Arleen stopped talking and looked at Bailey for a moment. “Do you remember the time that man from Heinz was doing some business with James? I think we were staying in the house in Antigua then.”
“No,” Bailey said softly. “The castle in Scotland.”
“Oh, yes,” Arleen said. “That’s where you had the hundred-thousand-dollar kitchen put in and then lived in it. Jimmie said you were too cold in the rest of the house, but we all knew you couldn’t abide us.”
“What about the man from Heinz?” Bailey asked, unable to look into Arleen’s eyes.
“He ate some of those jams of yours, and he wanted to franchise you, but James wouldn’t let him. James said that you had no interest in having a business, but Bandy said behind James’s back that he was the only business you were allowed to have. Do you remember any of this?”
Bailey kept her eyes downward. She’d asked Jimmie to ask the man from Heinz if maybe he could help her start a line of specialty items. All that day, Bailey had been a nervous wreck while waiting for the man’s answer. But when Jimmie came home that night with a huge bouquet of roses in his arms, she knew what it was.
Jimmie had been wonderful that night, holding her, making her laugh after he said that the man had turned down her idea. Jimmie said, “I didn’t tell him who made the jams he was eating, because I wanted an honest reaction, but I can tell you that I wanted to hit him when he said they were ‘ordinary’ and ‘nothing special.’ ” When Bailey heard that, she’d had to work hard not to burst into tears. Over the years many people had told her that what she made was delicious and extraordinary, different from anything they’d ever eaten before. But it looked as though they’d been politely lying.
When Jimmie saw that she was close to tears, he’d become very angry and said that he’d buy her a factory for making jams if she wanted one. “We’ll call them Lillian’s Jams,” he’d said. “Hey! I know what I’ll do. How about if I buy Heinz for you?” His righteous indignation had been so sincere that he’d made her laugh.
But the rejection had so hurt Bailey that she hadn’t canned anything for months after. Now Arleen was telling her that the man from Heinz had wanted Lillian’s preserves so much that he’d had a contract drawn up giving Lillian complete control of that branch of the company.
“You should have seen him at breakfast that morning,” Arleen was saying. “The man was nearly begging Jimmie. He said that the gourmet market was just opening up, and your products would be perfect for taking Heinz into it.”
Bailey looked down at her hands and saw that her nails were cutting into her palms. That morning she’d wanted to go to breakfast and tell the Heinz man just what she thought of him. She’d wanted to show him all the blue ribbons she’d won over the years in contests and at fairs. But Jimmie had told her that he was going to “take care” of the man, and when he’d said it, his face had been full of rage. “Let me do it, Frecks,” he’d said. “I’m better at revenge than you are.”
So Bailey had stayed in their bedroom until she saw the man get into the car that would drive him back to the airport. Later, she’d wanted Jimmie to tell her the details of what rotten thing he’d done to the man, but all he’d said was, “You can be sure that he won’t be coming around here again,” and the way Jimmie had said it made Bailey believe that he was her champion.
“So how’s your life now?” Arleen was asking.
“I—” Bailey said, but then couldn’t seem to form any more words. What was she going to say? That she was already living with another man, and cooking for him while he paid for nearly everything? And that she was going to be working for him, doing about one percent of the planning in the man’s new business venture? In other words, that in just a few weeks she had come close to re-creating her life with Jimmie.
“I bought this place,” Bailey heard herself say as she thrust the brochure across the table at Arleen. “I’m going into business with two other women, and we’re creating a line of specialty foods.”
“Really?” Arleen asked, looking at Bailey through a haze of cigarette smoke. “You in business?”
“None of you ever really knew me,” Bailey said, taking a deep breath. “And none of you ever knew how deeply involved I was in Jimmie’s businesses. I did more than just follow him around, more than just—” She couldn’t say any more, as what Arleen had told her was ringing in her head. “A girl who didn’t have anything,” Jimmie had said. “Who was loved by no one on Earth and had no ambition to be anything.”
“An empty bottle waiting for me to come along and fill her up.” She knew they were Jimmie’s words; she could hear him saying them.
“And what about a man?” Arleen asked. “Or did Jimmie sour you for all men?”
“There’s a man,” Bailey said, her jaw rigid. “Blue-blood type on his mother’s side. You’d probably know the family name if I said it, but I really would like to keep my anonymity.”
“I understand,” Arleen said, then she smiled. “Blue blood is what James craved, isn’t it? It’s why he put up with people like Bandy and me. James could have all the money in the world, but he couldn’t go back and change his breeding.”
“No, he couldn’t,” Bailey said. She exchanged a conspiratorial smile with Arleen, and in that moment, they were close to being friends.
“You know something?” Arleen said. “I’m glad you aren’t in that kind of a relationship again. And I’m glad that the new man in your life isn’t a controller like James was, and that he isn’t the kind to stop you from having your little shop. And I hope he doesn’t stop you from finding out whatever it was that James wanted you to find out.”
“What do you mean?” Bailey asked. Had Jimmie told people about the note he’d left his wife in his will? He seemed to have blabbed about a lot of other parts of their private lives.
“It was just something that James said once. I’m sure it wasn’t important. But he said that after he died, he was going to ask you to find out something that he couldn’t.”
When Arleen said no more, Bailey looked at her hard. “Okay, what is it that you want?”
Arleen inhaled cigarette smoke so deep that it must have gone down to her toes. “There aren’t many men like James left,” she said softly, then waited for Bailey to figure out what she meant.
“Ah, right,” Bailey said. Arleen meant that there weren’t many vastly wealthy men out there who had some deep need to surround themselves with people whose only claim to fame was that they “knew people.”
“The rich ones today,” Arleen said, “are these boys from the computer world. What do they need introductions for? They want to stay up all night and play games on their computers.” She stubbed out her cigarette in Bailey’s salad bowl with such force that Bailey thought she might break a nail.
Bailey just looked at the woman, her eyes asking, What do you want?
“If you make a go of your little company, perhaps you’d like to have some good names on your masthead.”
Bailey narrowed her eyes, unintentionally looking very much like her late husband. “Maybe I might like to have someone tell others about how wonderful my products are for say . . . one percent of the gross?”
“Ten percent of the net,” Arleen shot back.
“Two percent of the gross will make sure you do some work,” Bailey fired back.
Arleen smiled. “I wish I’d spent a little time with you when James was alive. All right. Three percent of the net.”
“Two,” Bailey said, unsmiling. “Gross.”
“So what’s the name of this company that I own . . . two percent of?”
“I have no idea,” Bailey said, then she smiled. “I haven’t started the company yet.”
For a moment Arleen blinked at her, then when she realized that Bailey had lied, she threw her head back and really laughed. It was a good ol’ Texas girl hee-haw, something that Baroness von Lindensale would never have given into.
Bailey couldn’t help smiling back, and when Arleen went i
nto a coughing fit, she handed her her glass of water.
“Now would you tell me what Jimmie said about what he wanted me to find out?”
“Oh, yes,” Arleen said as she reached into her handbag and withdrew her compact to check her makeup. She wore a lot of it, with eyes heavily blackened, and cheeks painted scarlet. “James said that all his money couldn’t right a wrong that had happened when he was a kid. Since he never talked about his childhood, you can imagine how all of us were on the edge of our seats. ‘Murders called suicides’, that’s what he said. We said, ‘Jimmie, you have enough money that you could set the record straight. Expose the murders.’ Of course we were all volunteering to help because we wanted to find out the truth about his mysterious past. ‘Do you think they would talk to me?’ James said. ‘I was there. I was involved. But those six shining boys were—’ ”
“What?” Bailey said, her eyes wide.
“He said he was involved so ‘they’ would recognize him. Whoever ‘they’ are. Even Bandy couldn’t get James to tell more.”
“No,” Bailey said. “You said, ‘six shining boys.’ Did he say that exactly? Or did he say ‘six golden boys’?”
“Is there a significant difference between those two phrases?”
“There is if you live in Calburn. Okay, what did Jimmie say about the ‘six shining boys’?”
Arleen took a maddeningly long time to light another cigarette, then she looked back at Bailey. “I think James’s father was one of those boys.”
“Do you mean that Jimmie’s father was murdered? Or did he commit suicide? Or was he accused of murder? Or did he murder someone?”
“I have no idea. James spoke of ‘murders called suicides,’ then said he would be recognized if he went back to wherever it was that he was talking about, and he said that ‘those six shining boys’ ”—she looked at Bailey—“or ‘six golden boys,’ I guess, were a religion and couldn’t be touched. Then he got a nasty look on his face and said that someone had once tried to touch them; ‘Look what happened to her,’ he said. Is any of this making sense to you?”
“Some of it, yes. What about Jimmie’s father?”
“James said, ‘My father was one of them, but he—’ Then he broke off. That’s all he’d say. Bandy asked him to tell more, but James said, ‘I talk too much,’ and that was that. He never said another word about his past to anyone else as far as I know. I even asked one of the girls, that Swedish girl, uh . . . ”
“Ingrid,” Bailey said as she leaned back against the seat. “No, Jimmie wouldn’t confide in any of them.”
“Dear, your hand is bleeding,” Arleen said softly.
Bailey looked down and saw that two of her nails had cut into her palm. Quickly, she put her hands out of sight under the table.
“Are you going to find out about James’s father?” Arleen asked. “If you did, you could write a book about him and make a mint.”
Bailey gave her a look of disgust. “No, I’m not going to write an exposé of my late husband.”
“But, darling, you should. You could tell all about the fabulous parties, about the women, about—” Arleen stopped. “Yes, I could see why you wouldn’t want to do that. So what do you plan to do with this information?”
“Nothing,” Bailey said. “Sitting here with you has made me realize that I don’t owe James Manville anything. I’m sure he had his reasons for leaving everything to people he hates and leaving me nothing but a—” When she saw Arleen’s eager eyes, she stopped. She didn’t want to give away too much about herself, including hints about where she was living. “What I plan to do is make up for lost time.” She leaned across the table so her face was close to Arleen’s. “I want some work out of you. There’ll be no paper contract between us, just word of honor. Ever hear of that concept, Arleen?”
“A time or two,” Arleen said, smiling slightly. “From way back when.”
“You don’t bring us customers, you don’t get paid. Understand?”
“Clearly. I don’t have to eat any of the product, do I?”
“I seem to remember that you rather liked my cherries in brandy.”
“I threw all those awful little red things over the side of the ship,” Arleen said. “Then I drank the brandy.”
Bailey couldn’t help smiling. “Give me your address and your cell number, and I’ll let you know what’s going on. And when we make any money, I’ll send you a check.”
Arleen took the brochure, scribbled some numbers on it and an address in London, then shoved it back across the table. “And who is this ‘we’? The man in your life?”
“No,” Bailey said firmly. “This will be a company run by and for women. No men allowed.” She looked at her watch, and as she did, she could feel Arleen’s derision. It wasn’t an expensive watch. “I have to go,” Bailey said as she stuck the brochure with the address into her handbag. “I’ll let you know what happens.”
“Thanks,” Arleen said softly. “I’m depending on you.”
As Bailey slid out of the booth, she avoided Arleen’s eyes. There was something empty in them that she didn’t want to see. Arleen made Tennessee Williams’s immortal phrase, “I have always depended on the kindess of strangers,” come to life.
With her head held high, Bailey left the restaurant and went to the lot where her car was parked.
Twelve
Her bravado lasted only until she was inside the privacy of her car. She put the key in the engine, but she didn’t turn it. Instead, she put her head down on the wheel and closed her eyes.
While she was married to Jimmie, when he was there in the flesh, she could pretend that those other women didn’t exist. She could tell herself that Jimmie’s “friends” were odious creatures, and she didn’t want to be around them—that way she heard little and saw less. She could hide in the kitchens of all the houses and pretend that she and Jimmie were just an ordinary couple, and that Jimmie was coming home from an office job to her home-cooked meal. In fact, over the years, she’d become brilliant at hiding from the truth.
And now she was doing with Matthew Longacre exactly what she’d done with Jimmie. She was again hiding and letting a man make all her decisions, letting a man decide her life.
She looked up through the windshield to see a woman holding the hand of a little boy and walking toward the stores. She’d very much wanted to have children, but Jimmie had had a vasectomy long before she met him. He never said so, but Bailey figured he’d rendered himself infertile because he was afraid that a child of his would inherit his cleft lip.
But now that she’d had some time away from the physical presence of Jimmie, she thought that maybe he hadn’t wanted children because he knew he would have been jealous. He wanted Bailey all to himself.
“You were a very selfish man, James Manville,” she said out loud as she started the car. “And what is worse, I allowed you to be.”
On the drive home, she hardly looked at the road. Her mind was so full of what she’d heard this morning, and what she was being forced to remember, that she could see little.
Worse than what had been done to her in the past, she thought, was the fact that she was doing it all over again. She had no doubt that soon Matt would ask her to marry him, then they’d have a sweet little wedding in some adorable little church, and she’d probably be pregnant a week later. “A pregnancy waiting to happen,” is what Arleen called her.
But what would Bailey tell her children when they asked for her opinion or guidance? “Go ask your father. He makes all the decisions. I just follow.” Is that what she’d say?
And Bailey had firsthand knowledge of how suddenly things could change. What if she and Matt had three kids, then he fell off a scaffolding and was killed? How was she supposed to support her children? Work double shifts waitressing and never see them? She’d read articles about adults who were angry at their stressed-out, overworked single mothers for never having spent much time with them when they were children.
What would she do
if Matt had an affair? Would she do what she’d done with Jimmie—bury herself in thirty-five quarts of grapefruit marmalade and pretend that she didn’t see what was going on? If Matt wanted to have a party with guests she didn’t like, what would she do? Plead fatigue and go to bed? It was one thing to escape from a party in a twenty-thousand-square-foot mansion, but quite another to try to get away in two thousand square feet. No, this time, Bailey wasn’t hiding; this time, she was frying cheese and onions for them.
And she was doing it in her own house!
When Bailey pulled into her driveway, she remembered when she had first seen the farmhouse with Phillip. It had been so ugly then! But in just six weeks, that had changed. Weekend after weekend Matt’s friends and relatives—as if they were holding a barn raising in a western novel—had helped them restore the house to what it had once been.
At first, Bailey had enjoyed the remodeling. Cooking for people who lavished praise on everything that she put before them had been a dream come true. It was what she’d envisioned that life could be. Matt was always there, laughing, smiling at her, his arm often around her. He bragged on her cooking and on the designs that she did for the kitchens in his house plans. With each week he was receiving more commissions for design work, and if he could get a permanent job with a New York company that sold house plans over the Internet, he would be able to remain in Calburn and earn a good living.
During the week, she and Matt had settled into a quiet, easy life. They knew each other’s favorite TV shows; he learned not to bother her when she was reading one of her beloved murder mysteries. They both disliked going out during the week, so they stayed at home and rented videos, or they worked on the thousand-piece puzzle set up in the corner by the fireplace and listened to Enya. Sometimes one or both of Matt’s nephews would spend the night; then Bailey would make popcorn, and she’d have to sit through some dreadful horror movie that would give her nightmares.