9
Four-Letter Words
Miss Voncille and Locke Linwood had been the first to leave the vigil at Cherico Memorial once Stout Fella had been stabilized in the ICU. “I know you’ll call us if you hear anything further,” Miss Voncille had said to Maura Beth, who assured them that she would.
But after they’d climbed into Locke’s Cadillac in the hospital parking lot below, an awkward silence overtook them both. They sat there for a while, listening to the muted sound of the engine and looking straight ahead with emotionless faces.
It was Miss Voncille who finally verbalized what they were both thinking. “Does what just happened change where we’re headed?”
He continued to idle the engine and turned her way. “I assume you mean the physical address.”
“Yes. Will you be taking me to your house on Perry Street or mine on Painter Street?”
He did not hesitate. “My invitation is still open.”
But she posed another question instead. “Do you think we should have stayed longer? I hope the ladies won’t think we abandoned them.”
“We couldn’t have done anything but sit there. The crisis seemed to have cooled by the time we left. We made our manners and showed the proper respect. I know who the Brachles are, but Pamela and I never socialized with them because they’re so much younger. They’re a different generation.” He put the car in gear and started to pull out into the street. “I don’t want to do anything tonight that will make you feel uneasy, so tell me which way to head.”
“I’m still fine with your invitation,” she said finally. “Go ahead and drive us to your house on Perry Street. I was looking forward to seeing it. And also seeing you in it.”
They drove through the heart of a mostly deserted downtown, passing the always-spotlighted City Hall, eventually entering the oldest residential neighborhood of Cherico. Tree-lined Perry Street was its crown jewel, featuring a good many more restored Queen Anne cottages than Miss Voncille’s fixer-upper on Painter Street on the other side of town. Here was where the Crumpton sisters, Councilman Sparks, and other well-to-do families resided, not necessarily side by side, but well within shouting distance of each other.
“The crepe myrtles are lush this year,” Miss Voncille noted, making small talk during the short drive. “Especially the pink ones. Personally, I prefer the whites. I think they named them after Natchez in the southern part of the state.”
He nodded enthusiastically. “I think I read that somewhere, too. And as you’ll soon see, those are the only kind I have in my yard.”
A minute or so later they had pulled into the driveway of 134 Perry Street, and the front porch lights enabled Miss Voncille to appreciate the sprawling, superbly manicured lawn, dotted with the crepe myrtles Locke had described. She had, in fact, driven the length of Perry Street over the years just to admire its perfection but had never had a reason to pay particularly close attention to Locke Linwood’s house and grounds. She knew only that he and his wife lived there and religiously attended her genealogical lectures at the library, and that was the extent of her interest. Now, however, the ante had been upped, and the time had come for a sincere compliment.
“If your decorating is anything like your landscaping, I know I’m going to love your house,” she said, as he opened the passenger door and helped her out.
“Pamela did all the decorating. Most all the furniture is from her family. She was an Alden from over in the Delta, you know, and they had all that soybean money,” he explained as they headed in. “I just sold life insurance for my keep.”
The living room they entered was as graciously appointed as Miss Voncille envisioned it would be: It included a spotless wool dhurrie on the hardwood floor, a mahogany linen press against one wall, an English bookcase against the other, a Victorian what-not in the corner, and an Oriental ceramic cat lamp on an end table beside a comfortable contemporary sofa. It was both eclectic and elegant, while at the same time calling to mind the museum-like quality that Locke had confessed to previously.
“Your wife had the touch,” Miss Voncille said, her eyes roving around the room in awe. “This is just lovely. Puts my jungle to shame.”
Locke shook his head with authority. “Nonsense. Architectural Digest is not for everyone.” Then he gestured toward the sofa in front of them. “I’ll give you the rest of the tour later. But first, why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll go get us those sherries we talked about?”
While he was gone, Miss Voncille passed the time studying the oil portrait of Pamela hanging beside the bookcase. It had obviously been done when she was very young—perhaps somewhere in her twenties—and it was easy to see why Locke had fallen hard. Here was a gently smiling woman with shoulder-length brunette hair and light brown eyes that suggested a benevolent prescience. They seemed to be looking off in the distance at something wonderful to behold.
“How old was your wife when that was painted?” Miss Voncille asked as soon as Locke had returned and handed over her nightcap.
He settled in beside her and took a sip of his sherry. “That would have been a year or so after we were married, so she was about twenty-five. She wanted one done of me, but I told her I couldn’t sit still long enough. The truth is, I didn’t want anything in the room to distract from her beauty.”
“And nothing does,” Miss Voncille remarked. “She aged very well, too, I always thought. I would never have known that—” She broke off, realizing just in time where she was going.
But Locke rubbed her arm gently as he finished her sentence. “That she was so ill there at the end?”
Miss Voncille sipped her drink and nodded.
“My Pamela was a trooper. She spent a fortune on designer scarves to cover up the chemo, and she did it with the same great style she used throughout this house. She wouldn’t have made her exit any other way.”
He rose from the sofa and headed toward the bookcase, pulling a letter out of a leather-bound journal. “I’d like to take the time to read this out loud to you. I only read it myself the other day, and it was what brought me to my senses regarding our friendship. Pamela wrote it while she was still pretty cogent, and the instructions on the envelope were that it was to be read by myself two years after her death. I kept it in a safety deposit box to avoid temptation, but above all, I wanted to honor her wishes, and I did. So, if you wouldn’t mind indulging me?”
“Of course not, Locke. And I have to say again that you are the most constantly surprising man I’ve ever known. At my age, that’s just so much fun, I can hardly stand it.”
He smiled, resumed his seat on the sofa, and began:
My dearest Locke,
If you are reading this right now, I will assume that two things have happened: 1) You have lived two more years than I did, and 2) you didn’t cheat and read this before I asked you to.
That aside, I want you to pay very close attention to what I’m saying. I know you only too well. In our many cherished talks near the end, we both agreed that you should go on with your life as best you could. We agreed that you should continue to attend “Who’s Who in Cherico?” at the library; that you should do everything you could to support that sweet young librarian, Maura Beth Mayhew—she’s just as darling as she can be, and she’ll need all the help she can get with the powers-that-be, believe me; that you should get to know Miss Voncille Nettles better. She’s just our age. Ultimately, I think you and she would make excellent companions, but you have to make the effort, Locke, as you did with me many years ago. I’m assuming you’ve done all those things. If not, just go ahead and do them now. Take the risk. Try again for love.
I also know that you have not changed anything in our house these past two years. You never were sloppy, so I’m sure you’ve kept it clean. You could probably charge admission and put our house on tour the way they do during the Pilgrimages in Natchez and Columbus and Holly Springs. But you and I know that won’t happen.
It is my belief that I will be very busy with other things during the two years you have been without me. I don’t have readily available details at this time, but I want you to stop worrying about me and get on with the rest of your life. I will be very disappointed in you if you don’t.
As the song says: I’ll be seeing you.
Eternal love,
Your Pamela
Whatever words she had expected to come out of Locke’s mouth, Miss Voncille considered these a universe away. She had to take a generous swig of her sherry to steady herself and give herself some time to think of what to say. But another quick glimpse of Pamela’s portrait gave her just the inspiration she needed.
“It’s almost like your wife was thinking of that letter when her portrait was painted so long ago,” she observed. “Otherwise, I can’t think of a thing to add to the sentiments she expressed.”
Locke looked consummately pleased with her and himself. “Pamela was like that. She was forward-thinking, even though she wanted to know everything about people here in Cherico. That was why we first started going to ‘Who’s Who?’ meetings. But it was the big picture that really interested her. Not just what came before, but what comes next? That’s why having breast cancer never really changed her. She always thought it was part of something that would eventually make sense to her, and when I read her letter the other day after two years had passed, I teared up and laughed at the same time. She really knew me, and I have no choice now but to keep following through on what she’s asked me to do.”
Miss Voncille exhaled, enjoying the slight buzz from the sherry. “I assume the single rose was your idea, though?”
“That it was. Give me credit for some originality.”
“Oh, I do,” she said, inching closer to him. “As I’ve said to you several times, you’re a surprising and original man.”
The kiss that followed was gentle and brief but held the promise of more to come.
“So, here’s a question for you—what’s your opinion of four-letter words?” he said, pulling away slightly.
Her expression was skeptical but amused. “I don’t use them. Well . . . not unless I hit my thumb with a hammer putting up a picture. You know how that goes.”
“No, I meant the four-letter words that Pamela used in her letter,” he explained with a mischievous grin. “She talked about risk and she mentioned love. Those four-letter words. Here we are getting ready to greet our seventies. Are we willing to take the risk of again losing someone that we love?”
For the first time all night, Frank flashed into Miss Voncille’s head. She had put his picture away in a brave attempt at moving forward. If she became further involved with Locke, it would be impossible to predict how many years they might have together.
“It’s been a while since I’ve risked anything in the love department,” she answered. “You pose a very pertinent question.”
Neither of them said anything for a few minutes, sipping their sherry for courage.
“So, where do we go from here?” he said, finally.
She turned to him with a sweet, reassuring smile. “I’d like to stay here tonight. Is that enough of an answer?”
“More than enough,” he replied, matching her smile. And then they kissed again, this time lingering tenderly.
“Then by all means, show me the rest of the house,” she added, pulling away with an expectant sigh. “It’s gone unappreciated for too long.”