Scandal in Copper Lake

But nothing came. Her five years in Copper Lake had been diminished to a handful of memories.

The last place she searched out was Gullah Park. It was a long, narrow section of land nestled alongside the river just north of downtown. There was a parking lot, a small playground, a handful of concrete picnic tables and a paved trail that followed the riverbank out of sight.

She stopped at the entrance to the lot, her hands clammy, her fingers clenching the steering wheel. This was where her mother’s car had been found that morning, parked all the way at the end. She’d come there to walk, the police had told Mama Odette.

Why? Mama Odette wanted to know. It was silly to get into a car and drive someplace just so you could walk. Not that Glory was above being silly from time to time—her silliness was one of the things Anamaria had loved best about her—but it struck her mother as strange even for her.

Mama Odette wanted to know everything. As she faced the last days of her life, she’d developed a burning need to know about the last days of Glory’s life. The all-too-short time of the baby’s life.

The blare of a horn behind her jerked Anamaria’s gaze to the rearview mirror, where a man waited impatiently for her to move. As she drove on, he turned into the parking lot. She would come back here, get out and walk that trail. Sometimes she had visions, sometimes there were just feelings and sometimes she drew a blank. She hoped she would learn something. She didn’t want to let Mama Odette down.

Back at the square, she found a parking space on the north side of River’s Edge and entered the property through a side gate. Wide steps led to a broad gallery, its floor herringboned-brick, its ceiling painted sky blue. Sturdy wicker chairs, iron benches and wooden rockers were spaced along the porch, with pots of bright geraniums nestled at the base of each massive column.

When she turned the corner at the front of the house, Lydia was standing near the door, gazing at her watch. She looked up at the sound of Anamaria’s footsteps and a welcoming smile crossed her face. “I couldn’t remember whether we’d settled on ten or ten-thirty or if I’d told you the front gate would be locked, but here you are, straight-up ten o’clock. Come on in.”

Like Anamaria’s own house, the doorway opened into a hallway that ran front to back, with rooms opening off each side. Unlike her house, this hallway was fifteen feet wide and provided space for an elaborate staircase that would have done Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara proud. The walls were painted deep red and were a backdrop to forbidding portraits and landscapes in heavy, aged oils.

“Our ancestors were a dour lot, weren’t they?” Lydia remarked as she led the way down the hall.

“Some of them had a right to be.” But not these stern men and women whose narrow gazes followed them. They’d had wealth, influence and people to provide their every need. Ophelia, Harriet, Gussie and Florence had had nothing but their family, their gifts and their love of life—not even their freedom—but in her heart Anamaria knew they’d been the happier of the two groups.

The door at the end of the hall led into a thoroughly modern kitchen with stainless-steel countertops, restaurant-grade appliances and, tucked away near a window, the cozy nook with padded benches that was their destination. A notebook lay open on the table, with snapshots of flowers scattered about. A cup of tea sat on one side; an empty cup waited on the other.

“I stopped at Ellie’s Deli on the way and picked up some sweets,” Lydia said, moving the box from the nearest counter to the tabletop. Inside were a dozen miniatures—tiny croissants, sticky buns no bigger than a golf ball, petit fours and pecan tartlets.

After they’d each chosen a pastry, Lydia sat back, her gaze settling on Anamaria’s face. “You don’t speak with those who have passed, do you?”

“No. That’s my grandmother’s gift.”

“And when she received that message from Mr. John—that’s what we all called Grandfather—you came all this way to deliver it?”

“I was planning the trip anyway. I imagine that’s why Mr. John chose to speak to Mama Odette.” If he hadn’t, she would have used the straightforward approach and simply asked to meet with Lydia. But the dead didn’t miss any opportunities, lucky for her.

Lydia gathered the photographs into a neat stack, then set them and the notebook aside. “I’m reworking some of the gardens. Those are notes and pictures from last summer. Harrison says I have fertilizer running through my veins—a gift from Mr. John. I prefer flowers over just about anything.”

But not children…or grandchildren. Anamaria could practically see the longing, dulled now after years of childlessness but still there. Still clinging to her like a distant hope, nearly forgotten.

“Do you volunteer here?” Anamaria asked as she filled her cup from the china teapot, then sniffed the tendrils of steam that drifted up. Chamomile and lavender—Mama Odette’s favorite blend.

“You could say that. I own River’s Edge—or, rather, it owns me. It belonged to the Calloways for generations, then passed into, then out of, my family. When it became available again a few years ago, I bought it, hired out the renovation and have been working on the landscaping myself.”

Lydia refilled her own cup, then breathed deeply of the aroma as Anamaria had done. “Your mother prescribed this for me. At first, she brought it to me in little paper bags, then she showed me how to mix it myself. I have a cup or two every day, and I always think of her.”

Even Anamaria couldn’t make that claim. Days went by when she couldn’t honestly say she’d thought of her mother even once. She’d loved Glory, but she’d done virtually all of her growing up without her. All of the usual significant mother/daughter moments in her life involved Mama Odette or Auntie Lueena.

“I was so stunned when I heard what happened,” Lydia went on, gazing into her cup as if she might read her fortune there. “All I could think was that poor child. She’d done nothing to deserve that. So young, so innocent.”

For a moment, Anamaria thought the poor child meant Glory. She’d been only twenty-seven when she died, and she possessed a childlike enthusiasm and wonder for all that life had to offer. But innocent? Mama Odette claimed she was born knowing more than most women learned by the time they were thirty.

“Did you find another advisor?”

Lydia shook her head. “I was better. Your mother helped me more than I can say. And then…” She shook her head again, then, with a deep breath, changed the subject. “I should warn you that my husband isn’t too happy that I’m meeting with you. He might do something foolishly overprotective.”

“Such as instruct his lawyer to investigate me?” Anamaria asked with a wry smile.

“Oh, Lord. He did the same thing with your mother—asked his lawyer to look into her background. Then it was Cyrus Calloway, my brother-in-law and Robbie’s uncle. We’re practically family, the Kennedys and the Calloways.”

“That’s what Robbie said.”

“So you’ve met him. Don’t let him charm your socks off.”

“I’m immune to charm.”

Lydia wagged one finger in her direction. “Only because the right man hasn’t tried. If I was thirty years younger, I’d take any one of Sara and Gerald’s boys. Though the older three have wives now who would snatch me bald if I even got too close.”

It was easy to see Robbie Calloway charming the socks—and everything else—off most women, but not her. He distrusted her. She had priorities. He thought she was a threat to Lydia. She was very good at guarding her heart. Someday she would experience that hot, passionate, greedy love—all Duquesne women did—but not now. Not here. Most definitely not with him.

“Why were you planning this trip?”

Another quick subject change, but Anamaria wasn’t flustered. She’d known the question would come up, and she’d chosen the simplest, truthful answer. “Curiosity. I’m a year older now than my mother was when she died. I want to see where she lived, to talk to people who knew her. Mama Odette and Auntie Lueena have told me a lot, but I want to hear what other people know that they don’t. I want to know her.”

Lydia nodded sympathetically. “It must have been hard for your grandmother, losing both her daughter and her grandbaby at the same time.”

“It broke her heart.”

“And yours.”

Anamaria nodded. She might not remember much of life with Glory, but she knew it must have been good, because living without her had been hard, even surrounded by family who loved her.

“You were a pretty little girl,” Lydia went on. “I didn’t see you often. Glory usually left you with a neighbor when she came to my house. But a few times, she brought you with her and you played in the garden while we talked. You wore frilly little dresses, and your hair was tied back with a bow. You’d say yes, ma’am and thank you and please just as solemn as could be. I told Glory she was blessed to have such a lovely daughter. And then she got blessed again.”

A lot of people hadn’t seen blessings anywhere around Glory. Instead, they’d seen a stereotype: an uneducated black woman, illegitimate children, no legitimate means of support. But Glory had fit nobody’s stereotype.

“You loved the flowers in my garden, especially the lilies. You have a sister named Lillie, don’t you?”

“I do. And another named Jass.” Lillie was five years older and lived in South Carolina. Jass was two years older and living in Texas. They didn’t miss Glory the way Anamaria did, but they’d never known her the way Anamaria had. They’d been raised by their fathers, by paternal grandmothers and aunts and stepmothers.

“And the baby would have been Charlotte.”

Anamaria looked up, surprised. “Charlotte?”

“Surely you knew that. Glory decided on it about a month before she passed.”

Another of those details that she’d shut out after the shock of seeing her mother dead. She tried the name in her mind: Charlotte Duquesne. My sister, Charlotte. Not just the baby, so generic and impersonal, but Charlotte, with café-au-lait skin, chocolate-colored eyes, wispy black hair and tiny features with the exotic stamp of all her mixed heritages. Having a name made her more real and made her absence sharper, more intense.

“So…” Lydia gazed across the table at her. “Glory used to say that you would follow in her footsteps. She said when you were three, you’d tell her someone was at the door a minute or two before they even stepped onto the porch. She said when you were four, all she had to do was think about fixing meat loaf for dinner, and you’d tell her no in no uncertain terms.”

Anamaria smiled. To this day she couldn’t stomach meat loaf. It was the Thursday special at Auntie Lueena’s diner, making Thursday her regular day off. “I wish I remembered more about her.”