Stargazey Nights Page 11

  Abbie reached for the door handle, but the door opened and a face appeared in the opening. His skin was crinkled and deeply lined from the sun. A shock of thick white hair had escaped from his carefully groomed part and stuck up above his forehead. Bright blue eyes twinkled beneath bushy white eyebrows and managed to appear both fun loving and wise at the same time. Abbie suspected he’d been quite handsome as a young man. He still was.

  “Miz Sinclair?”

  “Yes,” Abbie said, though it took her a second to recognize her own name. In its slow delivery, it sounded more like Sinclayuh. It was soft and melodious, like a song, and Abbie relaxed just a little. “You must be Mr. Crispin.”

  “Yes’m, that’s me. But folks round here all call me Beau.” He held out a large bony hand, the veins thick as ropes across the back, then he snatched it back, rubbed it vigorously on his pants leg, and presented it again.

  Abbie smiled up at Beauregard Crispin, took his proffered hand, and got out of the car.

  The driver carried her two bags up to the porch. “Y’all have a nice stay,” he said, then nodded to Mr. Crispin, got back in the taxi, and drove away.

  Abbie felt a moment of panic. She had a feeling there might not be another taxi for miles.

  “After you.”

  She hesitated, just looking at Beau’s outstretched hand, then she forced a smile and began to climb the wide wooden steps. She’d just reached the porch when the screen door opened and two women stepped out of the rectangle of darkness. They had to be Millie and Marnie. The Crispin sisters.

  Here’s the thing about my relatives, Celeste had told her. They’re sweet as pie, but they’re old-­fashioned. I mean really old-­fashioned, like pre–Civil War old-­fashioned.

  Abbie had laughed, well, her version of a laugh these days. I get it, they’re old-­fashioned. No four-­letter words, no politics, no religion. Not to worry, I have better sense than to talk politics to ­people who lost the wahr.

  The what?

  The war. That was my attempt at a Southern accent. No good?

  Celeste shook her head. Not by a long shot. She dropped into a speech pattern that she’d nearly erased through much practice and four years of studying communications. The wahuh. Two syllables and soft. It’s South Carolina, not Texas. We’re refined. We’ve got Charleston.

  Abbie impulsively grabbed Celeste’s hand. Don’t you want to go with me?

  I’d love to but I can’t get away from the station.

  When was the last time you had a vacation?

  Can’t remember. You know the media. Out of sight, out of—­ Go have a good time. Let them pamper you. They’re experts.

  Now, Abbie suddenly got it. She would have recognized them in a crowd. Millie, the younger sister, prim, petite, neatly dressed and hair coifed in a tidy little bun at the nape of her neck. And Marnie, taller, rawboned, dressed in a pair of dungarees and a tattered man’s T-­shirt smeared with dirt. Her white hair was thick and wild with curls. According to Celeste, Marnie had left the fold at sixteen only to return fifty years later, the intervening years unspoken of, what she had done or where she had been, a mystery.

  Us kids used to make up stories about her. Once we were convinced she was a spy for the CIA, then we decided she traveled to Paris and became the mistress of a tortured painter and posed nude for him. We were very precocious.

  She came for a visit once, but we weren’t allowed to see her. She only stayed two days, and I heard Momma tell Daddy that she was drinking buttermilk the whole time she was there, ’cause it was the only thing she missed. And Daddy said, it was because it covered the smell of the scotch she poured into it.

  They’re teetotalers.

  Not at all. Aunt Millie has a sherry every afternoon.

  “My de-­ah,” Millie Crispin said, coming forward and holding out both hands. “Welcome to Crispin House. We’re so glad to have you. Beau, get Abbie’s luggage and bring it inside.”

  “Please, I can—­” But that was as far as she got before she was swept across the threshold by the deceptively fragile-­looking Millie.

  “Now you just come inside and leave everything to Beau.”

  Abbie didn’t want to think of Beau struggling with her suitcases, but she saw Marnie slip past them to give her brother a hand, just before Millie guided her through a wide oak door and into a high-­ceilinged foyer.

  “I thought you might like to see your room first and get settled in,” Millie said in her soft drawl.

  “Thank you.” Abbie followed her up a curved staircase to the second floor, matching her steps to Millie’s slower ones.

  At the top of the stairs was a landing that overlooked the foyer. A portrait of a man in uniform hung above a side table and large Chinese vase. Three hallways led to the rest of the house.

  Millie started down the center hall. “We’ve put you in the back guest suite. Celeste and her mama and daddy used to stay there when they visited.” Millie sighed. “There’s a lovely view.” She chattered on while Abbie followed a footstep behind her and tried to decipher the pattern of the faded oriental runner.

  They came to the end of the hall and Millie opened a door. “Here we are. I hope you like everything.” They stepped inside to a large darkened room. A row of wooden shutters blocked the light from the windows and a set of French doors that Abbie hoped led to a balcony. Millie hurried over to the windows and opened the shutters. Slices of sunlight poured in, revealing an elegant but faded loveseat and several chairs.

  “Over here is your bedroom,” Millie said, guiding Abbie through another door to another room, this one fitted out with a high four-­poster bed with the same shuttered door and windows. Millie bustled about the room opening the shutters and pointing out amenities. “The bath’s through there . . .”

  Millie’s words buzzed about Abbie’s ears. She appreciated her desire to be welcoming, but she wanted—­needed—­solitude, anonymity, not someone hovering solicitously over her every second. Coming here had been a big mistake.

  “If you need anything, anything at all, you just pull that bell pull and Ervina will come see to you.”

  Ervina? Was there another sister Celeste hadn’t told her about?

  “You just make yourself at home. We generally have dinner at six, but come down any time you like.”

  Abbie followed her back into the sitting room and to the door. “Now you have a rest and then we’ll have a nice visit.” Millie finally stepped into the hallway.

  Abbie shut the door on Millie’s smile and leaned against it.

  There was a tap behind her that made Abbie jump away from the door. Be patient, she told herself. She’s trying to be nice. She opened the door.

  Marnie was there with her suitcases. Abbie opened the door wider and Marnie lugged them in. She was followed by an even older African American woman carrying a tray.

  “You shouldn’t have carried my bags.”

  “No bother. We send the luggage up on a dumbwaiter. Ervina, put that tray over on the Hepplewhite.”

  Ervina wasn’t a sister. She was the servant. And she was ancient.

  Ervina shuffled into the room, carrying a tray laden with cups, saucers, and plates of food that looked heavier than the woman who carried it. Abbie felt a swell of outrage and fought not to take the load from the woman.

  Marnie walked through the room turning on several lamps. “We’ll leave you alone. Millie insisted on the tray. Don’t overeat because she’s going to feed you again in a ­couple of hours. And don’t worry that you’ll be trapped in the house listening to two old broads talk your ear off. You just do however you want. Come, Ervina, let’s leave the poor girl alone.” Marnie headed for the door.

  Ervina followed. She slanted a look at Abbie as she passed by, nodded slowly as if Abbie had just met her expectations, then she shuffled through the door and shut it without a backward look.
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  Bemused, Abbie turned off the lamps Marnie had just turned on. They had to be conserving electricity. Because from the little she’d seen of Crispin House, shabby genteel wasn’t just a lifestyle, it was a necessity.

  And then there was the elaborate tea tray, sterling silver, filled with cakes and little sandwiches with the crusts cut off, tea in a bone china pot and a pitcher of lemonade.

  “Celeste, I could brain you. What the hell have you gotten me into?”

  Abbie took a cucumber sandwich and crossed to the French doors. After fumbling one handed with the handle, she popped the rest of the little sandwich in her mouth and used both hands to pull the doors open.

  She stepped out to the wraparound porch where several white rocking chairs and wicker side tables were lined up facing the ocean. The air was tangy with salt, and she breathed deeply before crossing to the rail.

  Below her a wide lawn slid into white dunes that dipped and billowed before the old mansion like a crinoline. Delicate tufts of greenery embroidered the way to the beach, wide and white and ending in a point that stretched like a guiding finger to the horizon.

  And beyond that, water and sky. She’d come to the edge of the world. Not a violent wave-­crashing, jagged-­rock edge that you’d expect, but the Southern genteel version with fat lazy waves rolling in, tumbling one over the other before spilling into white foam on the sand.

  Abbie filled her lungs with the spicy, clean air and slowly let it out. Part of her tension oozed away. She was tempted just to stay right there looking at the ocean forever, but they were expecting her for dinner.

  She went inside to unpack. Her coat was lying across the chenille bedspread.

  Her cell phone rang. She turned her back on the coat and checked caller ID.

  “Perfect timing,” she said, answering it.

  “Did you just arrive?” Celeste’s voice crackled at the other end of the call. Great. Lousy cell reception. Well, she wanted solitude.

  “A few minutes ago. This place is incredible, kind of Southern gothic.”

  “Ugh. Is it in really bad shape? I’ve been meaning to get back, but I never seem to find the time.”

  “The outside more than the interior, though it looks like someone has started repairs. But everything is very comfortable, the sisters are a hoot, and Beau . . . I adore him already.”

  “Which room did they give you?”

  “One with peach paint that opens onto the veranda and a view of the ocean. Why didn’t you tell me about the beach?”

  “I did.”

  “Oh, well, it’s incredible. I haven’t had a chance to go down yet, but I plan to spend tomorrow laying out. Thank you.”

  “No prob. Don’t forget your sunscreen. It isn’t hot yet, but the sun can burn. Especially with your skin.”

  “Thanks, Ma.”

  “Oh, hell, I know you know more about sunburn than I do, considering the sun hardly ever creeps into my office.” Celeste sighed. “I’m kind of envious.”

  “Then why don’t you try to get away? It’s really quite wonderful,” Abbie said. And her stay here would be easier to handle with Celeste to deflect some of the attention.

  “I wish. I told you it was just what you needed. You have to promise to soak up some rays for me.”

  “I will, and you were right. Even if I had to fall apart to realize it.”

  “Don’t think about that. You’ll get back into it—­when you’re ready.”

  And nobody, not even Abbie, thought she would ever be ready. She knew she could never go back. Back had been torn away from her. Back was no longer an option.

  “Hey, listen, I have a very important question for you.”

  “Yes?”

  Abbie could hear the wariness in her friend’s voice. “Am I expected to dress for dinner?”

  Celeste laughed. It was a sound that made Abbie feel homesick.

  “Well, I haven’t been there in years, but it is Sunday dinner.”

  “I take that to mean yes. But how dressed?”

  “You know, just nice, a dress, not too short, maybe some pearls.”

  “Got it. I’d better get hopping. I don’t want to be late. And Celeste. Thanks. I take it back, all that stupid stuff I said. You were right. This is just what I needed.”

  Chapter 2

  ABBIE HALF EXPECTED A GONG to announce dinner. But when it didn’t ring at a quarter to six, she knew she couldn’t hide in her room any longer. She’d dressed in her any-­occasion black dress and softened it with a string of faux pearls and a short floral jacket that she’d picked up on the sale rack at Marshall Fields. She opted for sandals and prayed that the sisters wouldn’t be waiting for her in chiffon hostess gowns.

  She managed to find her way to the parlor where the Crispins were sipping amber liquid from small glasses. The sherry Celeste had told her about.

  Millie, dressed in light green, sat on the edge of a delicate upholstered chair, her skirts spread about her like an octogenarian Scarlett O’Hara. Marnie was sitting on the couch, legs crossed. She’d changed into a pair a navy blue slacks and a silky blouse covered in a blue hyacinth pattern.

  Beau, wearing a dark suit and looking uncomfortable, stood up when Abbie stepped through the archway. And so did another man.

  “Abbie, come in and sit down over here,” said Millie. “Beau, pour Abbie a little glass of sherry.”

  “She might prefer something else, Sister,” Marnie said.

  “Oh.” Millie’s hand flew to her chest. “Of course.” She frowned at Abbie, more flustered than judgmental.

  “Sherry’s fine,” Abbie said. She could swear Marnie snorted. Abbie took a closer look at Marnie’s sherry glass and wondered if it might contain the infamous scotch.

  The stranger had sat down and was lounging in a big club chair, one ankle crossed over his knee. He was drinking something dark in a tumbler. It matched his attitude and his looks, which were pretty okay even by Chicago standards. Dark hair, dark eyes, tanned, fit from what she could tell by the shirt front that showed through his unbuttoned sports jacket. He eyed her speculatively and not at all friendly.

  Good. For a minute she’d been afraid the sisters were trying to set her up.

  “My goodness, where are my manners,” Millie said. “Cabot, this is our guest, Abbie Sinclair. Abbie, this is Cabot Reynolds . . . the third.”

  The third, right. Abbie fought not to roll her eyes; Marnie didn’t bother.

  “How do you do?” he said dryly.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said, matching his tone. The air between them could have chilled lemonade. Fine by Abbie.

  “And how long are you staying, Miss Sinclair?”

  Longer than you want me to, obviously, thought Abbie. And what was that all about? She thought Southern men were supposed to have impeccable manners. But maybe he wasn’t totally Southern. His voice modulated from a soft Southern drawl to something with more bite. Probably educated at a stuffy private school, where Reynolds the first and second had attended.

  At that moment a gong echoed from somewhere in the house.

  Marnie shook her head and stood up. They walked across the hall to the dining room. Cabot the third escorted Millie; Beau offered an elbow first to Abbie, then Marnie.

  Marnie leaned past her brother. “Don’t get used to all this grandeur,” she whispered. “Usually we just eat on trays in front of the television.”

  Abbie smiled. “Good to know.” Whatever this trip would be, Abbie was getting the feeling it wouldn’t be dull. The three siblings alone would make a great study. Gentility gone to seed, but struggling to survive. A way of life, fragile and soon to become extinct . . .

  Abbie’s step faltered as her mind automatically switched into documentary mode. Beau’s hand tightened over hers, and he gave her an encouraging smile. She smiled back and with an effort pulled her min
d back to dinner.

  No more lapses like that, she warned herself. That life was over. She wouldn’t go there again.

  The dining room was a long rectangular room painted a pale yellow and surrounded by a white chair rail. At the far end, French doors opened onto a brick patio and overgrown shrubbery. The oval dining table was placed off center, which Abbie surmised was because several leaves had been taken out to accommodate only five diners. It was still huge and she was glad that the place settings had been clustered around one end with Millie at the head of the table, Beau and Marnie to her left, and Cabot and Abbie to her right.

  Dinner was everything she had imagined a Southern dinner to be. Crystal wine and water glasses, the good china, and sterling flatware. The house itself might be slowly fading away, but they were still dining in style.

  The first course arrived in a flowered gold-­rimmed soup tureen carried by a young African American man dressed in a white coat and black trousers several inches too short. He held the tureen as if it contained nitroglycerin while Ervina ladled a rich crab bisque, pale pink with chunks of crabmeat, into their bowls.

  “Thank you, Ervina,” Marnie said. “How are you doing this evening, Jerome?”

  Jerome grinned at her for a second before he lowered his head. “Fine, ma’am,” he mumbled and sped back to the kitchen. Ervina followed at a slower pace.

  The soup was thick and rich, and Abbie was stuffed by the time the first course arrived. She hadn’t been eating very much lately. She looked apprehensively at the roasted chicken, the potatoes, greens of some variety, corn bread, and several other dishes. And she wondered how she could manage to eat enough not to appear rude.

  “Why, Millie, this is a feast fit for a king.” Cabot the third smiled charmingly at Millie then cut Abbie a sideways look.

  “Delicious,” she agreed, resenting the arrogant so-­and-­so who thought he had to prompt her on good manners.