The Stone Flower Garden

  “That’s called a dictatorship, Gloria.”

  “When the strong are true ladies, as is so with Miss Swan, it is a fine system.”

  So Swan’s right up there with Eva Peron and Imelda Marcos, I thought to myself. “Thank you. I was just curious.” Gloria clamped her lips tightly and made no move to leave. I’d had enough, and gave her a look that told her so. Her eyes widened. She saw my grandmother in me, cold and dangerous. She nodded and left the room.

  I went over the rest of the papers quickly. What I found stopped me with my mouth open in dismay. Swan had committed half-a-million dollars of her own money toward the purchase of land and construction of buildings for something called Stand Tall. It was an enormous amount of money, even by Swan’s standards. The project would be some kind of group home and educational center for troubled children from all over the state.

  I put the papers down and sat there staring into space. Either this was her most cold-blooded effort yet to lure me back to Burnt Stand, or she was trying to buy her way into heaven with good deeds.

  No way, Grandmother. We’re both going to hell.

  Swan and Matilda’s shared hospital room was large, but flower arrangements filled it like a greenhouse. Their well-wishers included the governor, several state representatives, and every important mining official or quarry owner in the South. I set Gloria’s food basket on the stand between the matching beds. My grandmother looked tired but otherwise regal, though she was still attached to oxygen and an IV tube. “I made it out of intensive care in record time,” she said. “Are you frightened by my superhuman abilities?”

  “It doesn’t count if you’re a member of the hospital board and threaten to have your cardiologist’s license pulled unless he does your bidding.”

  “If I had such power, I’d use it to make you do what I want.”

  “I think you are. Tell me about Stand Tall.”

  “It’s a children’s home. A guidance center for troubled youth. Run by the Hardigree Foundation, which I have newly created just for the purpose. My lawyer will bring you all the paperwork. I’m sure you’ll want to get involved. It’s a legacy you can be proud of.” She paused, her eyes glittering with cool amusement. “One you can’t escape, if I work it just right.”

  “Please, don’t start this again, you two,” Matilda said with quiet distress, dragging the words across her slanted lips. She lay curled on her side in her bed, a swath of pale blue silk robe and nightgown enveloping her thin brown body, a light afghan pulled over her legs. Swan was all in white, as usual. They made a grand duo, two white-haired matriarchs, sisters beneath pale skin and brown. My heart twisted. “I apologize, Matilda.”

  “Have you talked to Karen?”

  “Not yet. She must be away from New York. I’ve left messages. I’ll try again this afternoon.” Matilda sighed. Swan pointed to a phone on their shared nightstand. “Matilda, you should leave a message for her yourself. Let her hear your voice.”

  Matilda shook her head. “I won’t beg.”

  Someone knocked on the door. “Come in,” I called. Leon eased into the room, frowning, a big man trying to negotiate small spaces. He looked almost dapper in a tweed sports coat and tan trousers. But as before, marble dust coated his shoes. “Good mornin’. Stopped by to see if there’s anything you ladies need.” He shifted awkwardly.

  “To be young again,” Swan said.

  “Well, now—”

  “You’ve brought me a card?” Matilda asked. Her eyes went to a folded sheet of construction paper in his hand.

  “Yes, ma’am. Carla Ann drew it for you.” He handed her the crayon drawing and sweet message. His daughter, Carla Ann, was six years old. He had a son, Reggie, who was only three. Leon’s wife, who I’d heard described as a good Yankee he’d met at the University of North Carolina, had died of cancer. Matilda doted on Leon’s children. She held the homemade card to her chest.

  Leon turned to me. “Mornin’.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Your friend and I had a nice talk downstairs in the lobby last night. You know, I believe he’s a fine man.”

  I looked at him warily. I’d never gotten the impression Leon gave his instant respect to strangers. “Thank you. I’ll tell him you said so.”

  With a look on his face that said he was protecting my reputation in front of my grandmother, Leon added, “I see you got him a room at the Rakelow last night.” My blank stare raised consternation in his eyes. “I, uh, I saw my Explorer parked in front on my way here.”

  “Oh. Yes.” I saved poor Leon, while my mind whirled. Why was Solo at the Rakelow Inn? Had he decided to book a room? Why? I chewed the information silently as Leon made small talk. Swan’s gaze bored into me. The moment Leon said his good-byes and left the room, she sat up in bed. “Tell me about this friend.” I explained about Solo. Just the facts.

  “That’s all you know about him?”

  “I only met him a few days ago.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t. He’s a remarkable person, and he came here because I asked him to. I can depend on him.”

  “You should have told me sooner,” Swan said curtly.

  “I couldn’t last night.”

  Swan looked at me. “Shut the door. We have to talk.”

  I closed the room’s heavy door then moved uneasily to the foot of Swan’s bed. Swan lay back on her pillows with lethargic calm, undoubtedly due to medication as well as willpower. But as her gaze swiveled to me I saw worry, and my stomach twisted. “I said yesterday I have something to tell you,” she said.

  “I don’t know what this has to do with my friend.”

  “Perhaps nothing. Or perhaps you’ve been the victim of a very disturbing deception.”

  “Grandmother, what are you hinting at?”

  She straightened her bedcovers, an almost unselfconscious act that alarmed me because Swan never fidgeted and never hesitated. Abruptly she spread her pale, fine-boned hands on the blanket. She was settled. Ready for battle. “I’ve sold the two hundred acres behind Marble Hall.”

  I stared at her. That land had been in the Hardigree family for over sixty years. Esta had put the estate together. The Stone Cottage was there. And the Stone Flower Garden. And Clara’s grave. I clutched the steel footboard of her bed and leaned towards her. “Is this a joke?” I managed finally.

  “Not at all. I sold the land to a buyer from Memphis. An attorney who said he was acquiring investment properties for his clients.” She paused. “The agreement includes certain covenants. Primarily, that the garden be preserved.”

  “How could you risk that? People break covenants all the time.” I looked at Matilda. Her breath rattled in a coarse wheeze. “Did you know about this?” She nodded. “You agreed?” She nodded again.

  “We did it for your sake,” Swan went on. “To show you the place has no power over us, and shouldn’t have any over you.”

  “I don’t believe this. I don’t believe you turned the garden over to strangers.” My voice rose. “Covenants can be broken.”

  “We’re willing to take that chance. I’m committing the money from the sale to Stand Tall.”

  So that was where the half-million had come from. Sweat broke out on my face. “What are you really trying to prove? That we’re invincible? That we can still get away with murder—”

  “Stop it.” Matilda’s voice. She was quivering. “We’re risking it in order to do something good for our family. To create something that will keep you here and bring Karen back. A legacy you’ll both be proud of. Something that turns a terrible mistake into a blessing.”

  Swan pointed at me. “You think I’m arrogant and reckless?” A brittle smile drew at her mouth. “Perhaps you’re right. The attorney was merely a broker—I knew that. But I failed to find out that he had only one client,
or that his client has some very peculiar ideas about the land.”

  I straightened. How much worse could this possibly be? “Tell me.”

  Swan hesitated. “The woman who came to see me two days ago was Bell Wade. She bought the land.”

  A clinical wall clock ticked off the seconds. Matilda slowly put her hands to her face, then lay back and shut her eyes. Once the shock wave swept over me I resurfaced and felt everything click into place. Swan was speaking. “And she intends—with her brother’s help and approval—to search for clues on the land to prove their father’s innocence.”

  Eli.

  “You had better go speak with your friend,” Swan said. “I hope for your sake he’s not Eli Wade.”

  Eli was on his way to find Darl, and had just stepped off the stair landing at the Rakelow, entering a broad foyer. The inn’s double doors stood open, allowing the cool fall air to seep through screen doors from the marble veranda. The manicured front yard was visible. A smooth marble walkway led up the center of the lawn directly to the front steps.

  Darl was walking slowly up that path.

  Eli halted. Godawmighty. She knows. One look at her measured stride, her frozen expression, her rigid posture confirmed it. She knows. He shoved the screened doors open and stepped onto the veranda as Darl reached the lowest step. She halted and raised her gaze to him. Her face was chilling in its resistance, but her eyes were full of pain. “Eli?” she asked in a low voice.

  He nodded.

  She wavered as if he’d hit her, then turned and walked away.

  Eli leapt down the steps. When he blocked her she swayed a little. He reached for her. “Don’t,” she ordered, and the look of her said he’d do more harm than good. He lowered his hands but bent his head close to hers. “I’ve only said one word to you that isn’t true. The name Solo. And even it’s an honest name. I know I’ve got a lot to explain—and I will. But right now you need to know I didn’t lie to hurt you or to use you.”

  She said nothing. He wished she’d scream at him or call him names, but she didn’t. The emotion, the tension, the bleak vibration in her and in him electrified the air. He could see the finest tremor in her, and his own hands were shaking. He couldn’t help himself. He took her by the shoulders. “Please come with me,” he ordered in a low voice. “Let me drive us somewhere quiet and we’ll talk about everything. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. I’ve got nothing to hide, and I want to make things right for you and me, too. I know how that sounds right now, but it’s true.”

  Darl gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. “You lied to get the land.”

  “That was a mistake.”

  “Let me go. You have no idea what you’re getting into.”

  “Please, listen.” He held onto her harshly, squeezing her shoulders. “Over the past few days you and me—we found each other, Darl. Two strangers. We built up more trust and kindness and love than most people get in a whole lifetime. Don’t let me ruin it with one mistake, and don’t you ruin it with fast judgments.”

  “It was ruined from the beginning. It was ruined twenty-five years ago. Let me go.”

  He had to concentrate to unfurl his fingers when every instinct urged him to hold her closer, to break through, to make her listen. It was ruined twenty-five years ago. “When you thought I was a stranger, I was special. Now I’m just someone you want to forget.” He lowered his hands. She stared up at him. “I want you to forget me,” she corrected. He could make no sense of that. He started to tell her so.

  “Darl!” Bell’s voice. Darl slowly swiveled her attention to the veranda behind him. Her face softened in convulsive welcome. Bell and Mama stood there, Bell holding the baby, Mama with her hands pressed to her throat. “Please forgive Eli,” Mama said. “He only meant to help you. He was sure you wouldn’t have a thing to do with him if he told you who he was right off. He was wrong to lie to you, and Bell was wrong was wrong to go behind Miss Swan’s back and buy the land. But they did it with a good heart. None of us want to cause more misery. We want peace. We want—” her voice broke—“some kind of saving grace for my Jasper. And for ourselves.”

  Her eyes hard but shimmering with tears, Darl nodded. When she looked at Eli he thought his heart would break from frustration. What was going through her mind? Why was she rejecting him but also rejecting herself? “You do what you have to do,” she said. “But I can’t help you.”

  She walked away, and for the moment, he let her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Los Angeles was just a hot, smoggy dream outside the dark confines of the studio where Karen writhed on the hood of a gleaming black Jaguar. Cameras recorded every movement. Behind her and around her, a dozen nearly naked women pumped their pelvises to the hard-driving playback of a rap song.

  “Cut,” the director yelled. “Shit.” The choreographer, a muscular Nigerian-born woman who wore colorful kente cloth sashes tied around her forehead, began cursing the dancers for a misstep. “Let’s take a fuckin’ break here,” the director bellowed.

  Karen slid off the prop car, sweating, then weakly made her way through the dancers. A tide of vomit rose in her throat. Her breasts felt like overfilled balloons bursting from the top of her skintight leather minidress. The hem was so short she could feel the breeze from a stage fan on the cheeks of her butt. “Miss Soap Opera’s too clean to listen to this shit,” one of the girls sneered, loud enough for Karen to hear. Holding her stomach, she kept walking, well aware that the ambitious dancers—black girls, Latino girls, and blonde white girls—watched her like gleeful hawks. You yellow bitch, Cool T dumped you and we know it.

  All of them sneered at her for what they saw as her desperate attempt to hang onto the attentions of Cool T by appearing in his latest video. In fact she’d dumped him a few weeks ago, right after he slapped her for the first and only time. But during the height of their brief romance she’d agreed to wiggle her ass in his video, and he’d held her to the contract. Thank god he hadn’t come to the set to watch her humiliation, at least. Let him keep his streetwise pride. She only wanted to get this over with and find some peace in her life.

  Karen rushed down a narrow hallway and into a small restroom used by the crew, where she threw up violently in the sink. When her stomach was under control again she rinsed her mouth and glared at herself in a small mirror. Her agent had warned her not to get involved with Cool T. He had an arrest record as long as his arm, and his videos were nasty—just plain nasty. The producers of Attractions had threatened to write her out of the show if she appeared in one.

  “Why did I do this?” she asked the mirror.

  Because you wanted out. Because you hate your life.

  She walked out of the restroom then leaned against a wall with her eyes shut and one hand splayed over her stomach. A melodic male voice said, “Miss Noland? I’m very sorry to bother you.”

  She jumped and looked around quickly. A pleasant-faced, dapper black man with the thick build of a weightlifter stood there, dressed in a sports coat and slacks. He wasn’t from L.A., she decided—and clearly was not in show business. He looked like an ordinary human being. She stared at him warily. “What do you want?”

  “I apologize for my timing. Are you ill? Can I help?” His Caribbean voice lulled her, but she noticed instantly he wore no security pass. Karen tensed. “Who are you and how did you get on this soundstage without permission?”

  “My name is William Leyland. I’m a security consultant, and I have considerable connections in the security industry. I’m in quite a hurry, so I’m afraid I didn’t follow much protocol.” He paused. “Also, my wife owns a large publicity firm in Washington, D.C. She’s an avid fan of yours. She made some calls to Mr. Cool T’s record company and that opened doors. Sorry to surprise you.”

  Karen’s skin chilled. Stalkers and crazy fans always concocted the most creative stories. S
he began to ease down the hallway toward the safety of the cast and crew. “That’s all right. Let’s walk this way while we talk.”

  “Miss Noland. Please. I’m here on behalf of Darl Union.”

  She halted. Darl. “Is she all right?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes. She hates to alarm you, but both her grandmother and yours are hospitalized in Burnt Stand.”

  Karen froze, struggling. Years of estrangement—her own doing—could not stop the flood of anxiety and love that rose in her now. My only family. “My grandmother is, is she . . . what’s wrong?”

  He explained her grandmother’s mild stroke. Karen sagged against the wall, fighting back tears. How long had Grandmother been in such poor health without telling her? They did talk on the phone regularly, albeit without saying much. Grandmother was just too damned proud. And so am I, Karen thought in agony.

  “Will you come right away?” Darl’s strange emissary asked. “I’ve arranged a first-class ticket for you on a flight leaving LAX in one hour. And I have a limousine waiting.”

  “Yo,” a thick voice called out. A burly young manager with dreadlocks, a lot of attitude, and a clipboard, waved at her from the end of the hallway. “You’re due,” he said, and jerked his thumb toward the stage. Karen looked at him grimly. I was raised in the South and people down there expect better manners, she wanted to yell. My grandmother is a lady, and so am I. Bile rose in her throat again. Heavy, lurid makeup itched on her face. Her breasts ached and bulged, and her ass was cold. For good or bad, this was a turning point in her life. Darl had sent for her, and Grandmother needed her. She had family.

  “Mr. Leyland,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

  How many clues there were. How blind I’d been. Eli had tried to tell me about himself several times. I gave him credit for that.

  There was a great settling inside me, shock and meaning and the numb instinctive confusion anyone would expect. Nothing and everything, a thousand sharp points waiting to tear me apart—so many questions, so much to make me reel back, hold up my hands, sob with disbelief, anger, frustration. He had no idea what I’d hidden from him. All of that scalded my mind, and worst of all, in the pit of my stomach, under my ribs, where I lived inside my deepest needs, there existed the pure, resilient, unspeakable joy of reunion.