Stargazey Nights (14 page)

“Which room did they give you?”

“One with peach paint that opens onto the veranda and a view of the ocean. Why didn't you tell me about the beach?”

“I did.”

“Oh, well, it's incredible. I haven't had a chance to go down yet, but I plan to spend tomorrow laying out. Thank you.”

“No prob. Don't forget your sunscreen. It isn't hot yet, but the sun can burn. Especially with your skin.”

“Thanks, Ma.”

“Oh, hell, I know you know more about sunburn than I do, considering the sun hardly ever creeps into my office.” Celeste sighed. “I'm kind of envious.”

“Then why don't you try to get away? It's really quite wonderful,” Abbie said. And her stay here would be easier to handle with Celeste to deflect some of the attention.

“I wish. I told you it was just what you needed. You have to promise to soak up some rays for me.”

“I will, and you were right. Even if I had to fall apart to realize it.”

“Don't think about that. You'll get back into it—­when you're ready.”

And nobody, not even Abbie, thought she would ever be ready. She knew she could never go back. Back had been torn away from her. Back was no longer an option.

“Hey, listen, I have a very important question for you.”

“Yes?”

Abbie could hear the wariness in her friend's voice. “Am I expected to dress for dinner?”

Celeste laughed. It was a sound that made Abbie feel homesick.

“Well, I haven't been there in years, but it is Sunday dinner.”

“I take that to mean yes. But how dressed?”

“You know, just nice, a dress, not too short, maybe some pearls.”

“Got it. I'd better get hopping. I don't want to be late. And Celeste. Thanks. I take it back, all that stupid stuff I said. You were right. This is just what I needed.”

Chapter 2

A
BBIE
HALF EXPECTED A GONG
to announce dinner. But when it didn't ring at a quarter to six, she knew she couldn't hide in her room any longer. She'd dressed in her any-­occasion black dress and softened it with a string of faux pearls and a short floral jacket that she'd picked up on the sale rack at Marshall Fields. She opted for sandals and prayed that the sisters wouldn't be waiting for her in chiffon hostess gowns.

She managed to find her way to the parlor where the Crispins were sipping amber liquid from small glasses. The sherry Celeste had told her about.

Millie, dressed in light green, sat on the edge of a delicate upholstered chair, her skirts spread about her like an octogenarian Scarlett O'Hara. Marnie was sitting on the couch, legs crossed. She'd changed into a pair a navy blue slacks and a silky blouse covered in a blue hyacinth pattern.

Beau, wearing a dark suit and looking uncomfortable, stood up when Abbie stepped through the archway. And so did another man.

“Abbie, come in and sit down over here,” said Millie. “Beau, pour Abbie a little glass of sherry.”

“She might prefer something else, Sister,” Marnie said.

“Oh.” Millie's hand flew to her chest. “Of course.” She frowned at Abbie, more flustered than judgmental.

“Sherry's fine,” Abbie said. She could swear Marnie snorted. Abbie took a closer look at Marnie's sherry glass and wondered if it might contain the infamous scotch.

The stranger had sat down and was lounging in a big club chair, one ankle crossed over his knee. He was drinking something dark in a tumbler. It matched his attitude and his looks, which were pretty okay even by Chicago standards. Dark hair, dark eyes, tanned, fit from what she could tell by the shirt front that showed through his unbuttoned sports jacket. He eyed her speculatively and not at all friendly.

Good. For a minute she'd been afraid the sisters were trying to set her up.

“My goodness, where are my manners,” Millie said. “Cabot, this is our guest, Abbie Sinclair. Abbie, this is Cabot Reynolds . . . the third.”

The third, right
. Abbie fought not to roll her eyes; Marnie didn't bother.

“How do you do?” he said dryly.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, matching his tone. The air between them could have chilled lemonade. Fine by Abbie.

“And how long are you staying, Miss Sinclair?”

Longer than you want me to, obviously,
thought Abbie. And what was that all about? She thought Southern men were supposed to have impeccable manners. But maybe he wasn't totally Southern. His voice modulated from a soft Southern drawl to something with more bite. Probably educated at a stuffy private school, where Reynolds the first and second had attended.

At that moment a gong echoed from somewhere in the house.

Marnie shook her head and stood up. They walked across the hall to the dining room. Cabot the third escorted Millie; Beau offered an elbow first to Abbie, then Marnie.

Marnie leaned past her brother. “Don't get used to all this grandeur,” she whispered. “Usually we just eat on trays in front of the television.”

Abbie smiled. “Good to know.” Whatever this trip would be, Abbie was getting the feeling it wouldn't be dull. The three siblings alone would make a great study. Gentility gone to seed, but struggling to survive. A way of life, fragile and soon to become extinct . . .

Abbie's step faltered as her mind automatically switched into documentary mode. Beau's hand tightened over hers, and he gave her an encouraging smile. She smiled back and with an effort pulled her mind back to dinner.

No more lapses like that,
she warned herself. That life was over. She wouldn't go there again.

The dining room was a long rectangular room painted a pale yellow and surrounded by a white chair rail. At the far end, French doors opened onto a brick patio and overgrown shrubbery. The oval dining table was placed off center, which Abbie surmised was because several leaves had been taken out to accommodate only five diners. It was still huge and she was glad that the place settings had been clustered around one end with Millie at the head of the table, Beau and Marnie to her left, and Cabot and Abbie to her right.

Dinner was everything she had imagined a Southern dinner to be. Crystal wine and water glasses, the good china, and sterling flatware. The house itself might be slowly fading away, but they were still dining in style.

The first course arrived in a flowered gold-­rimmed soup tureen carried by a young African American man dressed in a white coat and black trousers several inches too short. He held the tureen as if it contained nitroglycerin while Ervina ladled a rich crab bisque, pale pink with chunks of crabmeat, into their bowls.

“Thank you, Ervina,” Marnie said. “How are you doing this evening, Jerome?”

Jerome grinned at her for a second before he lowered his head. “Fine, ma'am,” he mumbled and sped back to the kitchen. Ervina followed at a slower pace.

The soup was thick and rich, and Abbie was stuffed by the time the first course arrived. She hadn't been eating very much lately. She looked apprehensively at the roasted chicken, the potatoes, greens of some variety, corn bread, and several other dishes. And she wondered how she could manage to eat enough not to appear rude.

“Why, Millie, this is a feast fit for a king.” Cabot the third smiled charmingly at Millie then cut Abbie a sideways look.

“Delicious,” she agreed, resenting the arrogant so-­and-­so who thought he had to prompt her on good manners.

Millie beamed back at the two of them.

Marnie looked across the table and said, “Only eat what you want. It's sometimes hard to eat at the end of a travel day.” She aimed the last part of the sentence at Millie.

“Why, of course,” said Millie. “And if you get hungry during the night, you just come down to the kitchen and make yourself at home. Ervina goes home at night so you'll have to fend for yourself.”

“I'm sure I'll be fine.”

“We are early risers and eat breakfast about seven o'clock, but you sleep in and we'll fix you something when you're good and ready.”

“Thank you, really. But you don't have to feed me. I'm sure there are plenty of places in town. I'm just happy that you're letting me take advantage of your hospitality.”

“Nonsense,” Millie said. “We love takin' care of our young ­people. Though most of them seem to move away as soon as they can. It might be a little dull around here until the season begins, but I'm sure Cabot would love to show you around town.”

“Thank you, but—­”

“When you're rested up. You'd love to do that, wouldn't you, Cabot?”

Abbie doubted it. “I wouldn't want to take Mr. Reynolds away from . . .”
Whatever it is he does.

“I'd be happy to.” He smiled tightly at Abbie.

She smiled back just as tightly. She'd have to have a talk with the sisters tomorrow and gently, but firmly, tell them she was not interested. Not in Cabot “the third” or anyone else.

“But I can't until Tuesday. The community center's water heater's rusted out and I told Sarah I'd come over and help Otis install the new one. Then I have a job over in Plantersville in the afternoon.”

So he worked. As a plumber? Before she could ask him, Jerome came back with individual crystal dishes of a thick yellow pudding filled with chunks of bananas and vanilla wafers.

Abbie managed to eat dessert, which was delicious, listening politely to the conversation without having to think of too much to say. Between the food, and the slow lyrical voices, exhaustion began to creep over her. Millie and Cabot did most of the talking, while Marnie occasionally put in a word or two. Beau just ate, answered when he was spoken to directly, but didn't volunteer any conversation of his own.

A block of partially carved wood sat by his plate, and several times Abbie saw his hand inch toward it only to draw away again at a mere glance from Millie. Abbie wished she had asked more about the family before coming. She knew anecdotal-­over-­a-­martini details, like Marnie camouflaging the smell of scotch with buttermilk, and how Millie ruled the house even though it was really Beau's inheritance. But she hadn't heard any real history, and it was obvious there was some interesting history between the three.

As Abbie watched their interplay, she became more intrigued. She liked the siblings. What she didn't get was how Cabot Reynolds the third fit into it. Celeste hadn't mentioned him. He didn't seem to be a relative, and yet he obviously had free rein of the place. Maybe that's why she was picking up such unfriendliness from him. He was afraid she'd usurp his position as favored guest?

He might be a plumber, but Crispin House and the land that surrounded it must be worth a fortune. And Cabot the third might just be trying to parlay friendship into financial gain—­for himself.

Don't get involved,
she warned herself. She wasn't going to do that anymore. No more lost causes. No more exposés. No more long weeks of grueling work in hideous conditions just to have your film confiscated, your cameras destroyed, your . . .

“And we want you to stay just as long as you can. If you don't think it will be too dull.”

Abbie realized that everyone was looking at her; there was concern on Marnie's face.

God, what had they been talking about? “I don't think it will be dull at all. Solitude is just what I came for.”

“Well, you'll find plenty of that here,” Marnie said under her breath.

“We won't bother you at all,” added Millie. “Will we, Sister?”

“Not at all,” Marnie said, attention focused on Abbie. “You just come and go as you like.”

Abbie sneaked a peek at Cabot Reynolds. He was frowning at his water glass. He definitely didn't want her around.

Millie stood, and the others took their cue. Beau surreptitiously slipped the piece of wood in his pocket and edged toward the door.

“I'd best be taking off,” Cabot announced as soon as they reached the archway to the parlor. “Your guest looks like she might nod off midsentence.”

Abbie widened her eyes and suppressed a yawn.

“By the way, Beau, Silas said he was going fishing tomorrow if you were interested.”

“Yes, thank you, Cabot, I think I am. I'll walk you back into town.”

“Don't you stay out till all hours,” Millie said.

“Haven't stayed out till all hours since I was in the merchant marines,” Beau said and winked at Abbie.

“Thank you for dinner,” Cab said. “You tell Ervina for me that that's the best crab bisque I had all season.”

“I will. Beau, you keep that jacket on if you're going outside.”

“G'night, Cab,” Marnie said.

Abbie smiled and nodded; Cab nodded. The two men left.

“Well, we won't see him back anytime soon,” Millie said with a sigh.

It took Abbie a ­couple of seconds to realize she was talking about Beau and not Cabot. Beau didn't say much, and he was definitely more comfortable with a piece of wood in his hand than sitting over a china bowl of bisque making polite conversation—­something Abbie could relate to—­but he seemed perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

“Would you like to go up to your room, dear? You're welcome to watch some television with Sister and me. We don't have cable, but we can pick up the Charleston and Myrtle Beach stations pretty good.”

“I think I'll go up and read for a bit. It must be the salt air, but I'm tired. It was a lovely dinner. Thank you.”

“Our pleasure. Good night, dear.”

Abbie climbed the stairs to her room, dreading the idea of going to sleep, but dreading the idea of having to watch the evening news with Marnie and Millie more.

She wondered how long she could stand Millie's solicitude. It was probably what Southern hostesses did. Abbie had visited a lot of countries, met all kinds of ­people, but she'd never met anyone like Millie. It was as if she belonged in another era, like one of those characters in the recent burst of Southern movies. Which, Abbie realized, were probably based on ­people like Millie.

“I always rely on the kindness of strangers,” Abbie mumbled to herself in a pitiful rendition of a Southern accent. And realized she
was
actually relying on the kindness of strangers. And she was grateful.

That night she slept like the dead, and the dead came back to haunt her.

B
EAU AND
C
AB
walked back into town. It was a cool evening, growing cooler as the sun sank beneath the horizon, but Beau had shed his suit jacket the minute they were outside and left it hanging on the porch rail.

“You get that engine up and running yet?” Beau asked.

“Not yet, but I'm close,” Cab said. “I got it tuned properly and it goes for a few seconds, then it gets hung up. I've scoured rust, oiled parts, refitted pieces, but it still gets hung up.”