“That’s your retainer. It’s a certified check. I’m assuming $25,000 is sufficient for you to get started?”
“I’m sorry,” Brooke said. “As I’ve tried to explain, based on the little you’ve told me, I really don’t think I can help you.”
The old lady’s eyes were closed again.
“And remember,” Josephine said. “Strictly confidential. Not a word to anybody about what we discussed today.”
Josephine nodded off once more, leaving Brooke wondering again if she should go or stay. She still smarted from the intrusive questions about Henry’s paternity and whether his father knew of the boy’s existence.
Henry had straight dark hair, a high forehead, and a short nose like her own. His moods changed moment to moment. One minute he was climbing into Brooke’s lap and smothering her face with kisses while she was trying to work at the kitchen table, and the next thing she knew he was scowling and howling, “Bad Mommy!” Strangers stopped her at the grocery store to comment that he was a carbon copy of his mama. But sometimes, when the tantrum clouds passed, and he gave her that full-faced impish smile, all she could see was Pete. He had Pete Haynes’s smile, Pete’s square jaw, long, Bambi-like lashes, stormy blue eyes, and smooth olive skin. Even the faint sprinkle of freckles across Henry’s nose and cheeks were Pete’s.
He was his father’s son, a son Pete knew nothing about.
6
Josephine
October 1941
“Such a lovely party.” Everybody kept saying it, and it was true. Papa and I wanted everything perfect for Millie’s engagement party.
The ballroom floor had been waxed and polished until it shone like a mirror. The orchestra, brought all the way down from Atlanta—ten pieces—played all the most popular songs from that year. Caterers had been brought in too. A steamship round of roast beef, silver trays piled high with cracked lobster tails, steamed shrimp and oysters mounded on beds of crushed ice, poached quails’ eggs, and the cleverest little pink cakes. Flowers everywhere. Orchids from the greenhouse, huge vases of peonies and roses and lilies, their perfume scenting the gentle breeze blowing in from the open doors to the veranda.
Thank goodness for that breeze! October could still be oppressively warm on Talisa, but even the weather cooperated that evening, with a full moon shining down on the loveliest party that I’d ever seen.
My gown was pale blue silk, with elegant beading and a plunging neckline. Millie was fairy-tale pretty in pink organza, the gown a surprisingly generous gift from her miserly grandmother, and Ruth, in seafoam-green satin to complement her copper hair. “You girls look like a rainbow,” Papa had said, nodding in approval.
A hundred people filled the ballroom at Shellhaven that night. Or was it two hundred? Such a pretty, perfect night.
Until Russell strolled back into the ballroom from the veranda. He’d been drinking steadily all night, supplementing the champagne punch from the silver flask stuck carelessly in the breast pocket of his dinner jacket. Poor Millie had been on edge all night, fluttering around, too nervous to do more than nibble at the edges of the plate of food Ruth had tried to coerce her into eating.
“He hasn’t danced with her once tonight,” Ruth had hissed in my ear, glaring in Russell’s direction.
“Too busy drinking and talking sports and smoking cigars with his fraternity brothers,” I’d agreed, following her gaze.
Russell Strickland stood by the french doors, holding the stub of a still-lit cigar in his hand, coolly surveying the room. The dance floor was a crush of color and movement because right at that moment the orchestra was playing Glenn Miller.
Ruth slipped her arm around my waist, and we both hummed along and swayed to the rhythm. “Moonlight Serenade.” A perfect song for a perfect night.
“What’s he staring at?” I muttered.
Russell’s eyes were narrowed, his jaw tight with anger.
“Oh Lord,” Ruth said. “It’s Millie. She’s dancing with another man.”
“Where?” I craned my neck to see through the crowd.
“Over there, near the punch bowl.”
Finally, I spotted Millie’s gauzy pink dress. She was in the arms of a lanky man with a white dinner jacket and a deep tan. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. It’s only Gardiner. He’s just being nice. Papa probably made him ask Millie.”
“Maybe your brother is just doing the gentlemanly thing, asking his little sister’s best friend to dance, but I doubt Russell sees it like that,” Ruth said. “He is holding her awfully close.”
“Because every single living person in the room is on that dance floor,” I said, laughing. “You and I are the only ones who aren’t dancing.”
“Russell isn’t dancing. And he doesn’t look at all happy at the way his fiancée is looking right now.”
Ruth was right.
“Should we do something?” I asked. “Maybe try to distract him?”
“And how would we do that?” Ruth’s dark green eyes crinkled in amusement. “Strip naked? Faint at his feet? Offer him some cake?”
“Or another flask of whiskey. I’ve got a better idea, though. You could ask him to dance.”
“You ask him. You’re the hostess.”
“Should I?” My stomach did a little flip. Russell Strickland had always been perfectly polite to me, but there was something intimidating about him. And not just his football-player size. Everything about him was outsized and intense.
“Never mind now. The song’s almost over. I think you and I should warn Millie…”
But it was too late. The music had ended, and Russell was steaming across the room, shouldering his way through the throng of partygoers until he’d reached the spot where Millie was standing.
She’d been talking to Gardiner, her cheeks pink with excitement. A moment later, Russell clamped his hand around her bare upper arm. She turned, and her eyes widened in surprise. Russell said something to Gardiner, who took a step backward, shaking his head in disgust.
The next moment, Russell was towing Millie toward the ballroom door, not really holding her hand but nearly dragging her. Luckily, most of our other guests didn’t notice. The music started again, and Ruth and I stood rooted to the spot where we’d been standing.
“Should we do something?” I asked. “Should we tell my father?”
Ruth thought about it, then shrugged. “Maybe not. It would just make Russell madder. And he’d probably take it out on poor Millie and spoil your wonderful engagement party.”
“Poor Millie,” I whispered.
*
“Are you going to help me or not?”
“I want to help you,” Brooke said. “But I’m still not clear on what you think I can accomplish. Besides, you never finished telling me about these friends of yours. Or how you plan to make amends with them.”
“I certainly did,” Josephine snapped. “I told you about Millie. And Ruth. And Varina.”
“You told me that Varina is still living and that your friend Millie was my grandmother,” Brooke said. “But what about Ruth? And why do you need to make amends with these women?”
“Oh.” Josephine looked down at the Chihuahuas, who were dozing on her lap. “Sometimes I do get a little forgetful. And sleepy.”
Brooke laughed. “Sometimes I dream of sleeping ’til noon. My son creeps into my room two or three times a night. I don’t think I’ve gotten more than four uninterrupted hours of sleep since he was born.”
“Why don’t you just lock him in his room? Or lock your own door, for that matter?”
Brooke tried not to show her shock. “You’re joking, right? Lock a three-year-old in his room? What if there was a fire? Or he really needed me in the middle of the night?”
“Oh, well, I didn’t think of that,” Josephine said with a shrug. “That’s why Preiss and I never had children of our own. I don’t think I would have made a good mother.”
Brooke silently agreed with that assessment. “Anyway, it’s time for Henry to transition to a big-boy bed. Maybe then he’ll let me sleep in peace.”
“Is Henry a family name?”
“Yes. He’s named for my grandfather. Millie’s husband. I suppose you knew him too?”