Kitabı oku: «True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA»
My Aunt Barbara maintains there are two truths about Southern belles: they survive and they endure.
She’s a Southern belle through and through—gracious, steadfast and honest. She’s ready to offer you a tall glass of sweet tea, or a piece of her mind, whichever best suits the situation.
I suppose the Villa Magnolia is a Southern belle in her own right, too, because beneath her peeling paint and red tile roof that’s mildewed green-black, she stands graceful and proud.
She is a survivor.
I could learn a thing or two from both of them.
Sarah rests her head against the passenger window as if it’s too much for her to open her eyes and take a peek at our new home.
I want to turn to her and say, “Baby girl, I know you hate me for uprooting you, but it’s going to be all right.”
It has to be all right.
Nancy Robards Thompson
Award-winning author Nancy Robards Thompson lives and writes in Florida, where she spent three years serving on the PTSA board at her daughter’s school. Along the way, she encountered a couple of “Stratford Wives” in the ranks of the general membership, but her overall PTSA experience was quite pleasant, thanks to the dedicated ladies with whom she served on the board. She holds a degree in journalism and has worked a myriad of jobs, including television-show stand-in; production and extras casting for movies; newspaper reporter; and several mind-numbing jobs in the fashion industry and public relations. Much more content to report to her muse, Nancy has found nirvana doing what she loves most—writing women’s fiction full-time. Critics have deemed her books “funny, smart and observant.” True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA is her fourth NEXT novel.
True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA
Nancy Robards Thompson
From the Author
Dear Reader,
Isn’t it interesting the different people we meet along life’s path? Those with whom we bond instantly and others who remain distant enigmas. Sure, it’s easier to feel connected to those with whom we share common interests and thoughts. But sometimes the “difficult” people teach us the most about ourselves—even though at times it seems as if they were simply put on this earth to annoy us.
That’s the case in True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA. Three women—Maggie, Barbara and Elizabeth—forge an unlikely friendship in the midst of personal storms too dark to weather alone. In the process, the bonds of their alliance are stretched and relationships are tested, but in the end, they emerge stronger women because of it.
I hope you’ll find a piece of yourself in these three courageous women and come away knowing that through faith, love and friendship anything is possible. I love to hear from readers, so please visit me at www.nancyrobardsthompson.com and let me know what you think.
Warmly,
Nancy
This book is dedicated to my father, Jim Robards, for being the best dad a girl could wish for. Daddy, thanks for making laughter such a big a part of our lives.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank Tammy Strickland for taking time away from her own writing and nursing career to advise me on high-risk pregnancy.
Hugs and appreciation—
To Sarah M., Sandy M., Evelyn S., Tyler J., Janet W., Cindy P., Debi W., Danella S., Donna S. and Polly R., who made my PTSA service an enjoyable experience. Ladies, it was an honor and a pleasure to serve with you. Your dedication to our school is what makes it such a wonderful place.
To Beverly Brandt for sharing the Bob joke!
To Kathy Garbera and Teresa Elliot Brown, who always know the next move when I’m stuck.
To Michael and Jennifer, who are my world.
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 1
Maggie
It’s easy to look back and pinpoint what you should’ve done differently, to think of words you could’ve said, or a path you should’ve taken if you’d only trusted your intuition.
What’s not so easy is looking forward, past the shouldas and couldas, straight into the eyes of the here and now.
I stop the car in front of the wrought-iron gates surrounding the Villa Magnolia, this place I visited so many times as a child, and I take a good look at the here and now, forcing myself to drink it down like bitter medicine.
Funny how you can look at something for years and never really see it. As far back as I can remember, my aunt Barbara has lived in the sprawling, lakefront estate, the home where Barbara and Mama grew up.
My granddaddy made and lost a fortune in the citrus industry, and the house was all he managed to hang on to. Due to family tensions I never understood, Mama was disinherited. Granddaddy left Barbara the Villa Magnolia, and left Mama and me to survive on our own the best we could. The only thing I know is that it had something to do with Granddaddy not approving of Mama’s boyfriend, the man who would eventually get her pregnant with me.
All my daddy left me was his olive skin, lush lips and dark curly hair.
The trinity of his legacy.
Today, as I sit here, with the sun shining through the dense, leafy branches of the old magnolia tree, I realize I’ve come back seeking answers. I haven’t quite figured out all the questions, but they’ll come. Yes, as sure as the sword fern has invaded the grass between the driveway and the fence, the questions will come.
Barbara’s the one responsible for my daughter and me moving back. She just wouldn’t rest until she got us here. It took a year of her badgering me, but I lived in a daze for the first nine months after my husband Tim died. In that big old house in Asheville, just my daughter Sarah and me.
Sometimes I’d hear or read something that would make me think, Oh, I have to call Tim and tell him—and a split second later, the realization would set in that I couldn’t call Tim and the only way I could cope was to take a sleeping pill and put a pillow over my head so I could obliterate the pain.
It was bad enough that sometimes I’d sleep until it was time to pick up Sarah from school; but the wake-up call came after he’d been gone five months—the morning the knife I was using to butter Sarah’s toast slipped out of my hand and slid underneath the refrigerator. I got down on my hands and knees to fish it out and found a note in Tim’s handwriting caught in the dusty coils.
Maggie, morning, hon, had to head out to an early meeting. Didn’t want to wake you. Forgot to mention that my blue shirt needs to be spot-treated when you take it to the cleaners. See you tonight. Love you, Tim
No, I wouldn’t see him tonight. He’d wrapped his white Infiniti around a telephone pole and was never coming home again. Not that night or any other.
In a stupor, I went upstairs to the spare bedroom and dug that blue shirt out of the boxes of his things I’d packed up but couldn’t quite bring myself to take to the Salvation Army.
I put on that blue shirt and curled up into a ball, crying until the next thing I knew, I opened my eyes in a dark room.
I sat up with a start. Where was Sarah? How in hell could I sleep through picking up my daughter? There was no phone in the room so I had no idea if she’d called.
Oh, she had, of course. Several times. She was at a friend’s house. The mom had tried to bring her home, but took her back to their house when no one had answered the door.
Sarah was worried sick that something had happened to me. Just as something had happened to her father.
I realized it was time I got myself to a shrink. The shrink, in turn, suggested that a change of scenery might be a good idea.
A few months later, I accepted Barbara’s persistent invitation to come back to Florida and move into the guesthouse on the grounds of the Villa Magnolia.
It’s been a long time since I last saw her, but my aunt Barbara is a Southern belle through and through—gracious, steadfast and honest. She’s ready to offer you a tall glass of sweet tea, or a piece of her mind, whichever best suits the situation. She maintains there are two truths about Southern belles: they survive and they endure.
I suppose the Villa Magnolia is a Southern belle in her own right, too, because beneath her peeling paint and red tile roof that’s mildewed green-black, she stands graceful and proud.
She is a survivor.
I could learn a thing or two from both of them.
Sarah rests her head against the passenger window as if it’s too much for her to open her eyes and take a peek at our new home.
I want to turn to her and say, “Baby girl, I know you hate me for uprooting you, but it’ll be all right.”
It has to be all right.
She was such a daddy’s girl, and there’re times I think she wishes it were me in that grave instead of him. I want to tell her to be careful what she wishes for because Death listens. Death, that cold, hard bastard, waits in the shadows, hearing every fleeting impulse your heart utters.
The gate is open, but rather than pulling up to the house and unloading ourselves without warning, I press the intercom call button to let Barbara know we’re here. She’s expecting us, but it only seems right to announce ourselves instead of barging in.
“What are you doing?” Sarah scowls at me. These are the first words she’s uttered since we crossed the Florida state line.
“Letting Aunt Barbara know we’re here.”
“Why do you think she left the gate open? So you wouldn’t have to do that.”
I ignore her haughty tone. She’s been through so much, losing Tim and moving to a new state in the midst of middle school—as if that isn’t an awkward time on a good day. Honestly, I don’t blame her for being upset.
I never had a daddy. I suppose it’s worse to lose a good one than to never have had one in your life.
It was always just the two of us, Mama and me. But sometimes when I was with her, that’s when I felt the most alone. Probably how Sarah felt when I was going through my crazy spell.
Mama’s been gone now for twenty-two years. In a way it seems as if she’s been gone forever. In another way it hurts as if it happened yesterday. Maybe her living inside herself all the time was to prepare me for being alone. But I got soft being married to Tim. I got used to depending on him. He didn’t give me any warning that he’d leave, too.
I know better than most anyone that Death doesn’t just happen to other people. But I can’t contemplate it for too long. I can’t let my mind creep to the edge of that vast canyon where Death lives and gaze down into his eyes. Because I don’t want him to be part of my here and now.
Shaking away the thought, I press the button again and wait for Barbara’s voice to drift through the intercom, inviting us in. I take a good look around, drinking in everything. It’s been a long, long time, but everything looks exactly the same, a little more overgrown, a little weathered around the edges.
I always did love that old magnolia tree. The way it stands just inside the gates, all tall and proud, spreading its protective branches as if no harm would come to any who entered.
The tree was here before the house. In fact, they had to veer the driveway to the right because it was smack dab in the middle of the straight line between the gate and the house. I never realized it before, but I’m glad they went around it instead of digging up its roots.
A cool breeze wafts in through the open car window. It smells of magnolia blossoms, something basil-like and the aquatic mélange of the lake off in the distance beyond the old Mediterranean house.
I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. We will be strong like that old tree, my daughter and I. Strong and sure with roots growing so deep that Death won’t topple us.
The iron gate will fortify us, protect us so that Death won’t march his very own hateful self in and endeavor to dig up our roots.
“Mom, no one’s answering. Just go in.”
I shrug, gaze back at the rusting call box, mashing the button again. It doesn’t buzz or squawk or give any indication that it’s announcing our arrival.
I toss it up to fate. If Barbara answers, that means coming back here wasn’t a mistake.
Sarah sighs. “If this is our home, why do we have to wait for someone to invite us in?”
I don’t know how to answer that question.
Because it’s the polite thing to do when someone takes you in?
Because if we proceed up that long, winding driveway uninvited, maybe Death will, too?
Sarah gazes at me, waiting for an answer.
Barbara didn’t answer, is this a mistake?
Reluctantly, I put the car in Drive.
“You’re not real glad to be here, are you?”
It’s not a challenge so much as an observation. She’s an old soul, that daughter of mine. Always has been. Despite her rampant teenage hormones, there’s always a glimmer of truth in those soft brown eyes, a way of viewing the world that astounds me sometimes.
“It’s hard for me, too, baby.”
She bites her bottom lip and stares out the passenger window, and as the car rolls toward the main house, I try to ignore the dark shadows I see in my peripheral vision.
CHAPTER 2
Barbara
I love putting my hands in the dirt, potting flowers and tending them so they bloom bold and bright. There’s no better way to set my mind right than getting elbow deep in potting soil on a clear, cool January afternoon. No matter what’s bothering me—an argument with my husband, Burt—which seems to be a perpetual state of affairs—or if Mary Grace is having a particularly hard time of it at school—kids can be so cruel…
Mary Grace is a special child. Down syndrome. All that means is she was born with an extra twenty-first chromosome. As far as I’m concerned, that makes her extra-special. But nowadays, it seems as if kids have even less tolerance for those who are different. It takes all I have to ensure my daughter lives a normal life without others adding to the task.
When it’s all crashing down on top of me, I come out here for a little earth therapy.
Today, I’ve hauled my supplies out here so I can work with my begonias—Rose Form Picotes, Ruffled Picotes, Giant Ruffled and my special favorite—plain ol’ Rose Form. There’s nothing plain about ’em. The blossoms look like huge roses, and I’ve grown them so big that they’re almost the size of a dinner plate. Hiding all that green underneath so as alls you see is a beautiful flower.
The secret lies in a bigger, stronger root system. There are two methods you can use to get that big root system, but the more challenging method produces better results than the easier one.
Isn’t that just like life? Nothing worth doing or having ever comes easily.
I remind myself of that all the time. When Burt’s being a snot or the struggles with Mary Grace overwhelm me or the efforts to keep this house feel as if they’re about ready to drop down on my head.
This is where my roots lie. Generations before me struggled to keep this place. I will not fail them.
So I set out flowers. It’s an affordable way to make this old place look better. Lord, it needs a foundation-to-rafter makeover, but begonias are more in line with my pocketbook.
Begonias will shift the focus.
So begonias it will be.
As I’m lifting a bag of potting soil, a hitch in my chest takes my breath away for a few seconds. I drop the bag of dirt and fall to my knees and take some slow deep breaths.
My heartburn’s acting up again. Or maybe I just tried to stand up too fast. Lord have mercy…. I suppose I should get myself into the doctor, but I hate to complain about every little ache and pain. Besides, who has time for doctor appointments? It seems as though once you start, appointments cluster like aphids on a tender leaf. This doctor sending you over here to get this checked; that doctor sending you over there to get that checked. I may be sixty years old, but I’m not ready to give all my free time to the likes of medical monkey business.
And, see here—as always, after a few seconds, the pain passes and I feel just fine.
Probably just gas.
I draw in a deep breath. Pain-free.
There. Now that I’m standing and my dungarees aren’t binding me in two, I can breathe. The doctor would just tell me there was nothing wrong with me that losing a good thirty pounds wouldn’t cure.
The sound of car tires crunching on the gravel drive makes me shade my eyes. I don’t recognize the blue car, but I realize with a start that it’s probably my niece Margaret, my late sister Leila’s girl. I’m expecting her today. But I didn’t think she and her little one would arrive quite so early. I was thinking it would be late afternoon.
I glance at my watch and realize it’s half past two.
For crying out loud, where did the day go? I’m embarrassed to admit that sometimes I lose track of time when I’m working out here.
Oh well, it makes no never mind. In fact, it’s better that they’re arriving now rather than later when Burt’s home. I haven’t told him that we’re having houseguests. Because of certain circumstances that transpired with Leila all those years ago, I figured he wouldn’t be thrilled about me inviting her girl to live in our carriage house until she can get back on her feet.
Bless his heart, Burt doesn’t understand things like this. Mind you, I don’t make a habit of going behind my husband’s back and making plans without involving him. Manipulation was more Leila’s style. Although, living with Burt all these years, there were definitely times when I could’ve benefited from employing a few of my late sister’s techniques.
Like the time I came up with the plan to turn the Villa Magnolia into an elegant bed-and-breakfast. I discussed it with Burt, never fathoming he’d flat out refuse. I mean, with my knack for hospitality, cooking and decorating, I was just sure a B and B was the answer to our financial woes, especially seeing how that male ego of his wouldn’t let me go out and take a job outside the home. I suppose he was afraid people would think he couldn’t support his family. Well, there was that and the problem of Burt not taking kindly to strangers in his home. He pooh-poohed the B and B in no uncertain terms. No discussion. Not even an “I’ll think about it.”
So do you see why sometimes I opt for asking for forgiveness rather than permission?
He won’t turn Margaret out now that she’s here. The poor dear needs to be with her people right now, and other than her girl, Sarah, I’m all the people she’s got. Despite all that’s happened, I owe at least that much to my sister, to take care of her baby when she needs a hand. I shouldn’t have let the silence between Margaret and me go on this long. Lord knows I had good intentions of keeping in touch with her after Leila passed, but with Margaret being all the way up there in North Carolina, it was difficult and then I had Mary Grace and time just flew. And I suppose if I’m honest, the bad blood between Leila and me festered in the back of my mind. It took a long time for me to finally face facts that I was mad at her.
Mad at her for what she did and mad at her for leaving us the way she did.
She always had to have the last word.
But I forgive her for what she did and any kind of a decent human being with a lick of compassion would not hold Margaret responsible for her mother’s actions.
As the blue Toyota slows to a stop, a cool breeze rustles the scarf anchoring down my straw hat. I bat it out of my face with a grimy, gloved hand. Land sakes, I must look a sight. I yank off the gloves, stuff them inside the hat and toss the lot onto the porch step, fluffing up my hair.
I suppose it’s just been too hard for Margaret to come back here to the place where her mama killed herself.
I take a slow, deep breath and muster a big welcoming smile for them. I will not make this any harder on that child and her little girl than it already must be. Poor, poor Margaret, so young to be a widow.
I squint to get a glimpse of Sarah through the smoky glass of the car window. Land, that baby’s a teenager by now. She was born the same year as Mary Grace.
When the door opens, a tall, skinny, blond-headed girl slides out of the car and squints at me as if she’s tumbled out of a cave by accident. The sight of her steals my breath. There in her face is the whisper of Leila. The pale ghost of my sister. Flickers and glints of her in the valleys beneath the apple cheekbones; the curve of her nostril; the rosebud set of that pursed little mouth. Genes have slid down the years, skipping a generation to manifest in this beautiful young woman.
There’s scarcely a hint of Margaret in her own daughter. Instead, it’s as if Leila’s reached out from the grave and claimed the child for her own.
“You must be Sarah.”
The girl stares at her sneakers.
Leila’s granddaughter. It’s hard to reconcile that my sister would be a grandmother. I mean, I’m a grandma. I don’t know why it’s so hard to wrap my mind around the fact that she would be, too. That’s what happens, I suppose, when one dies young. They are youthfully preserved for eternity.
Margaret rounds the side of the car and I shove Leila into the back of my mind, to the place where she resides.
Good heavens, it’s been a long time. Margaret was just a few years older than Sarah the last time I saw her, which means I would’ve been round about Margaret’s age.
“Just look at you.” I hold out my arms. “It’s so good to see you, honey.”
I enfold her in a hug. As her bony shoulder pokes into my fleshy upper arm, the reflection of an old crone stares back at me from the car window. The image startles me.
Who is that? Not me. Surely not me. She’s too fat, too gray, too wrinkled.
It’s silly, how this passage of time takes me by surprise. But I suppose it’s not just the dead who are forever immortalized. In our mind’s eye we see ourselves in our prime, and it’s startling to realize how much you’ve aged.
The reflection slips away as Margaret slides out of my arms and wipes tears from her eyes.
“Barbara, it’s so good of you to—” Her voice breaks. I’m afraid she’s going to start bawling. And if she does, I will too. We can’t have that.
“Don’t you worry about a thing, baby doll. It is my pleasure. You girls stay as long as you like. As far as I’m concerned, you can stay forevah.”
Margaret makes a noise like she’s going to protest, but I wave her off and focus on Sarah. “Lord have mercy, child. You are the spitting image of your grandma, Leila.”
Sarah’s face remains blank, but Margaret flinches, or maybe she’s just pushing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes.
All I know is awkward silence hangs in the air.
Sarah doesn’t say anything, just stands there with her arms dangling down at her sides.
“Sarah, did you say hello to Aunt Barbara?”
The girl’s expression doesn’t change. She simply shifts her flat, dark gaze to her mother, looking up through lush eyelashes.
Margaret narrows her eyes at her daughter and gives a sharp nod in my direction.
“Hey.” Sarah’s single word is as lifeless as a humid August day, as if it took all she had to muster the single syllable. But that’s okay.
“Hey, darlin’,” I say. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
Margaret has sad eyes. And as this weary-looking, thin wisp of a woman in her baggy jeans and untucked pink button-down opens the trunk, I want to tell her that this is the prime of her life, that she’s not supposed to look so worn out. But I suppose prime time does not include widowhood. Not by any means.
I muster the best smile I can manage. “Let’s get your things out of the car. I’m sure you girls are anxious to get settled in.”
As we start to unload the car, removing suitcases and boxes and bags, Mary Grace’s school bus chugs to a stop at the gate. Since she’s considered special needs, the bus picks her up and drops her off right in front of the house. She doesn’t have to walk the three blocks down the road where the other kids catch the bus. It would be nice if someone would wait with her—someone like the Deveraux girl across the street. There’s no reason she couldn’t catch the bus here. In fact, I mentioned it to her mother, Elizabeth, once, but she said Anastasia meets her friends down the way and likes it that way.
People are creatures of habit. Once they’re used to something it gets ingrained in their system and it’s hard to do things differently.
The first day I put my baby on that school bus all by herself I thought I was going to die. I was used to taking her to school, but Burt got it in his head that Mary Grace needed to ride the bus, and well, since I’m always insisting that our daughter is no different than the other kids, I think he was calling my bluff.
Everything has to be a battle with that man. It’s no skin off his nose if I drive our daughter to school every day. But he was so smug and superior reminding me that this was just one more example of how Mary Grace was not able to function in the real world.
What he didn’t say, but it was there between the lines, was it’s my fault. That I should’ve never gotten pregnant with her, being in my late-forties and all. Our other kids were grown and out of the house, and here I was with this unexplainable hankering to have another baby.
Burt adamantly opposed reverting back to diapers and middle-of-the-night feedings. He said I simply feared empty-nest syndrome—as if that could explain it all away. But the need to have this child ran deeper than that. Deeper than I could explain. It was as if this soul had chosen me to deliver it into the world, and I would just die if I didn’t have another baby.
Two years later, when I got pregnant, Burt accused me of doing it on purpose, which I suppose was true, but I couldn’t tell him that. Especially when Mary Grace was born with Down’s.
That’s when he started pulling away—from me and Mary Grace.
“Well, you got your wish,” he said. “This child will never leave you.”
So to prove him wrong, that this girl was as capable as the next child, I put her on that bus. He didn’t know that I followed her in my car every morning for the first two months. In the afternoon, I’d drive up to the school and make sure she got on the right bus and I’d follow ’em home.
It made no never mind to him. And I certainly didn’t mind doing it. It was better than sitting at home and worrying myself sick.
“Come on, Sarah, let’s you and me walk down and meet Mary Grace. Margaret, honey, you go ahead and get settled in. We’ll be right back.”
I start off down the driveway. The girl falls into step beside me.
“Who’s Mary Grace?”
“She’s your cousin. She’s about your age. What are you, ’bout thirteen?”
The girl nods.
As we approach, Mary Grace bounds down the bus steps. She stops in her tracks, scrunches up her face and looks at Sarah.
“Sugar pie, this is your cousin, Sarah. She and her mama are going to live with us for a while.” The bus doors close with a hiss and the vehicle chugs away.
Mary Grace smiles. “Is she going to live in my room?”
“No, angel, in the carriage house.”
My daughter’s brows knit, as if she’s considering the arrangement. “Does Sarah like to push people on the swing?”
“Well, I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?”
From the window I watch Sarah push Mary Grace in the old board swing that hangs from the live oak. That swing’s been there since my oldest boy, Stephen, was tiny. Over the years I’ve replaced the ropes, of course, but it’s always been there, a constant friend that’s entertained all my babies. But my older kids had each other. Being so much younger than her brothers and sisters, poor Mary Grace has essentially been alone, save for me.
It’s an unexpected bonus that my sweet girl will have a friend in her cousin. The sight warms me from the inside of my overflowing heart down to my curled toes. Oh, yes, this does bode well.
But the warm fuzzies come to a screeching halt when I see Burt’s car meandering up the driveway. I glance at my watch. Dammit, what’s he doing home so early? What is this? He’s hardly ever home and the day I could use the extra time to prepare a good meal to soften him up, he comes crawling in before the end of the workday.
“The place is just perfect, Barbara.” Margaret comes in from the other room and stands beside me at the window as he gets out of the car.
“Is that Uncle Burt?”
“Umm-hmm.” I wonder if I should warn her about Burt not knowing. Oh, on second thought, why give her something else to worry about?
Margaret crosses her arms as if she senses something’s not right. “Should I go out and say hi?”
I smile and walk away from the window, circling around so that as Margaret follows me her back’s to the glass.
“Oh, honey, give him a few minutes to transition from work to being home. You know how men are.” I roll my eyes. “He’s always an old bear when he first gets home. The girls are playing outside. You just relax a little bit while I go take care of my man.”
Margaret gives me a strange look, but doesn’t protest.
From the window I see Burt circle Sarah like a suspicious dog. I wonder if he notices Sarah’s likeness to Leila.
How could he not?
I’m overcome by the urge to go outside and turn the garden hose on him the way I would to chase away an old scurvy stray.
“We’ll have dinner at six-thirty. Just come on up to the house.”
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