Chapter 31
Six Years Earlier
I wipe away the breast milk splashed across my laptop keys as I get back to work. At two months old, Heathcliff seems to be
before his next session, when I’ll likely crash from exhaustion. My at-home desk has never looked so messy. In addition to
my laptop, course binders, and committee folders, now I have a breast pump, stained burp cloths, and nipple ointment for my
very sore breasts.
“How’s it coming?” Philip asks as he walks into the den with a hot mug of tea. I hear the repetitive music of Heathcliff’s
swing from the nursery.
“Thanks,” I say as he gently sets the cup in front of me. Steam and the warm, tart scent hit my nose. Elderberry. One of my
favorite flavors when I’m trying to focus.
“Good.” I push my blue-light glasses up on my nose. “It’s coming along. I’m twenty thousand words in, and it’s basically Wuthering Heights with magic. There’s an enchanted cave and lots of teen angst. Just tell me this isn’t a complete waste of time.”
“You want to do it, right?”
“It’s why I’m sitting here keeping my fanny at my desk instead of sleeping.”
“Well, there you go. I’ve never seen you work on committee meeting notes in your spare time just because you like doing it.
I’ve never seen you review a journal article because you like doing it.
I haven’t seen you this motivated about a project in a very long time.
I support you and want to do whatever I can
to help you along.”
This is another moment where I feel how much he loves me and how very lucky I am.
“You really mean that?”
“I do.” He leans down, kissing my temple lightly. “Now write.”
Present
Five days later, Henry and I are on our way to the Azalea Dream.
I tried kindly to reach out to Mirabel to meet. But she refused, responding only with three more lawsuit text threats in slightly
different wording. After much debate and some surprising twists in the case, Henry and I developed a plan to talk to Mirabel
today because we know she’ll be home. She’s hosting a Methodist Women’s League fundraiser in her front yard. I feel guilty
crashing her party, but this is important. I’d prefer not to think of my presence as an ambush, but rather a loving intervention.
Except in my dreams, I haven’t been to the property since Philip’s death.
Bittersweet memories surface, like sand stirred up at the bottom of a pond.
As we ease off of 1–95 South and deeper into the Low Country, we pass through black water swamps bordered by tupelos and weeping willows, algae and lily pads blanketing the surfaces.
I still see toddler Heathcliff bouncing gently from the carrier on Philip’s back during our weekend hikes.
As a child, Philip roamed these woods and canoed through the lakes and swamps.
He knew the location of the rarest bald cypresses, every tucked-away mossy chapel ruin.
I can never be here without feeling Philip close by.
“We have the plan down?” Henry asks as he pulls into the driveway.
“Yes. I handle Mirabel while you take care of your side of things.”
“Sounds good. You’ve got the sharper end of the stick, though.”
We drive up Mirabel’s long driveway shadowed by towering pines and lined by sturdy azalea bushes. The house and lawn come
into view.
It looks like the event just started. Two large white tents stand in the middle of the lawn sheltering long, linen-draped
tables with platters of shrimp on ice, creamy grits, and collard greens. A slew of well-dressed servers stroll about with
trays of champagne flutes.
“Fuck. This isn’t going to be pleasant.”
“Ahhh . . . you’ve got this,” Henry says.
He’s right. But still—it’s Mirabel. She pointed an arrow at me in my dream.
He lets me out of the car, tells me he’ll return soon, and heads back down the driveway.
I take a deep breath, straightening my peach eyelet sundress and gold chain necklace.
My bare legs feel strange and airy after wearing black tights and leggings all summer.
My necklaces and the bird urn are safely tucked away in my jewelry box at home, and I’m (gradually) feeling fine about not having them with me all the time.
The Azalea Dream is never as beautiful as it is at this time of late summer, when the surrounding property is warm and dreamlike;
a pink sunset edges the tops of the pines. Mirabel stands at the corner of the lawn, champagne flute in hand. Summerville’s
finest-dressed Methodist women surround her. Mirabel wears red. And when Mirabel Wells wears red, she looks like a Fury. She’s
like Jessica Lange ready for a scene. It’s a clingy dress, and she’s draped a pearl-colored shawl around her arms. Her red lipstick matches the dress.
She sees me approaching, and her back stiffens, eyes narrow.
A server places a champagne flute in my hand. Although I probably need a drink to calm my nerves, my stomach roils, and I
just set it on a nearby table without having so much as a sip.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Mirabel hisses.
“Mirabel,” I say gently. “This isn’t an attack. But I’m not letting this go.”
“There’s nothing to let go.”
“You know that’s not true.”
Mirabel’s nostrils flare.
“No one’s judging you. Nobody ever would—even and especially Philip. It was years ago. But you have to tell me what happened, and I need to know about that night when Philip came here.”
Tears shine in her wide blue eyes.
“Please,” I beg in a whisper. “It will help all of us if you do.”
“You look gorgeous, Mirabel,” Deanna Willa, wife of Orangeburg Methodist’s rector, says as she passes us. “Why, you’d think you were a girl
of thirty from your figure.”
“Thank you.” Mirabel beams, dabbing the corner of her eye as she smiles. “It’s Jesus, high protein, and exercise.”
“I’d love to know more about it . . . I just bought these protein shakes from Julia Barnwell, and they’re not working . . .”
“Unfortunately, Miss Deanna, I have a can’t-wait business meeting with my daughter-in-law. I’ll be back out soon, and we’ll
talk about some quality shakes and diet prayers. As you know, Jesus takes care of everything. Now, please enjoy the grits
bar.”
Mirabel leads me up the front steps, past Ted and his friends. They all lounge in the nice white porch chairs with tumblers
of Ted’s favorite bourbon. Ted’s telling everyone about what he ordered, course by course, from a new Savannah restaurant
the week before. Deanna Willa’s husband has already fallen asleep, tumbler tipping precariously in his right hand. Ted pauses
when he sees us, blinks, and then continues describing the restaurant’s lemon meringue pie.
I follow Mirabel through the front hall, along the waxed wood floors, past the oriental vases, the portraits lining the wall
beside me.
She takes me into the parlor, methodically shutting the glass French doors.
The parlor is Mirabel’s favorite room for retreat. A large dark-hued oil painting depicting a crystal bowl of floating rose
petals hangs over the mantelpiece while two antique painted china spaniels flank the little fireplace hearth; heavy, bird-patterned
drapes frame the windows from floor to ceiling. A mahogany glass door bookcase displays rare editions of novels collected
by the Wells family over the years, and a mid-century rolling bar cart sits invitingly in the corner. Everything in the Azalea
Dream showcases Ted’s old money and Mirabel’s enjoyment of it, and this beautiful room sits tucked away at the back of the
grand house like a secret. I wonder how many times Mirabel sat in here contemplating her own.
I sink into the sofa while Mirabel perches herself on the ottoman, legs crossed, arms folded across her chest. Her bracelets jangle as she tugs the shawl up around her shoulders.
“Alright. Here we are, Lizzie. Now, what do you want?”
“The truth. That’s all, Mirabel.”
She says nothing. She just kicks her crossed right leg vigorously, taupe heel moving up and down, up and down.
“Philip wanted the truth too.”
Mirabel’s lips tighten, then grimace. Her face crumbles, and I ache for the pain she keeps bottled up inside.
“I never planned on telling him. Why in the world would he need to know?”
She stares out the window at her groundhog-free rows of azalea bushes. I don’t say anything, but just let her question hang
in the air. For all her flaws, Mirabel is whip-smart. She recognizes underneath her embarrassment that Philip wanted and needed
to know the truth for his own well-being. She owed him that.
She makes an angry sound in her throat like she’s going to protest one more time.
Then she sighs, sadly, wearily.
“Since you’re dead set on exposing my shame, I suppose I’ll start from the beginning. I never really loved Ted. His family
had old money, and my daddy worked at the Summerville post office. We managed. But every time we’d run errands in Charleston,
and I’d see those Ashley Hall debutantes walk around in their pretty dresses, I’d go green with envy. I knew if I wanted wealth,
I’d have to marry it. I wanted the Wells name and money, so I threw myself in Ted’s path. Over the years, we’ve gotten along
fine, but there wasn’t a spark of chemistry between us.”
On silent, my phone lights up with a text from Henry.
“As you probably know by now, in the early ’80s, the mayor’s wife, Lila Mae, and I became quick friends.
We shared a passion for gardening and started that little downtown shop.
It did well for a while. But then I started to get to know Frank.
I felt things I’d never felt before, and he did too.
Ted never looked at me like Frank did. We behaved ourselves for a good while.
But then there was that Grits Festival parade. ”
She pauses, her gaze still out the window, like she’s forgotten all about me. She’s back in that summer of 1982. My phone
lights up again, this time with a photo from the babysitter back home of Heathcliff at the playground. But I don’t dare touch