small smile curved her mouth. “If I did borrow Nonnie’s garden party petit fours—”

“—Darlin’,” he interrupted, “you can’t
borrow
something that you don’t plan to return.”

Her smile grew and warm, bubbly laughter spilled from her lips like she was filled with sunshine and champagne.

“Well if I did,
accidently
, take a few of your momma’s petit fours, it was because y’all were out of ice cream.” She set the fork on the table without taking a bite. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Whitley-Shuler. If I’m not ready by the time Nonnie comes back, she’ll snatch me bald headed,” she said, her accent back in full force and dripping with Southern honey.

THE NEXT TWENTY-FOUR
hours were a kaleidoscope of panic and exhaustion, fear and grief, tumbling and turning and sliding one over the other, changing color and shape but always creating the same unreal images. Sharp and dull at the same time, Vivien’s sorrow was a constant in her heart and soul.

If not for Nonnie, Vivien wasn’t sure how she would have gotten though the day. The Mantis had been surprisingly helpful, showing glimpses of tenderness and emotion in between domineering commands. She sat beside Vivien as she chose funeral music at St. Phillips and toured the coffin room at Stuhr’s. Nonnie knew how many limousines and which hearse they should use. When it came to cemeteries, Nonnie insisted that only Mount Pleasant Memorial Gardens would do. They chose a burial plot not far from former governor James Edwards. Nonnie wrote down the names of the six pallbearers who would carry Macy Jane’s white casket, and she knew exactly which florist to call to arrange the flowers. But Nonnie wasn’t family. Vivien was family, and she and her momma had always taken care of each other. It was Vivien’s responsibility to take care of the intimate details for her mother this one last time.

It was her responsibility alone to write her momma’s obituary, and later that night as her panties once again dried in the laundry room, she grabbed the laptop her mother had used to feud with the United Daughters of the Confederacy and wrote. Vivien was an actress, not a writer, and it took her most of the night to end up with something long enough to take up three-quarters of a page in the
Post and Courier
. When she was through, she hit “send” and closed the laptop.

If still alive, she knew her mother would feign modesty and toss in a bit of humility, but she’d secretly be very pleased with her own obituary. In keeping with the Southern tradition of embellishment, and her own momma’s lifelong aversion to a flat-out lie, Vivien stretched the truth just to the point of snapping like a rubber band. She wrote that Macy Jane was loved by many for her free (unpredictable) spirit, imaginative (dreamed of exotic places) mind, artistic (painted tables) ability, and award-winning (won third place for her peach jam once) culinary skills.

The last paragraph, she didn’t have to stretch anything. She wrote about her mother’s kind heart and gentle soul, and that she would be missed greatly. She mentioned family members who had preceded her mother in death, and the handful who still lived in various parts of the country, but she did not mention herself by name. The funeral service was about Macy Jane Rochet, not Vivien Leigh Rochet, and the last thing she wanted was to turn the day into a
Raffle
fan fair.

It was also Vivien’s lone responsibility to choose her momma’s burial clothes. When she woke the next morning, she laid out the pink silk dress her momma had worn at her housewarming party. She pulled a garment bag from the closet and added a pair of Christian Louboutin pumps her mother had only worn inside because she didn’t want to scratch the red bottoms. She added the thirteen-millimeter Mikimoto pearls and matching earrings she’d given her mother for Christmas five years ago, and because her momma wouldn’t be caught dead without shape wear, Vivien included her thigh-length Spanx.

She packed everything and hugged the pink dress to her chest one last time. The scent of her momma’s perfume lingered on the silk Peter Pan collar, but she refused to give in to tears. She’d spent most of yesterday crying, and if she started, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to stop. If she broke down, she wouldn’t be able to get back up.

Once everything was ready for Stuhr’s, she showered and pulled a vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt over her one strapless bra. She wore black jeans and leather sandals and very little makeup. She picked up the garment bag before she headed out the front door. She moved along the cobblestone path toward the back of the big house and remembered the many times she’d hid in the boxwood or rose-covered gazebo and eavesdropped on Nonnie’s conversations, or climbed the live oak and dropped acorns on Spence and his friends.

It had been twelve years since she’d set foot inside the Whitley-Shuler house, but as soon as she stepped inside she could see that nothing had really changed in the enormous Greek revival. It still smelled of old wood and paste wax, mixed with a slight scent of musty fabric and restored wallpaper. It still felt like a museum with family portraits and paintings, marble statues and Duncan Phyfe furniture.

Vivien found Nonnie in the double parlor, the pocket doors open and the ornate room in the process of being cleaned and polished for the reception the day after tomorrow. Blue and gold period rugs matched the heavy silk drapes, swathing the floor windows just as Vivien remembered. The French doors were open to the piazza that wrapped around the house, and Nonnie stood in front of an ornate marble fireplace, tall and lean in a navy-blue suit with brass buttons. She looked like a general, directing a crew that had already begun to set up extra tables and chairs for the funeral reception. Everyone in the room seemed to snap to attention at her command. Everyone but the one man who stood with his elbow on the mantel’s edge, displeasure pulling at his brow. He’d rolled the sleeves of his blue-and-white-striped dress shirt up his forearms and a silver watch circled his wrist. His fingers tapped the marble mantel as he watched his mother point and direct. Then she turned toward him and pointed toward the ceiling. He shook his head, clearly not happy with the orders his mother issued his way. The last time Vivien’d seen Henry, he’d stood in her own momma’s kitchen, frosting on his shirt and laughing about stolen petit fours. She couldn’t recall if she’d ever heard Henry laugh before. Ever. He’d certainly never called her “darlin’,” and for a moment or two, they had been just a man and a woman. Standing in a kitchen sharing a laugh. She’d forgotten their past and that she’d called him Butt Head Henry.

“I’m not your employee,” he told Nonnie as Vivien walked toward them. “I’m only here to pick up grandmother’s extension leaves for you.” He pointed toward a dining table with big claw feet shoved against the far wall. “I don’t think you realize what it’s going to take to get those damn things ready in two days.”

“I appreciate it, son, but right now I need you to go up into the attic and look around for your grandmother Shuler’s wedding silver. I need the chrysanthemum cake plate.” She gestured with her hands. “It’s about yea big, by yea big. It’s heavy and tacky beyond words.”

Vivien remembered the chrysanthemum silver. She’d polished it enough times that the pattern was imprinted in her brain. She set the garment bag on a horsehair settee and interrupted Nonnie’s diatribe on the Shulers’ tacky taste. “Excuse me.” When the older woman turned toward her she said, “I have Momma’s clothes ready.”

“Good.” Nonnie nodded. “I’ll have someone take them to Stuhr’s for you.”

Which brought Vivien to her second problem of the day. “I need to shop for some things.” From behind his mother’s left shoulder, Henry’s dark gaze met hers and the lines creasing his forehead rose as if he’d looked up and was surprised to see her. “When I left L.A., I forgot to pack a dress.”

One corner of his mouth lifted as if she wasn’t an altogether unpleasant surprise. In the past two days, Henry had smiled at her more than in her entire life. She turned her attention to Nonnie, away from the confusion of Henry’s smiles. “Sarah isn’t here to pick something up for me.” The last time Vivien had tried to shop like a regular person, a crowd of photographers had camped outside of Dior on Rodeo, waiting for her. Within minutes, the crowd grew bigger, the paparazzi more intense, trapping her inside. Before security could disperse the spectators, a Japanese tourist got mowed down by Paris Hilton’s pink Bentley. Thank goodness the tourist survived, but Vivien had been horrified by the whole experience. She’d learned her lesson about walking around like a normal person. “I don’t want to attract attention while I’m in Charleston.” Her gaze rose to Henry’s face as she said, “Sarah usually calls ahead of time so the store manager can get security in place before my arrival.”

He shook his head. “I doubt you’ll need security.”

Maybe he was right. This was Charleston. Very few people knew she was in town. If anyone recognized her, they’d probably think she was just some random woman who resembled Vivien Rochet, a plain and less attractive version, of course.

“I’ll call Berlin’s.” Nonnie pulled a cell phone from the pocket of her blazer and dialed the number. She relayed Vivien’s problem and concern, then she placed a hand over the phone and said, “Ellen’s checking to see if they still have the black Armani.”

Vivien knew exactly where Berlin’s was located. As a kid, she and her momma had window-shopped at the exclusive clothier at King and Broad. They’d talked about the day they would be rich enough to walk through the doors and buy designer dresses and frivolous hats, but like all the other things they’d dreamed about, they’d never done it. Now they would never get the chance. “Is Momma’s car in the big garage?”

“That car doesn’t run. Henry will drive you,” Nonnie volunteered her son like he was a chauffeur service, then turned her attention to the voice on the phone. “Oh that’s great.”

Vivien glanced at Henry and the aggravation chasing away his slight smile. As a boy, he’d often been kind of scary and intense. As a man, he looked more dark and broody than scary, like Heathcliff or Mr. Darcy or Joe Manganiello.

“I’ll take a cab,” Vivien said rather than risk Henry getting stormy or pensive or going werewolf on her.

“I’ll drop you off at Berlin’s,” he offered but he didn’t sound happy about it.

“Yes, that’s right.” Nonnie paused and looked at Vivien. “What size are you, dear?”

“Zero.”

ZERO. ZERO WASN’T
a size. It was nothing. Zip zilch zippo. Diddly-squat. It was a goose egg, a bagel, a rolling doughnut. It wasn’t the size of a woman. Or least it shouldn’t be the size of a woman.

Henry sat in a black-and-white chair, leaning forward with his forearms on his thighs, and pretending to read the fashion magazine in his hands. He sat near the rear of Berlin’s and he couldn’t quite figure out how he’d landed the job of Vivien’s chauffer and personal bodyguard. He’d meant to just drop her off and be on his way, but she’d sat in his truck staring at the storefront instead of opening the door. She’d fussed with her big sunglasses and the ball cap he’d lent her, clearly nervous. He’d been thinking of a way to shove her out the door when he heard himself offer to wait for her inside the shop. He supposed it was the Southerner in him, but if he’d known Vivien would take more than ten or fifteen minutes, he would have bitten his tongue off rather than take on the job.

Hell, he already had a job. One that did not include Vivien Rochet trying on dresses and studying herself from different angles in a three-sided mirror. At the moment, his latest job waited in his shop for him to finish. He’d built the curved kitchen island of cherrywood and steel, and he needed to add drawers and pulls before he had his guys install it in a penthouse on Prioleau Street.

“I’m almost done. I promise.”

Henry lifted his gaze from an article on “beach hair.” Vivien moved from a dressing room, breezing past him toward the floor-length mirrors. The back of his skull pinched his brain. He recognized that dress. It was the first one she’d tried on an hour ago. If he’d had a gun, or a knife, or a hammer, he might have put himself out of his misery.

Once again, he watched Vivien study the dress clinging to the slight curves of her body. She turned from side to side and placed a palm on her flat stomach. With her free hand, she lifted her hair off her long neck and shoulders as if she’d never seen herself in that particular dress. Like she hadn’t noticed the way it cupped her small breasts and cute little butt, or the way the black material rested across her white shoulders.

“This dress does fit beautifully on you,” a sales-woman told her as she got down on one knee and fussed at the hem. “I think it just needs to be taken up an inch.”

“I think you’re right.” Vivien tilted her head to the side. “And with the Manolo peep toes, I won’t look so short and stocky.”

Stocky
? She was either kidding or one of those annoying women who dug for compliments. She dropped her hair and slid both of her hands down her side to her behind. If she asked if the dress made her butt looked big, he didn’t trust himself not to choke her. He’d almost forgotten that she was a spoiled movie star who thought people lived to serve her and couldn’t get a morning latte without an assistant. There had been a time in his life when he’d been as thoughtless. When his ego had driven him to win at all costs and put his needs above those around him.