Chapter 23
Ian listens as I cry, sniffling and using up half a box of tissues.
I moan about what a fool I’ve been, and how I can’t believe I’m crying over one man while still grieving Philip. (“What’s
wrong with me?”)
After getting over his initial shock that I’ve been cavorting with A.D. Hemmings (“Jeez . . . Lizzie. I can’t wait for the
Netflix series to come out! I had no idea . . .”), Ian tells me there’s nothing wrong with me, and Dansworth can go fuck himself.
Ian promises to write some bad online reviews and troll him relentlessly. Ian says a million funny things to make me laugh
and feel marginally better.
“Hey, how’s Dad doing?” I ask, blowing my nose.
Ian sighs. “The same. He’s given up on the lasagnas. But he’s still down.”
“So no more dates?”
“Not that I’m aware of. He’s just kind of lost.”
“I know, Ian. I know.”
Before we hang up, Ian tells me he loves me and that my next book will sink Hemmings on the New York Times list. I hang up, grateful as always for my brother.
Soon Ms. Fernsby returns from the market with Heathcliff.
I splash cold water on my puffy face to look a little less terrible before going down. She notices, kindly telling me if I
want to talk with her I can. But she doesn’t prod. I help her put away groceries, trying to shelve my grief and worries. It’s
difficult. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so confused in my life. After tucking Heathcliff into bed, I refill the teacup and
settle into one of my bedroom chairs with Wuthering Heights. Lucy peeks at me through one eye from the other chair, and I toast her. After a day like this, there’s nothing to do except
read and sip brandy.
Soon my phone rings as Henry tries to FaceTime me. He’s at his home-office desk.
“Lizzie?” He takes off his reading glasses, peers at me through the screen. “Are you drunk or . . . upset?”
“Both. Do I look that bad?”
“You couldn’t look bad in a potato sack, but you just look sad. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Thanks. But not really.”
He’s quiet, rubs his beard.
“Well, I had some news. But if there’s a better time, it can wait . . .”
“No, now should be fine.” I set my book and half-empty teacup aside. My heartbeat picks up. I hope we finally have answers.
Henry puts his reading glasses back on and clicks through a screen on his desk. I see the stack of letters he took from the
safe the other day.
“Lizzie, did Philip ever take you to the Summerville Grits Festival?”
“Once, when Heathcliff was a toddler. It was quite the tribute to grits.”
“But a big ole deal if you’re from that area. Do you remember there was the parade, shrimp and grits at every stand, and even
a grits dunk tank?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Let’s go back together to that festival in the summer of 1982. It was a sweltering one even by South Carolina’s standards.
But everyone and their mama turned up, and the lemonade stands made a killing. It was a golden era for Frank and Lila Mae
Dubose and your in-laws. Mirabel and Lila Mae’s gardening shop was thriving. Frank was mayor. And Ted had just been promoted
to bank manager. The couples rode together in the mayor’s float at the front of the parade. Mirabel and Lila Mae tossed store
coupons and candy into the crowd. Have a look . . .”
He shares his screen, flashing a photo from the parade. Mirabel wore a short, tight denim skirt and puffy white blouse. Both
women sport ’80s bouffant hair and thick, deliciously colorful eye shadow. They smile widely and nearby Frank beams proudly,
wearing a blue pin-striped seersucker suit and red bow tie. He waves at the crowd, handsome sunburned face smiling under his
panama hat. Ted stands meekly at the back of the float, looking like he wants to be anywhere but there.
Henry flips the screen back to him. “After the parade, Frank had a little party at his downtown Summerville house. As I said,
it was hot. Guests sucked champagne pops and stuck their feet in kiddie pools in the backyard. It was sometime on that hot afternoon
that Mirabel and Frank, drunk on Lila Mae’s specialty champagne pops and whatever other cocktails came out, slipped off alone
in the house.”
“Oh . . .” I mutter, completely sober now.
“Whether Ted or Lila Mae noticed their missing spouses that afternoon is unclear. But in the days to come, Miss Lila Mae knew something had happened. Tensions brewed at the gardening shop, culminating in the Piggly Wiggly fight. Mirabel found herself pregnant by the end of the summer, and it was clear to the couples that what happened that afternoon wasn’t about to go away.
The shop closed. Afraid of scandal, Frank stepped down as mayor. ”
“And Ted?”
Henry smiles and shrugs. “He kept working at the bank.”
My mouth goes dry, and I swallow. “Are you telling me what I think you’re telling me?”
“I sure am. I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t want to scare you with my suspicions, but when I went to the house, I didn’t just
go for the letters. I took some hair from one of Heathcliff’s combs. My investigator sent me the results today. Lizzie, Frank
Dubose was Philip’s father.”
“Mirabel slept with the mayor, and he fathered Philip? This is the secret she’s been going nuts about?”
Henry nods. “I don’t think the affair lasted long, and even though the couples parted ways, Frank wanted to do the right thing.
He set up a trust fund for Philip, and over the years, as his real estate grew, he contributed regularly. It’s fairly sizable
at this point, and when I finally got my hands on the paperwork, I saw it’s true—none of the money is Ted’s. It’s all from
Frank Dubose.”
I blink away tears. “This was what Philip wanted to tell me that night. He put it all together and confronted her.”
“It is,” Henry says gently. Then he taps the bundle at his desk.
“The letters, the photos. They opened up suspicions he’d had for years.
That’s how I got the whole story—flirtatious notes between Mirabel and Frank.
Furious letters from Lila Mae to Mirabel.
It was quite the soap opera, and I can’t help but wonder why Mirabel hung on to them for all these years, up in that attic for Philip to find. ”
“I’d like to know that too. And I get that hooking up with the mayor is something she’s probably not proud of, but why is
she so anxious about it now? It was almost forty years ago. Philip wouldn’t have judged her for what she did. But he would
have wanted her to tell him the truth. He must have been so hurt. I wonder what happened that night. Like did she try to lie?”
Henry shakes his head. “I think Mirabel’s the only one who can fill in those blanks. Look, the trust paperwork is sound. I
know you’re not really in a place where you need money, but the trust should cover Heathcliff’s college. Frank handled the
legal part right. The issue now is closure for you—and I think for all involved.”
I bite my lip. It’s not going to be easy to get Mirabel to talk.
“I’m curious, Henry. Did Frank ever see Philip?”
Henry rubs his beard. “I’m working on that end. So far, the Duboses have been as closed-off as Mirabel. But in my line of
work, I’ve learned people can act pretty shitty while underneath all that almost everyone has a beating heart. You can’t tell
me he put that money faithfully into that trust for his son and grandson and didn’t think of them at all. I just can’t believe
that.”
I pick up my teacup and take another sip.
“That’s not tea in there, is it?” Henry asks, grinning.
“No.”
“If you don’t mind me asking again, you looked in pretty bad shape when you accepted my call. Is everything ok?”
“Not really.”
“Do you want me to fly out there? If you need me to be with you, I will.”
At his earnest expression, I realize he would. I realize he’d do anything for me.
When did that start?
“Lizzie?”
“You don’t need to do that, Henry. But thank you.”
“I’d do it, Lizzie.”
“I know you would.”
Blocked text from August Dansworth:
Hello, Elizabeth. I’m sorry about last night. I was ghastly. Call me!