Mad Girls In Love (38 page)

“Are you all right, Louie?” Dorothy folded her arms.

“I was talking to a patient,” he said.

“A patient,” she echoed. “At this hour?”

“Yes.”

She stared down at him.

“A lot of my patients work odd shifts,” he said. “A doctor never gets any rest. You know how it is.”

“No, I don't.” She stared at him for a long moment. Then she glanced back into the kitchen. Along the counter were open jars, a knife smeared with Dijon, the foil packages all ripped open.

“You've made a mess,” she said. “And I'm afraid you'll have to clean it up yourself.”

 

Dorothy returned to the guest room and stretched out in the iron bed, listening to her heart crank out a wild, irregular rhythm.
Damn him, damn his soul to the bottom of hell.
Her door stood open, and every sound was magnified by the darkness—her own raspy breathing and her daughter's soft murmur, the mattress squeaking as Louie slid into the marriage bed. All over the house the pine floors popped, and the kitchen appliances made whirring sounds. She pulled up the quilt, shivering. She had no idea that New Orleans got this cold in February. In five months, the Lord willing, Bitsy's baby would be born. And Dorothy couldn't breathe a word of what she'd overheard to her daughter, not one word. Because her daughter's hold on this pregnancy was tenuous. Because the phone call proved nothing. Because life would go on, and all Dorothy had to do was keep her mouth shut. She closed her eyes, remembering all he'd said on the phone. “Please,” he'd begged the other woman. “I've got to see you.”

If Albert were alive, he'd punch Louie in the mouth, even though Albert himself had wandered during their marriage. Men and their cheating little hearts. It was enough to make an old woman's blood pressure rise. It was enough to make her heart throw a clot. She decided she would say nothing; she would hold her tongue but remain secretly watchful. She was pretty sure that Louie was counting on her silence. He didn't strike her as the sort of man who leaped headfirst into a confession. Men did as they pleased, especially doctors—back home in Crystal Falls, all the physicians had swimming pools and mistresses. Only the Lord knew what Byron had done behind Clancy Jane's back. But at least he'd never got a swimming pool. Her own mother used to say that men were vulnerable to affairs during a wife's pregnancy, but Dorothy had a different theory—men were prone to infidelity
all the time
. They were genetically programmed to spread their sperm around, even if the stupid things had undergone vasectomies.

Dorothy just couldn't stand anyone hurting her child; but a mother could only do so much: make tea, wash the windows with vinegar water, sweep every speck of dirt under the rug.

 

A LETTER FROM CLANCY JANE

Shortly after April Fool's Day, my mother-in-law stopped by my house with a bottle of Dom Perignon. She wore a brown tweed suit, and her dark hair was pulled back with an Hermès scarf—the colors in the scarf complementing the tweed. She carried a Chanel bag, and a manila envelope was tucked under her arm.

“I'm so glad to see you up and about,” she told me, kissing the air beside my ear. Her perfume smelled spicy, fruity. “I know you're just thrilled to be out of bed.”

“Yes.” I smiled down at my bulging abdomen.

“And I love how the house is coming together.” She turned around in the foyer, and her diamond earrings caught light from the chandelier. She handed me the bottle. “You'll learn to love this—well, after the baby's born. When are you due?”

“July thirty-first.”

“That's a stifling hot month to have a baby, but thank God you've got central air. Is Louie just beside himself over the baby? Is he home, by the way?”

“No, ma'am.” I said. “He'll be in surgery most of the morning.”

“Good. That gives us time to chat.”

We stepped into the large, rectangular living room and stopped in front of a French credenza that Louie and I had bought in the Quarter. “Oh, this is lovely,” Honora said. “And your draperies are divine. Are they Cowtan and Tout or Brunschwig?”

“Cowtan and Tout,” I said, a little surprised.

“But isn't that fabric only available through interior designers?”

I decided not to mention my diploma from Ha'vard.

“I bought that darling Osborne & Little fabric I have in one of my guest rooms through my dear friend, Sister DeBenedetto. She's not a nun, in case you're wondering. She's the leading designer in New Orleans. We were roommates at Newcomb a thousand years ago. Why don't I just bring Sister by one afternoon? You'll love her—and her fabrics.”

Honora walked around the room, prattling about Sister and the antiques the two of them had brought back from Normandy. I nodded politely and tried to seem interested. I put the champagne bottle on a burled table and laid a protective hand over my stomach. I thought I felt something move—a foot? When my mother-in-law paused, I jumped into the conversation. “Please don't take this the wrong way, but I've been looking forward to decorating the rest of the house myself. It's a long way from being finished, but I want to take my time.”

Louie's mother gave me a shrewd look. “Oh, I didn't mean for Sister to
do
your house. Rather, I thought you might work
with
her one or two days a week. After the baby's here, of course. Perhaps she'll take you on as a junior partner or something like that. She's got the sweetest shop on Royal? I'm only saying this because a job might help you cope with Louie's long absences. The boy is a notorious workaholic. Well, I guess you already know that.”

“Yes, ma'am, I sure do,” I said. The notion of working in the French Quarter held a bit of charm, but I knew that once the baby arrived, no power on earth—even the lure of a famous designer—would make me leave home.

“I know my son.” She frowned. “I'm afraid it won't get any better.”

“No, ma'am. Would you like some coffee?”

“Bourbon, if you've got it.” She sat down on a jade damask sofa, so new the tags were still attached. She lifted one and made a small, approving noise. “This room is gorgeous. Your taste is exquisite. You'll
love
working with Sister. Have you done anything with the master bedroom?”

“Not yet.”

“One word of advice,” she said, laughing. “Never put a man in a room with a flowery bedspread, or he'll feel compelled to prove his masculinity. I'm speaking from experience, you understand. Louie's father was a bit of a rogue.”

“I've asked Louie to pick out the bedroom colors and fabrics,” I said.

“You clever puss.”

While I poured the drink, she set the envelope on the coffee table. I wondered what was inside—fabric samples? Legal documents? We chatted a bit more about Sister and her famous clients: a British rock star; a TV chef; a former Miss America. Then Honora began talking about one of her house guests, Isabella D'Agostino. “Back in the sixties, she was a Hollywood star who specialized in playing rich, spoiled bitches. She co-starred with Rock Hudson, James Garner, and Doris Day. After her career dried up, she came to the Coast and I introduced her to the wealthiest man in Mobile, Dickie Boy McGeehee. He died, and Isabella moved into one of my guest rooms to spend the weekend, and she's been there off and on ever since.”

She set her empty glass on a coaster and lit a cigarette. Then she reached for the envelope and spilled out Xeroxed papers. “I hesitate to show you these things when you're expecting a baby,” she began, “but I didn't know what else to do.”

I leaned forward and read a headline—
FUGITIVE IN CUSTODY
,
KID
NAPPED CHILDREN REUNITED WITH LOVED ONES
. I felt something drop inside my chest, and I sank back against the pillows.

“W-who sent those?”

“Some anonymous troublemaker—there wasn't a return address or a postmark. The evildoer left the envelope in my mailbox.”

I nodded, feeling tears burn the backs of my eyes.

Louie's mother stared down at her cigarette, smoke drifting above her fingers. “Darlin', I hate to ask, but does Louie know?”

“Yes.” Tears slid down my cheeks. “Everything.”

She gave me a long, penetrating look. “Do you know who'd want to cause you trouble?”

I shook my head, but offhand I could think of at least eight prime suspects, all drawn from the Wentworth and Saylor clans. Although it could have been a disgruntled diner from the Green Parrot, or one of my former “friends.” Still, I couldn't imagine any of them driving down to Mobile Bay and putting the clippings in my mother-in-law's mailbox.

She leaned forward, smoke curling above her head. “Did you really kidnap those children?”

I began in a halting voice to tell her the story. When I finished, she blew a smoke ring and said, “You know, I remember it vaguely. A young mother was caught with her baby on the roof of her car. I was actually in Point Minette that whole fall—it was seventy-two, right? I was going to a chiropractor. It's such a sweet town, isn't it? I must have passed by that boardinghouse a hundred times. Did you know it's been turned into a bed and breakfast? The old woman sold it to a man from Charleston, and he's fixed it up. Just a darling place. I never dreamed—”

She paused and I finished the sentence. “Dreamed you'd end up with a criminal daughter-in-law? I'm so sorry. I should have told you myself. You must be disgusted.”

“No, no. You didn't let me go on. I was
going
to say that I never dreamed our paths would cross. You know me, I'm partial to damaged women. I take them in.”

I did know that. Shelby DeChavannes and Renata had been living with Honora for the past month. Whenever Louie drove to Point Clear to fetch his daughter, he went alone, and my imagination had gotten the best of me. Not that I had any proof. It was just a feeling. I looked up at Honora and said, “I'm probably overstepping myself here. And I know it's none of my business, but I've got to know something.”

“Yes?” She leaned forward, brown eyes alert. Smoke drifted over her head in a comma.

I folded my hands and squeezed them, hard. This wasn't going to be easy. I was definitely prying, and my mother-in-law wouldn't appreciate it. “Does Shelby still love my husband? Does she want him back?”

She looked startled. She stubbed out her cigarette, then lit another.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I shouldn't have asked.” Calm
down,
I told myself. Hadn't she just said that she was drawn to damaged women? With Aunt Clancy, it was cats. And my mother-in-law also had an enormous collection of designer handbags. Violet had once said there was a fine line separating collectors from compulsives. I myself walked that line, because I shared the handbag fetish, and Louie was spoiling me with outrageously expensive shoes. When my feet began to swell, Louie would just take me down to Maison-Blanche and buy me more in larger sizes.

“Nonsense. You have every right to know.” Her mouth slanted downward. “My son can be such a naughty boy—just like his father. So when Shelby asked if she and Renata could stay with me, I was happy to oblige. And it was a good thing, because Shelby has been suffering from a terrible depression. But…can I speak candidly?”

I nodded.

“When I first met you, I hadn't the foggiest notion about your earlier…escapades. And even though I liked you very much, I thought you were probably an opportunistic little piece of fluff who'd snagged my son. Louie can be quite dense when it comes to women. I honestly thought—oh, it doesn't matter what I thought. Right at the time you came into Louie's life, he and Shelby were on the verge of reconciling. He'd invited her to Jamaica, but Renata came down with a bad cold, and Shelby wouldn't leave her. And then Louie met you.”

I flinched.

“He didn't tell you?”

I shook my head.

“I'm not surprised.” She paused and blew another smoke ring. “Do you know what? I believe that it's time for Shelby to move on with her life. In fact, I know
just
the man for her. I'm a terrible plotter, but I
do
mean well. Never mind all that. I owe you an apology. I was too quick to judge you, and I'm sorry. You've got more spunk than Louie's other wives. Did you
really
break your ex's nose and knock him unconscious?”

“Yes. With frozen baby back ribs.”

“Oh, dear. Well, from what you say, he had it coming to him.” She smiled and lit another cigarette. “But you and I will get along splendidly.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Please, call me Honora.” She rose from the sofa, walked over to the fireplace, and tossed the clippings onto the empty grate. Then she dropped her cigarette on the papers. “Now,” she said. “May I see the rest of what you've done with the house?”

FROM THE
TIMES-PICAYUNE

—May 21, 1979

Ms. Shelby Stevens DeChavannes and Randolph Filbert Van Dusen III were married on May 21, 1979, at two o'clock in the afternoon at the home of Mrs. Honora DeChavannes in Point Clear, Alabama. Reverend Dale Newbury officiated. Goldie Hawn served as matron of honor in absentia and James Caan served as best man in absentia. The bride's daughter, Miss Renata DeChavannes, served as flower girl.

Guests included Mrs. Honora DeChavannes of Point Clear, Alabama, and Pass Christian, Mississippi; Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Filbert Van Dusen Jr. of Brentwood, California; Isabella D'Agostino-McGeehee of Beverly Hills, California, and Point Clear, Alabama; Senator and Mrs. James “Bubba” Bradent of Baton Rouge, Louisiana; Dr. and Mrs. Chaz Breaux; Dr. and Mrs. Martin Addison; T. S. Talmage; Beverly Shantrell; Dr. and Mrs. Jordan Theroux; Mrs. Vernon St. Clair, all of Point Clear, Alabama; Dr. and Mrs. James DeChavannes, of Pass Christian, Mississippi; Dr. and Mrs. Niles DeChavannes, of Gulfport, Mississippi; Miss Mary Agnes DeChavannes, of Pass Christian, Mississippi.

After a honeymoon in Tuscany, the couple will reside in Malibu, California, where the groom is an executive vice president at Van Dusen Films, Inc.