Chapter 12
The next day is wonderfully slow.
We stay inside. I wear my black pajamas all day. I read tabloid news on my phone, checking in on Everett’s, Bella’s, and Harry’s
social media pages. From the looks of it, they’ve been cavorting around London. I try to get caught up on their love lives.
It looks like Everett and Bella are back together again. Harry has come out as gay and is dating a fellow hunky young actor
in a new werewolf drama series. I search for August and find his handle—@ADHemmings: Writer, Sex God, Chadwick Hall’s Boss. But not in that order. (Fine. So he’s a little cheeky. Tomorrow afternoon should be interesting if nothing else.) It’s all mostly book news, teasers
for the upcoming Netflix series, noir-filtered photos of his bar drinks. No women.
Guiltily, I leave his pages. I’m not actually breaking any rules. Victorian women didn’t even have Instagram. I’m doing nothing
other than keeping tabs on a friend.
Henry texts me an image.
I open it. Oh my god.
It’s a fuzzy mug shot of a much younger Mirabel. It must be the early eighties from the looks of it. She has the heavy dark
eye shadow and liner. Her now-coiffed blond hair was permed with four-inch-high puffed bangs sprayed heavily into shape. Best
of all, though, is the workout headband, slipped down at an awkward angle. She’s scowling, shiny pink lipstick smeared as
she holds up the ID card—weight 120 pounds. Those Jane Fonda workouts paid off.
Me: WTF!
Henry: Running into court. Four hearings in a row. Give you a call at 9:00 your time tonight? Got some serious shit-tea to spill.?
I keep staring at the mug shot, disbelieving. Did Philip know his mom had been arrested?
No, because he would have told me. What would Mirabel have done to end up in handcuffs? Steal from the Methodist Women’s League’s garden fund?
Heathcliff runs up behind me in a superhero cape, and I put down my phone before he can see his grandmama’s mug shot. We eat
sandwiches in front of cartoons for a while before he goes up to his bedroom to play LEGO. I sit at the kitchen island sipping
more coffee and watching Ms. Fernsby put together an apple mincemeat pie. She’s beaming with pride as she tells me about her
daughter going back to school. Apparently, there’s still some funds left over in the education fund Lord Routledge set aside
for Mabel.
“She says if she makes it through, she might go straight on to law school. I told her it’s never too late,” Ms. Fernsby says as she cuts steam vents into the dough top. “It’s really never too late for anything. At least, that’s what I tell myself . . .”
For a second, her expression darkens as she wipes her fingers on her apron. I wonder what Ms. Fernsby would have done if she
hadn’t felt tied to Lord Routledge’s house and money for Mabel’s sake. She leads a comfortable life here. But on cozy evenings,
when she sips her brandy over a novel, does she think of what else the world might hold for her?
After dinner, Heathcliff Zooms with Mirabel from my bedroom’s sitting area. She looks great even on my grainy laptop screen—her
teeth white as anything, blond hair coiffed around her shoulders, freshly applied peach lipstick. So different from the disheveled
mug shot.
I stay off camera as Heathcliff chatters about Lucy, his “new best friend” (even though she still hisses at him every time
he enters a room). He tells her about Batman. He tells her about the “nice man” who found him when he got lost at the museum
and then took him and Mama out to lunch and bought him hot dogs and cake.
“And then do you know what?”
“What, darling?”
“He asked Mama for her number and said he wants to see her again.”
“Oh really? Well, your mama seems to be enjoying herself.”
My cheeks burn.
“She is!” Heathcliff says happily. “She really is. We both are.”
“Well, that’s wonderful, darling. Your granddaddy and I miss you so much—do you hear me? Hey, if your mama’s there, can I
talk to her for a minute?”
“Mama!” Heathcliff yells even though I’m right beside him.
“Hi.” I scoot over in front of the laptop camera as Heathcliff makes a beeline out of the room.
“Hello, Elizabeth.” Mirabel pushes on the cuticles of her freshly painted nails. “Well, it sounds like you and Heathie are having yourselves a grand time there. Museums, cake, British gentlemen.”
“We are, Mirabel.” I ignore the insinuation.
“You know, Elizabeth, Henry Lawton keeps calling my Summerville attorney with personal questions about my background. You
have your money for Heathcliff’s college, so why the hell is he poking around, digging into matters best left alone?”
“Those are questions for him. He’s just doing his job, Mirabel.”
She glares at me through the screen and taps her long nails loudly.
“You know, I had a problem earlier this week. A little groundhog family took up residence under my garden. They created all
sorts of chaos, tunneling, messing up my beauties’ roots. If they’d been anywhere else in my yard, I would have played nice—set
out some live cages, some herbal repellants. But they were in my azaleas, Elizabeth.”
“I’m sorry, Mira . . .”
“Anyway, I was so put out yesterday, I took out my granddaddy’s Colt Navy pistol. I loaded it and waited for three hours—luring
Mama Groundhog, Daddy Groundhog, and Baby Groundhog out of their home with bait. I was so patient, sitting there in my favorite
chair in the shade of my favorite sun hat. As soon as each one poked their head out of the ground—” Mirabel deftly holds an
imaginary pistol “—I shot their furry little skull.”
She smiles. “I don’t like anyone nosing around my gardens. I’ve taken great pains, Elizabeth, damn great pains, to grow and
flourish my blooms, establish and keep my gardens’ boundaries, and nothing will disrupt that. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then I’d better let you go . . .”
“Mirabel, I’ve got some precious blooms myself, and I’m making sure mine are just as safe.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You really want to do this?”
“I just want to protect my own.”
“Well then, you’ve just set a pretty little fire in your garden.”
“Goodbye, Mirabel.”
I slam my laptop shut, fingers trembling in rage.
Why does she think she has the right to keep secrets that might affect my son’s inheritance? It’s not even about the trust
money. I’ll have more than enough to pay for Heathcliff’s education. It’s about the lies and secrets surrounding the whole
affair. It’s also incredibly strange that she’s being aggressive and threatening when we’re both in mourning.
I won’t drop this.
When I lost Philip, I worried I might also lose myself.
Theoretically, I shouldn’t lose my self even when I lose my soulmate. I should be more independent than that. But when you live with a partner for so many years
with our kind of intimacy, it’s just fucking impossible not to feel unanchored. We were such a team, and I’m struggling to
know how to play alone. I’m chasing Philip in my dreams for connection, but also for help and affirmation. Still, little by
little, I’m finding I have an untapped reservoir of strengths. I’m pretty good with hunches. When I’ve ignored my gut, as
I did in grad school by keeping serial-cheater Wes as a boyfriend, it’s never turned out well. When I listen to my gut, as
I did by marrying Philip, things turn out wonderfully. Ever since Philip’s death, I’ve had a hunch there’s something Mirabel
never wanted him to know. It’s all connected to that awful evening. Now I’ve seen the mug shot, and she just tried to intimidate
me with the story about murdering her garden family of groundhogs.
What could she have done that was so bad Philip left that urgent voicemail wanting to talk?
Why now, amid her grief, does she still feel the need to protect it?
You’ve just set a pretty little fire in your garden.
She’s trying hard.
And yet I remember the hollow look in her eyes since we lost Philip. I’m angry, but I also feel sorry for her. Since losing
Mom and Philip, I’ve learned grief does strange things to everyone involved. Mirabel’s guarding her secret more fiercely than
ever.
I’m worried if she keeps this up, she’ll devastate herself in the end.
“Hey there!” Henry says as we FaceTime.
He’s sitting in his backyard just in front of his garden boxes, sipping a bourbon on the rocks. Bonnie rolls happily in the
grass at his feet, collar and tags jingling.
“Happy hour?”
He smiles. “You bet. Court was a downright boxing match today. Four contested wills between folks with too much money. Your
case is much more interesting. I’m just scratching the surface, but Mirabel’s 1982 arrest was something else. Seems she got
into a fistfight with the mayor’s wife at a Piggly Wiggly.”
“What?”
“Yep. Mirabel Wells started taking swings at Lila Mae Dubose one fine Tuesday afternoon smack-dab in the middle of the produce
section. According to the police report, they sent apples and avocados flying everywhere. Lila Mae’s high heel smashed through
a ripe tomato. And here . . . look at this.”
My phone dings with the image of Lila Mae’s mug shot. She’s got a bloody nose, and her permed ponytail tumbles out of the
banana clip.
“Whoa,” I mutter. “Gives new meaning to the saying ‘You should have seen the other guy.’”
“It sure as hell does. Your mother-in-law can pack a punch.”
“Why does she look familiar?” I say, making the photo larger.
“Because she’s the woman in Philip’s photo.”
“My god, she is!”
“Listen, I’m still piecing things together, but Lila Mae’s husband, Frank Dubose, the other man in the photo, was the town’s
mayor for a good while. Lila Mae and Mirabel started a gardening business in 1980. All seemed to be going well, but the downtown
shop closed abruptly just before the fight. They were arrested but only booked for a couple hours. Frank, being the mayor,
and Ted, being . . . well, old money, bailed them out and got the charges dropped. I’d like to know what happened. I’ve got
a gut feeling that Miss Lila Mae and Miss Mirabel, both being strong-willed women, couldn’t run the shop together. But I’m
having a dickens of a time getting information.”
“What do you think this has to do with Heathcliff’s trust fund?”
He takes a sip of bourbon and rubs his beard. The quirk is cute.
“Curiously, the trust was set up shortly after the arrest. I’m thinking an arrangement was made between the couples. It was
perhaps some kind of settlement money from the Duboses to the Wells over the business.”
“But why would they pay Mirabel?”
He shrugs. “That’s the million-dollar question.”
“Where are the Duboses now?”
“Frank and Lila Mae retired and are living out on Edisto Island. He started a lucrative real estate business after his tenure as mayor. They never had children, and she continues to garden. Her roses won first place at the state fair three years in a row. I’ve tried to contact them, but they hung up on me.
Their lawyer sent me a cease and desist letter.
No one wants to talk about this. And Miss Mirabel’s lawyer isn’t being any more cooperative.
She sent the scantiest legal document, nothing more than a notarized note with the date the trust was set up. I’m going to have to keep subpoenaing.”
I tell him about my call with Mirabel.
He chuckles, shakes his head. “Again, that woman’s a piece of work. I get that a tanked garden business and ladies’ fistfight
would be embarrassing to all parties involved, but the secrecy about something that happened forty years ago—it’s wild.”
“I’m just trying to swallow all this. I mean, I’ve been in this family for fifteen years. I’ve never heard of these people
or these stories, and I’m sure Philip hadn’t.”
“I get it. Welcome to the South, where batshit families like to keep their secrets close to their chests. Don’t worry, though,
Lizzie, I’m going to keep digging.”
We’re quiet. I’m suddenly self-conscious. I’m still wearing my black pajama set, hair pulled up in a messy bun. I’m propped
up in my bed with pillows, the lamplight not exactly flattering my image on the screen. Also, I should have thought this through
more. Is FaceTiming from bed provocative? Awkwardly, I play with the jet necklace.
He clears his throat. “How’re you doing, Lizzie?”
We’re back at the wedding reception bar. But this time he’s checking in on me.
The grief bubbles up, and I can barely speak.
“Not well. It’s not just that Philip’s dead. It’s that he’s—just not here. Heathcliff lost another baby tooth. The Heathcliff Saga actors are here in London. I had the best homemade lavender scones the other morning. My agent called and there’s another
movie and book deal on the table. But Philip . . . he’s missing it all.”
And then I have to stop because I’m crying.
“I know, Lizzie. I know.” He sighs. “I think of him every day. I went fishing last weekend—just sitting in the boat without
him. The silence is the worst.”
He stops, wipes his eyes. Bonnie, sensing his need, lays her head on his lap. I like that he doesn’t immediately pivot to the good things: Heathcliff growing up, the book deal. He’s here, just sitting with me in my grief.
“You know, I always envied what you two had. But Ginger and I—we could never make it work. I kept trying—year after year.”
“I’m sorry, Henry.”
He shrugs. “It had to happen. We just had to rip off the Band-Aid at some point. It is what it is.”
He throws Bonnie’s toy; her collar jangles as she chases after it.
“I miss you, Lizzie.”
I stop playing with the necklace. After several seconds of awkward silence, he clears his throat. “Did I hear you right? Do
you have another book and movie in the works?”
“Not quite officially, but yes. A sequel to The Heathcliff Saga.”
“You don’t say. That’s pretty darn impressive.”
“A PhD in Victorian literature put to good use,” I joke.
He finishes the bourbon. “When you get back—do you think you can come over?”
“I’m . . . I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Henry.”
“You could bring Heathcliff over too. He’d love to play with Bonnie. I’ll throw something on the grill. It’s just I’d like
to spend more time with you . . . with both of you.”
“I . . .”
“Think about it, Lizzie.”
“Alright.”
After the call, I sink back into my pillows. Henry and I can talk about Philip seamlessly. He overshadows everything between
us. I’m feeling more attached and comfortable with Henry, particularly as we dig into these secrets Philip pursued before
his death. But underneath it all, I’m scared by all the connections.