The Potluck Club (28 page)

Maybe I had.

“What’s going on?” she asked me. “Is it Leigh? Has she gone into labor?”

“We’ve got to talk.”

“About what?”

“Do you remember a while back you mentioned a man who was looking for a woman named Jewel?”

I watched Donna’s face grow dark. “Yeah. What about it?”

“I want you to drop it. If you see the man ever again, you tell him there is no Jewel here. Never has been.”

Donna shook her head as though she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Something that sounded like a light snort came from her nose. “You women,” she said. “You call yourselves Christians.” “I’ve lived here all my life, and there’s never been a woman named Jewel here,” I said, ignoring her dig.

Donna licked her bottom lip, then turned away from me, reaching for something in the seat beside her. When she showed me the old photograph of Vonnie and the man I now knew to be Joseph Ray Jewel, my mouth dropped open. “Yeah. Right,” she said.

I reached for the photo, but Donna jerked it back, flicking it to the seat beside her. “That was a wedding photo,” I said, wondering if my voice was registering the amount of shock I felt.

She looked back at me. “Looks like it, don’t it? You’re quite the detective there, Evangeline. If I ever see we need another deputy, I’ll tell Dad to hire you.” She looked face forward, then back to me within the span of a half second. “Are you going to tell me you never knew about this?”

“How did you get that photograph, Donna Vesey?”

“Are you going to tell me you never knew about this?” she repeated.

I folded my arms. “No. No, I did not.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Now you listen to me,” I said, raising my voice. A car whizzed past me, and I inched closer to Donna’s Bronco. “I don’t know what this is all about, but I do know Vonnie. If she has kept this to herself all these years, there must be a good reason.”

Donna’s face grew harder still. “I thought I knew her. Apparently not.”

I didn’t speak for a minute.
Jesus, tell me what to say,
I prayed. “Donna, please. For Vonnie. Let’s just keep this to ourselves until we can figure it all out.”

“Tell you what, Evangeline,” Donna said, returning her arm to the inside of the automobile and shifting to face forward. “The day I do what you tell me to do is the day I’ll turn in my badge.” She yanked the gearshift to drive and, without looking to see if traffic was coming, pulled back on the road and drove back down the highway, leaving me alone to wonder what to do next.

I somehow managed to get back to my Camry, sliding onto the bucket seat, feeling the chill of it penetrate through my slacks. I drove home in a state of shock, anxious to arrive there, to find my place of sanctuary. I needed peace and quiet if I was going to think everything through, to decide if I was going to call Vonnie or just let the chips fall where they may. It would have been different if Donna hadn’t had the photograph.

The photograph! Where had Donna gotten that photograph?

Maybe I should call Vonnie,
I decided as I turned into my driveway.
After all, if Donna knows, then perhaps others know as well.

Like who?

Leigh was inching her way down the stairs when I came through the front door. “Where have you been?” she asked, stopping on the second step from the bottom. “I’ve been worried sick.”

I removed my coat, hanging it on the coatrack. “I had to take a little trip.” I avoided her eyes. “Are you hungry? I can fix us something to eat.”

Leigh made her way over to me, and I brushed past her as she said, “No, I’m not hungry. I’ve been too concerned to be hungry.”

I continued on into the kitchen. “You shouldn’t have been. I’m a grown woman. I’ve lived here for many years without having to give a daily report as to my comings and goings, you know.”

Leigh was behind me. “Sorry. I didn’t know my love for you would be such a burden.”

I spun around. “I’m not saying that. I’m not saying that at all.” I didn’t need this right now. I’d wanted time to think, not a challenge from my favorite—my only—niece.

Leigh’s mouth was agape. “Aunt Evie!”

The hurt on her face caused my shoulders to drop. “I’m sorry. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.” I turned to look at the stove. “I think I’ll have a cup of hot tea. Join me?”

Leigh nodded. “I’ll get the cups and saucers from the cabinet,” she said.

When we were seated at the table, steam from our tea curling into the air between us, I said, “Leigh, have you ever had a friend—a good friend—do something that was totally out of character?” I fiddled with the handle of the teacup. “What I mean to say is: have you ever had a good friend do something that left you feeling betrayed?”

Leigh pondered the question for a moment before answering. “I can’t really think of anything, no. Unless you include Gary’s attitude lately, but I don’t think that’s what you’re talking about.” She narrowed her large eyes at me. “Is that what’s going on? Has someone hurt you?”

“I—”

“Is it what Vernon Vesey did? A long time ago when he kissed Donna’s mother?”

I looked up suddenly. “Oh, no, no, no.”

She touched the top of my hand with her fingertips. “Because if it is—”

I smiled at her bravado. “It’s not.” She didn’t look convinced. “Really, I promise.”

Again, she pondered. “Is it Ruth Ann?”

“Ruth Ann? What in the world would make you ask a question like that?”

Leigh shrugged a shoulder. “I dunno. Some people feel a sense of betrayal when a loved one dies. Especially when a loved one dies before their time. You know what I’m saying?”

I took a sip of my tea before answering. “Well, I suppose you’re right about that. I remember the way I felt when Ruth Ann died, as though she hadn’t tried hard enough to stay alive. As though, if she really loved me, she would’ve fought harder.”
My goodness . . . in
comparison, those same feelings are very close to what I’m feeling now.
Oh, Vonnie! How could you? How could you have gotten married, had
a child, given the child up for adoption, and then . . . what? Divorced
the father? Does Fred even know?

“Does Fred know what?” Leigh asked.

I pinked; I’m just sure I did. “What? Oh. Did I speak out loud again?”

Leigh nodded.

“Nothing.”

“Was there some connection between Fred Westbrook and Ruth Ann?” Leigh asked. She stretched out a bit and rubbed her abdomen.

“No! Of course not.”

“Forgive me, Aunt Evie. I’m just trying to understand what you’re asking me here.”

I stood, picked up my half-consumed cup of tea, and placed it in the kitchen sink. “Let me know when you get hungry,” I said. “I’m going to go lie down for just a few minutes. I’m too tired and too old to play twenty questions.” I started for the door.

“Hey, that’s cool. But you’re the one who asked me, remember?” I turned to look at her. She’d sat straight up—although as big with child as she was, I don’t know how. “Asked you what?”

“About whether or not I’ve ever felt betrayed.”

I thought about that for a moment. “So I did. You said you hadn’t. Now, I’m going to go lie down. If you need me, knock on my door.”

I didn’t sleep. Of course, I didn’t sleep. But at least my eyes were closed and my body was resting—or at least feigning rest. When I finally pulled my weary bones off the bed and walked back into the kitchen, I found Leigh pulling Chinese food out of a brown paper bag. We’re quite progressive here in Summit View; we have one Chinese takeout restaurant, one Italian eat-in, and one Mexican. Add those to the “real food” menus at Higher Grounds Café, and we’re a veritable buffet of international delights around here. There was a day when if you wanted sweet and sour chicken you had to first hope you could find a cookbook with it listed and then make it yourself. Not anymore.

Apparently Leigh’d had a yen for Chinese food. “I got you some honey chicken,” she said. “I know it’s your favorite.”

I nodded. God love her heart, she was trying to appease my mood. “Thank you.” I walked over to the cabinet and pulled out plates. “It smells good.”

Leigh turned and rested her hips against the countertop. “I called Gary while you were resting.”

I looked over my shoulder. “You did?”

“Mmmhmm.” She scratched her belly.

“And?”

“Maybe praying for him is working. He’s actually asking more questions about my well-being than harping on what he wants.”

I placed the plates on the table. “Like?”

“Oh . . . questions like whether I’m getting enough rest. Have I gotten a doctor out here that I feel is competent, which I suppose is for my benefit rather than the baby’s.” She turned back to the little white boxes lined up on the counter. “Naturally he wants to know if I’ve made up my mind about returning home.”

She picked up four boxes by the little wire handles—two in each hand—and walked toward me. I pulled my chair out from under the table as I asked, “Have you?”

Leigh sat, reaching for the box marked “S/S Ckn,” which I assumed was her sweet and sour chicken she loves so much. “Nope.”

I mouthed back “Nope,” then spoke out loud. “There’s no hurry. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want. Forever, in fact.” I glanced over to the pantry door, where I’d always kept a calendar thumbtacked in place, as I reached for the box marked “Hny Ckn.”

“Leigh, you’ve got a month left. I suspect we need to talk about setting a room up for the baby. Even if you decide you wanted to return to West Virginia, you shouldn’t fly at this stage.”

Leigh stabbed at a golden chunk of chicken on her plate, slipped it between her lips, and said, “I shouldn’t have flown at seven months, I imagine.”

I frowned. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Leigh Banks.” I shook my fork at her. “And I suspect you’re right about that.”

She made a face at me and swallowed. “How about if, for now, we just get a bassinet that I can keep in my room? By the time we need more furniture, I’ll have this all figured out.”

“Let’s pray so.”

We ate in relative silence for the next few minutes until Leigh suddenly jumped and said, “Oh! I forgot.” She stood and more or less waddled out of the room, then returned holding a tri-folded copy of the
Gold Rush News
in her hand. “Your paper was out on the front porch when I got home.”

The
Gold Rush News
, our weekly newspaper, was instrumental in keeping Summit View’s citizens apprised of the community’s happenings. Since Clay Whitefield had become its ace reporter, the paper’s focus had shifted somewhat to both national and international news as well, much to the chagrin of many of our residents. “If I want to know what’s going on in Denmark,” Fred Westbrook had said to Vonnie and me one evening when I was having dinner at their house, “I’ve always got the paper from Denver.”

“Wonder if our bear story made it to the front page,” I said, taking the extended paper from Leigh’s hand. “I sure hope that Clay Whitefield quoted me correctly. Nothing worse in this world than having yourself misquoted by the local press.”

She returned to her seat. “I’m sure he did just fine.”

I unfolded the paper, laying the top half of the front page facedown, then pressing out the crinkles. “It was something, all right. I just hope that Clay Whitefield gave credit where credit is due: to Chucky!” I flipped the paper over, immediately spotting the color photo of Vonnie and her beloved dog. I laughed out loud, and Leigh leaned over a bit to see.

“Oh, look how cute Chucky is,” she said. “Vonnie Westbrook and her heroic pal Chucky, a once-homeless bichon, rest easy at the Westbrook’s backyard picnic table after being attacked by a bear,” Leigh read the caption.

“Vonnie photographed well,” I said, then felt myself grow a bit stiff. Vonnie . . . photographs.

Leigh pulled the paper a little closer to herself. “What’s this about?” she asked.

“What?” I leaned closer to her, twisting myself a bit to see what she was pointing to.

“‘Man Seeks Missing Jewel in Summit View,’” she read, pointing to a teaser box on the left-hand side of the front page.

“Jewel,” I said. “Let me see that.” I took the paper from her and read it for myself, continuing with “Story, Page Three.” I sighed so hard the paper rustled at the force of my breath. “Oh no. Oh no.”

“Aunt Evie?” Leigh asked. “What’s going on?”

I didn’t answer but instead read the very short article written by Clay Whitefield about a man—photo included of a young man who looked remarkably like the man I now knew was Joseph Ray Jewel—who was seeking to find his natural mother, his adopted mother (Harmony Harris, no less) having recently died of cancer. According to the article, Mr. David Harris believed that—because of information his dying mother had given him—his mother’s first name was Jewel.

“That Donna!” I refolded the paper and slapped it against the table.

“What, Aunt Evie? What’s going on?” Leigh’s voice was nearing a squeal.

I stood, marched over to the wall-mounted phone, and dialed Donna’s number. She answered after a few rings.

“I suppose this is about the newspaper article.”

How’d she know it was me?
“How’d you know it was me?” I asked her.

“Caller ID.”

I could hear traffic in the background. “Are you in your car?”

“I am. Your call was forwarded to me, okay? Welcome to the new millennium.” Her voice dripped with cynicism. I could hear the rustling of paper. “And by the way, I appreciated that shout-out you gave me in the bear story, and I quote, ‘When I saw Deputy Donna Vesey leading the pack to the back porch rather than attempting to protect Vonnie, I knew we were in serious trouble.’”

I didn’t respond to her sarcasm, instead focusing on the reason for my call. In any case, I wasn’t sure what a shout-out was. “You’re welcome, and yes, this is about the newspaper article, Donna Vesey. Let me ask you a question: have you flushed everything Vonnie Westbrook has done for you your whole life down the toilet?”

“Hold up—”

“Do you have no respect for a woman who has loved you like a mother . . . and the good Lord knows more than your own mother could have ever loved you?”

“Evangeline!”