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  “Well I do.” I take the remote from his hand and turn off the TV. “I think we need to. It’s long past time.”

  “She knows, William,” my mother says gently. “It’s time to talk about it. Time to put everything out in the open. It’s long overdue.” She turns to me. “What did JD tell you?”

  “He said I was in danger. That his father threatened to hurt me. And JD was afraid he would do just that.”

  “Afraid?” my father chokes out. “The boy was petrified when he came to see me. At first, I thought he wasn’t making any sense.”

  “He said you were upset.”

  “We were in the barn when he told me. I don’t know why, but I asked him if he’d ever touched you. He said he’d done some things he wasn’t proud of. I grabbed a strap off the wall, it was the first thing my eye went to, and I took it to him.” My father is breathing so hard, he’s gasping for air. “He stood there and let me beat him. Didn’t say a word. Not a whimper. He just took it.” His eyes are somewhere faraway. “I didn’t stop until he fell over,” he says quietly. “That’s when I realized what a terrible thing I’d done.”

  This is not what I expected, and the tuna sandwich I ate for lunch is tickling my throat. Dammit, JD! Why didn’t you tell me this part?

  “You were at the Bressler’s when I brought him home so your mother could tend to him. His eye was swollen shut by the time we got to our house, and he had open gashes where the edge of the strap caught him. I tried to apologize, over and over. It was a bad thing I did. But he wouldn’t let me. Kept saying he deserved it.”

  Jesus, no. I fold my arms and bring a tight fist to my mouth, gnawing on the knuckle.

  “Your father did a number on him,” Mama explains. “And he already had that broken rib his father gave him, too. He was a mess. I was sure your father was going to be arrested. But JD, he just wanted to talk.” My mother meets my eyes. “He was beside himself about you. We couldn’t move your grandmother. She had suffered so much in her life, I wanted her last days to be peaceful. But you were everything to us.”

  “Our whole life,” my father adds in a heavy voice. “Then JD came up with the idea of that school up North.”

  “We hated for you to go,” my mother says. “We hated how unhappy you were. But something told me JD was right.” She gazes at me. “I never saw anything with my own eyes, but no girl was ever too young for DW. Even before his wife died, he chased women. I worried about Georgina around him. She was an easy mark for a man like him, and Philip Bressler wasn’t paying close enough attention. He was too drunk all the time.”

  I think about what DW said he was going to do to me and shudder. But that was about hurting JD, not about me. Still. “Do you think DW ever touched Georgie?”

  “I never saw anything,” my mother says quietly, her eyes faraway as though she’s trying to recall something, “but girls like that are vulnerable to those kinds of men.”

  I relax. “What I don’t understand is why no one told me about DW’s threats. No matter how many times I asked, no one would tell me the truth about any of it.”

  “JD begged us to keep it a secret,” my father says. I want to shake him.

  “He was nineteen. You listened to a nineteen-year-old kid?”

  “He stopped being a kid when his mother died. Everybody knew that. And I was happy to keep the secret,” my father whispers. “I’m your daddy. The man you looked up to. The man who is supposed to protect you and your mama. That’s my only job in life. The only one that matters. But I’m not a fool, I couldn’t protect you from the likes of DW.”

  I turn to my mother. “Mama?”

  “You were too young, Gabrielle. It would have been impossible for you to understand the kind of power someone like DW Wilder has, especially against people like your father and me. And I was afraid. Afraid my daughter’s fate would be the same as my mother’s. That he would rape you, take you whenever he felt like it.” A tear slides down her cheek. I open my hand and offer her one of the tissues wadded in my palm.

  “Can you imagine if we had gone to the police about something like that?” she asks, wiping her nose. “No one would have believed us. He had everyone in his pocket. He would have ruined all of us, and still taken what he wanted from you. That’s how he is.”

  Yes. That is how he is.

  “We did what we believed was the best thing for everyone at the time. And we told ourselves that you were going to have a better future. A better life than anything we could give you. And that you would never end up working in someone else’s house, without skills, at their mercy.”

  My relationship with my parents is—a mess. To some extent. They protect me at every turn, shield me from everything that might cause me pain. Always have. JD does, too.

  But maybe it’s not them, maybe it’s me. Maybe I act like a fragile flower that bends in a light breeze, leaving all my petals scattered on the ground to wither. Is that who I am? Is it?

  I don’t know. But the events of the past week, and the ones still looming in the background, they’ll test me and eventually tell the real story. I lift my chin.

  Before the year is over, we’ll all know how strong my backbone is.

  “I love you both,” I tell my parents. “But things need to change between us. I need you to understand that I’m a grown woman. I need you to be honest, even when it’s going to hurt me. Even when you know it will break my heart. Especially then. Because that means the situation is serious. I can take it.”

  “Of course you can,” Mama says. “Our first instinct is always to protect you. Not because you can’t take it, but because we don’t want you to have to take it. I protect your father when I can, and he protects me. It’s not about weakness. It’s about love.”

  “I know.” And in my heart, I do know it is all about love. I know I should feel blessed that I have people who love me selflessly and protect me at every turn. Unlike Georgie. There was no one to protect her.

  She had Wade when she was all grown up, and before that she had me and my parents, and even Lally, but it’s not the same as having loving parents who care about you. It must have been so hard for her. That’s probably why she took up with that graduate student from USC when we were teenagers. He gave her trinkets, bracelets and charms that she would hide from her father. She swooned when she talked about him. I never met him. They had to keep their relationship a secret because of the age difference. He could go to jail if anybody found out, Georgie said. She couldn’t even tell me his name, only that he was a great kisser and had sexy blue eyes that made her heart beat faster whenever he looked at her. That perverted bastard definitely didn’t protect her, that’s for damn sure.

  Maybe now she has someone of her own to keep her safe. Maybe God can finally find the mercy to protect her. God. My faith has always been strong, but it’s started to falter. In the last week, I’ve begun having long moments of doubt that turned into hours, and then days. I understand now how easy it was for JD to turn his back on God.

  14

  Gabrielle

  The morning of Georgina’s funeral is a lot like any other late January morning. The sun shines brightly in a clear blue sky, taking a bit of the nip out of the air. Not a drop of humidity in sight. The kind of day Georgie loved.

  I would have preferred a deluge. Torrential rains with waves so high they threatened to breach the seawall. Wind so powerful it rattled the shutters on the expensive homes along Water Street. I wanted the universe to mourn with me today.

  Antoine pulls up in Smith’s driveway and comes around to help me into the car. He’s driving Lally and me to church. I haven’t seen him since the day I was discharged from the hospital. “How are you, Ms. Duval?” There’s pity in his eyes that I can’t bear to look at, and a formality that I can’t stand to hear.

  “I’m putting the sadness aside for today, while we celebrate Georgie’s life.”

  “She’s with the angels,” he murmurs in that deep voice of his. “But she’ll be missed here on earth.
”

  “You need a winter coat, missy,” Lally cackles the second I get into the car, before she even says good morning. She’s become almost as suffocating as JD.

  “I’m not buying a heavy coat. Winter lasts for a short minute around here.” I tighten my wrap around my shoulders. “This wool shawl will take me through the season.”

  “It doesn’t become you to play the martyr.”

  “It doesn’t become you to be quite so bossy on the way to Georgina’s funeral.” Especially when I need a million hugs, not a scolding.

  She doesn’t take the hint. “Wearing second-hand clothes. No makeup, no jewelry. Did you even comb your hair?”

  “Yes, I combed it, but all the products that make my hair behave went up in smoke with my jewelry, and the rest of my life,” I huff, looking out the window. “And there’s no shame in wearing clothes someone else has worn.”

  “No shame at all. But you’re feeling sorry for yourself. There’s plenty of shame in that. At least there ought to be. Your mama worked all day in someone else’s house, and at night, her tired hands cut and stitched fabric making you beautiful clothes so you’d never have to wear hand-me-downs. You’re being selfish and making a spectacle of yourself.”

  I turn to glare at her. “A spectacle of myself? This dress is perfectly respectable and clean.”

  “And three sizes too big. I could wear that ratty thing. That dress is nothing but a symbol of your guilt. And by wearing it, you’re just calling attention to yourself.”

  The woman can be so annoying. And I don’t need her shit this morning. But she’s right about the guilt. I’m submerged in it up to my eyebrows. “I do feel guilty.” I lay my hands flat on my lap, stretching my fingers with small wiggles. “I was selfish and now my friend is dead.”

  “Did you set that fire? Did you do something that would have caused her to die?” I don’t respond. “Answer me, girl. Did you?”

  “No,” I whisper to my hands. “But you don’t understand.”

  “I understand plenty. You’re wallowing in a tub of self-pity that’s so deep you’re about ready to drown. I’ll allow it for another week, but then you’re done. You will clean up your poor-little-me act.”

  “I can always count on you for support.”

  She reaches across the seat and grabs me by the shoulders, pulling me into her big bosom. “I love you, child. You did nothing wrong. Not a thing. We don’t know what happened.” She pats my back. “But we will. We will. Let’s go say goodbye to that poor girl. We’ll worry about the rest tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Lally sits in the church on one side of me and Antoine on the other. Smith is seated in the back pew with Rafe, Gus, and Mae or Delilah, or whatever her real name is. I wonder why she’s here? She was the hostess at Wildflower. Gray had it bad for her, even brought her to Sweetgrass on Christmas. He was furious when it came out that she worked for Smith who planted her, undercover, at the club, to keep an eye on the place. And although he’ll never admit it, he was hurt that she lied to him for all that time.

  My employees—former employees—are all here too. Everyone except Tom, who nobody seems to be able to reach. They’re without jobs too, and not all of them have friends with carriage houses they can stay in rent free. Until the circumstances surrounding the fire are better understood, their job prospects are slim, like mine. And I don’t have a cent to my name to help them stay on their feet until they can work again.

  “Damn shame,” Lally says softly while we wait for the service to begin. “If that girl had any luck at all, it was bad luck. Her mama died days after she was born, her daddy meant well, but he was a drunk. She was always playing catch up, never as pretty or as smart as her friends. Once she found Wade, I hoped her luck had changed. But the Lord had other plans.”

  I fight to stay present, but it’s a futile effort.

  Don’t ask me about the service. After the pallbearers wheel the casket in, I remember little. I don’t take my eyes off the polished wooden box for a second. But my mind is somewhere else. Somewhere where little girls with wiggly front teeth braid each other’s hair and play Chinese jump rope with elastic we stole from my mother. Somewhere where teenage girls use hairbrushes for microphones and dance in their underwear on the bed. Somewhere where a maid of honor and a bride share a shot of Blanton’s before they walk up the aisle. Somewhere where two women carry on like lunatics, shrieking with delight, because they’re going to have a baby to spoil. Somewhere where a little girl, with big hazel eyes, toddles across the floor in a pink ruffled dress dragging an Easter basket behind her.

  That’s what I remember about the service.

  I celebrated Georgie’s life privately, oblivious to the sermon, the readings, and the mourners weeping around me. I pulled out as many memories as I could find and put them on a reel, to play inside my heart for a lifetime.

  The cemetery is peaceful. Everyone speaks in hushed tones. Wade is surrounded by his family, and Georgie will soon be surrounded by hers.

  Her resting place is high up on the hill, where she can gaze down on her parents, buried below. She would like this spot.

  After the crowd thins, I linger near the grave. I’m not ready to say goodbye.

  As I stand near the freshly dug earth, looking for excuses to stay behind, I notice a woven basket filled with pure white lilies. It’s enormous, and white lilies were Georgie’s favorite flower, so I assume they’re from Wade. But I’m wrong. The President and the First Lady sent the grand bouquet. My stomach coils tighter than a rattler preparing to strike. How did they know she loved white lilies? Maybe it was luck. Or maybe when you have that kind of power, you can find out any little thing. I study the lilies carefully, they’re not as lovely as I first thought. A few of the flowers are blemished, unsightly dark spots bleeding into the concave center. They no longer seem pure to me, and I fight the urge to kick the bouquet away from her.

  “Gabby,” Lally says, putting her hand on my back. “We need to go. I told Wade I’d help with the food.”

  “Give me one more minute,” I say without looking at her.

  “I’ll be in the car. Don’t be long.”

  “I’m so sorry, Georgie. Please forgive me, even though I don’t deserve it. I already miss you so much. Save me a place near you on the other side. I love you.” I lay my hand on the casket. “Godspeed.”

  * * *

  The ride back to Wade’s is quiet. Even Lally doesn’t say too much.

  When we arrive, I help Lally and a couple other women set out food. When I begin to fret about whether Georgie would want us to use paper plates or the company dishes, Lally shoos me out of the kitchen.

  People are chatting in small groups all over the house. They’re not loud or disrespectful, but Georgie would hate them scuffing up her gleaming hardwood floors, and setting down glassware directly on the furniture to leave a ring. I roam from room to room, from group to group, slipping cocktail napkins under glasses filled with sweet tea and lemonade.

  I’m polite to everyone, but I’m not interested in their idle chit-chat, and I’m not hungry. I’m restless. Before I know it, I’ve wandered into the baby’s room. It looks exactly how we left it the night they died. The little ballerina smiles down at me from her unicorn at the top of the growth stick. I touch a tiny pink rhinestone on the mesh tutu. Georgie and I attached each one securely so the baby wouldn’t get hurt. We finished the night of the fire. The night they died. Our little girl is never going to need that growth stick.

  “You okay?” Wade asks from the doorway.

  “I’m sorry.” I’m startled by the voice and a little embarrassed for being here without asking him first. “I shouldn’t be wandering around your house. I couldn’t help myself.”

  “I can barely stand to look at this room, but I’m drawn here too.”

  “I’ll help you pack everything up when you’re ready,” I tell him.

  “I’m thinking about selling this place,” he says. “I feel like Georgina is eve
rywhere. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop seeing her. I keep thinking about the terrible way she died.”

  I press my lips together. “Me too,” I confess. “You should talk to someone, a counselor. Georgie wouldn’t want you to suffer because of her. She would hate that.”

  “I just need to get out of here.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “North Carolina. My people are there.” Wade slams his fist on the changing table and grabs a neatly folded receiving blanket from nearby. He flings it across the room. It disturbs the blinds before falling silently onto the braided rug.

  I touch Wade’s arm, before wrapping him in a hug. I don’t say anything, because words do not comfort the grieving. No matter what anyone says, there are no suitable words for those who mourn. Human contact, a warm touch, is the only thing that reaches a grieving heart.

  “I have something for you,” he says, pulling away from my embrace. “Georgie’s journals.”

  “Are you sure?” They were her most prized possession. I’m surprised he wants me to have them. “Why don’t you give it some time before you give away her things? You don’t know what you might want to keep.”

  “I’m sure. She always said if anything happened to her, to give you the journals.” He opens the closet door and pulls out a cardboard banker’s box from the top shelf. It has pastel flowers printed all over the outside. “There are two of these boxes filled with notebooks. I’ll carry them out to the car when you’re ready to leave.”

  On one hand, I feel awful about taking them; on the other, I want them more than I’ve ever wanted anything. She lives on those pages.

  Georgie kept a journal since she was nine years old. She’d start a fresh book on New Year’s Day each year. She journaled every day without fail. When we were older, she would joke that they were cheaper than a therapist and guaranteed not to spill any secrets. When the fog starts to clear, Wade’s going to regret giving them up. “If you change your mind,” I say, “tomorrow, or ten years from now, I’ll be happy to give them back. Don’t be afraid to ask.”