Nell and Lady: A Novel Page 6

  Nell pushed him out of the way and plunked her bag down on the kitchen counter. Any love she still felt for Desmond turned to hate as she surveyed what remained of their home. “We haven’t been robbed, son. Your father came to claim his things.”

  Desmond had taken the most valuable pieces from their collection of art and antiques—the heavy brass candlesticks from the mantel, rowing oars from above the french doors, and the most valuable paintings—and left them with glaring blank spaces on the walls and shelves.

  A sympathetic friend from work who had used a divorce attorney several years ago had given the attorney’s contact information to Nell. While she rummaged through the contents of her bag for the business card, Booker paced from room to room, reciting a commentary on every item his father had removed from the house.

  Standing by the window staring out at the dock, he said, “I’m not surprised he took the Miss Vivian. He loves that boat more than he loves me. Do you think he left the skiff for me, or do you think he’s planning to come back for it later?”

  Nell sighed. “I have no idea, son.”

  He turned away from the window. “He took the painting of the farm in McClellanville,” Booker said as he passed by the fireplace. “I loved that painting.”

  Without looking up from her purse, Nell said, “Me too, sweetheart. It was my favorite.”

  Booker stuck his head in Desmond’s study. “He cleaned everything out of here, including the TV!” He returned to the kitchen and plopped down on a barstool. “What a jerk.”

  “Here it is,” Nell said under her breath when she located the business card in her wallet.

  She opened a bottle of pinot noir, poured herself a glass, and slid onto the barstool next to her son. She placed the business card on the counter in front of her and tapped out the number on the shattered screen of her cell phone.

  “Who’re you calling?” Booker asked.

  “A divorce attorney that a friend from work told me about. I should’ve called her days ago.” Nell reached Tabitha Fox’s voice mail and left a detailed message, explaining the situation and requesting a return call at her earliest convenience.

  “I’ll have the locks changed first thing in the morning,” she said to Booker when she ended the call.

  “It’s too late. He’s already taken everything that’s worth anything.”

  She couldn’t argue with his logic. She took a gulp of wine instead. “What say we order pizza for dinner?”

  His head shot up. “Really? Can we?”

  Despite the long hours she worked at the hospital, Nell rarely consented to ordering takeout. She prided herself on providing her family a home-cooked meal nearly every single night and insisted they dine together at the table, sans cell phones. “As long as you place the order and pay the deliveryman when he gets here.”

  “Deal.” Booker retrieved his computer from his backpack and opened it on the counter in front of him. “Is Tommy Tello’s okay?”

  “Anything’s fine with me.”

  Booker’s fingers flew across the keyboard as he accessed the website and reviewed the online menu for the Italian restaurant.

  Nell didn’t think Desmond capable of stooping to a level so low. Her soon-to-be ex-husband had done some rotten things during their married life, but stripping their home of their most valuable possessions, items they’d purchased with money from both their incomes, won the prize. Her heart had finally, mercifully, hardened toward Desmond. She felt liberated, ready to embrace her future, even if she wasn’t quite ready to face the past.

  An idea came to her, and she reached for Booker’s computer.

  “Hey, Mom. What’re you doing? I’m not finished ordering yet.”

  “I just need to check something.” She signed on to her bank’s website and checked the available balance in their joint checking account. She signed off and slid the computer back toward her son. “I’m off tomorrow. If you can drag yourself away from the library, why don’t we drive out to the Toyota place and see if the dealer’s made any headway in finding you a 4Runner. We can test-drive a new model while we’re there, to be certain that’s what you want.”

  “Duh, Mom. I can totally drag myself away from the library for that.”

  With the breakup of her marriage, Nell had been thinking a lot about family in the past week. And seeing Lady in the parking garage had triggered a lot of memories, good ones as well as bad. She argued with her conscience for much of Tuesday until her conscience finally won out. There was no harm in going to see Willa. What threat did an old lady with cancer, a patient like the ones she tended every day, pose to Nell?

  She went about her chores with heightened anticipation. Time had softened her toward Willa, and she found herself looking forward to reconnecting with her adopted mother. But how would she explain her relationship with the Bellemores to Booker after all the lies she’d told him about her upbringing? Perhaps she wouldn’t be forced to confess the truth. Was that what she really wanted? She wasn’t sure. She was tired of running from her past.

  The divorce attorney returned her call in the late morning while the technician from the locksmith company was changing out her locks. Tabitha assured her that changing the locks was the right thing to do. “From now on, he’ll need to seek permission to enter your home.”

  Nell opted not to tell the divorce attorney her plans for purchasing Booker’s car for fear she might advise against it.

  Tabitha sounded friendly but professional, a person Nell could confide in. She graciously agreed to meet on Nell’s turf to accommodate her short lunch break. They set up a meeting for Thursday at noon in the hospital cafeteria.

  She was waiting for Booker in front of the school when the final bell rang. “Orlando Holland, the Toyota salesman, has another appointment and can’t meet with us until five,” she explained when he got in the car. “I’m going to make a stop on the way since we have some extra time to kill.”

  She drove through the familiar streets of downtown Charleston and pulled up in front of the gray house on Water Street she’d once thought of as home.

  “Who lives here?” Booker asked.

  She considered how to respond. Lady and Willa were more than old friends. They were her adopted family. She’d have to save that conversation with her son for a more convenient time.

  “An elderly woman I once knew who now has cancer.” She turned off the car and opened her door. “This shouldn’t take too long. Do you have some homework to occupy your time?”

  “Sure,” he said, unzipping his backpack at his feet. “I have to read three chapters for English. But hurry. I don’t want to be late for our appointment at the Toyota place.”

  Nell got out of the car and approached the house. When the doorbell failed to ring, she banged on the knocker. She heard the pounding of feet on the stairs, and seconds later, Lady appeared at the door.

  “I’m surprised you came,” Lady said, slightly out of breath.

  “I can’t stay long. My son is waiting in the car.”

  Lady looked past her to her car. “You’re welcome to invite him in. I’m sure Willa would like to meet him.”

  What about you, Lady? Would you like to meet my son? she thought but held her tongue. “Not today. He has homework. Maybe another time.”

  “That’s probably for the best,” Lady said. “Willa had a treatment today. She’s not feeling a hundred percent.”

  “Why don’t I come back another time, then?” Nell turned to leave, but Lady grabbed her by the arm. “No! Don’t go. She’d never forgive me if I let you leave.” Lady moved out of the way so Nell could enter the house.

  “Okay, but only for a minute. I don’t want to tire her out.” Nell crossed the threshold and stepped back in time three decades. Little appeared to have changed in the house since she was last there. The white paint on the walls had yellowed, and the rugs were more threadbare, if that was even possible of the ancient Orientals. The same portrait of a regal-looking woman hung above the fireplace in th
e drawing room. Who is that woman? A distant relative on Willa’s side of the family? Nell could never keep the woman’s connection to the Bellemores straight. She doubted Lady knew who she was. Or if Willa even knew. Odd how people kept paintings of strangers in their home.

  She followed Lady up the stairs and down the hall to Willa’s room at the front of the house facing the street. The years fell away as Nell stood beside the bed of her adopted mother. The patches of gray hair left were pulled back in her ever-present braid, and those same penetrating blue eyes peered out from beneath saggy lids in a wrinkled face. Tears flooded those eyes when she saw Nell. There was no blame in them, only questions.

  Willa’s body tensed, and she reached for the kidney-shaped emesis basin. She heaved into the basin, but there was no vomit. Nell understood pain. She witnessed patients suffering every single day.

  “On a scale of one to ten, how’s your pain?” Nell asked.

  “I don’t have any pain. I just feel like I need to throw my toenails up.” Willa heaved again. “As you can see, there’s nothing left in my stomach to come out.”

  Nell went into the adjoining bathroom and soaked a washcloth with cold water. Returning to the bed, she pressed the cloth against the back of Willa’s neck. “What kind of cancer is it?”

  “Non–small cell,” Lady answered, pulling up a seat on the opposite side of the bed. “Adenocarcinoma. She had the diseased portion surgically removed from her lung a month ago.”

  “Then the prognosis is good,” Nell said from experience.

  Willa’s arthritic fingers gripped Nell’s forearm. “I’m dying, Nell. I feel it in my bones. The good Lord is finally calling me home.”

  “She thinks she’s dying,” Lady said, massaging her temples. “The doctors say otherwise.”

  Nell lowered herself to the side of the bed. “Now, Miss Willa, don’t go checking out on us just yet. You’ve got plenty to live for.”

  Willa managed a weak smile. “I do now that you’re here. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you, my darling girl.”

  “And I’m happy to see you as well. It’s been far too long.” Nell’s eyes met Lady’s. “I don’t remember if you said. Are you living here in the house?”

  Lady nodded, but she didn’t volunteer any additional information.

  “How fortunate for you to have Lady with you,” she said to Willa. “Do you have any grandchildren running around?” She was ashamed to admit she didn’t know whether Lady had ever married, let alone had children.

  “I’m divorced and have one child,” Lady said. “A daughter, Regan. She’s a senior in high school.”

  Nell’s eyes grew wide. “At All Saints?”

  Lady frowned. “You seem surprised. Have you forgotten that I went to school at All Saints?”

  “Of course not,” Nell said. “But unless there’s more than one brilliant girl in the senior class named Regan, your daughter and my son, Booker, are friends. I assume they’re friends anyway. I know they’re in constant competition for the best grades.”

  “Such a small world,” Lady said with a soft smile. “Regan talks about Booker all the time.”

  Willa’s face lit up, and she pushed away the emesis basin. “How wonderful that your two children have become friends all on their own. And you’re right. The competition between them is intense, as Regan says.”

  “I can’t believe we haven’t run into each other at school before now,” Nell said. “In the carpool line at least. I’m embarrassed to say, I’ve never attended a parents’ association meeting. They always seem to schedule them during the morning hours while I’m at work.”

  “Regan walks to school every day, which is why we’ve never seen each other in the carpool line,” Lady said. “As for the parents’ association, I’ve been to a few meetings. Two of them, if anyone’s counting. And I can tell you, you’re not missing much—all those mothers talking about their perfect children.”

  The animosity between them slipped away, and they fell into a relaxed conversation about senior year and college applications. Nell felt as though she was talking not to the young woman she’d grown to despise but the girl she’d loved like a sister. As it was with her patients who experienced intense physical pain, the mind, over time, had a way of erasing the bad and remembering only the good.

  Nell found herself wondering about Lady’s life. Why was she living with her mama? What had happened in her marriage that led to divorce? Did she have a career? It was too early in their reunion to ask such personal questions, and she sensed a reluctance in Lady to share details about her life. So she limited their conversation to safe topics like gardening and all the new restaurants opening in Charleston. She was content just to be in their presence, to witness the interaction between Willa and Lady. Their relationship had transitioned over the years. They were more like an old married couple than mother and daughter, picking at each other and finishing each other’s sentences.

  Nell had been there for thirty minutes when she heard murmured voices in the hall downstairs and stood to leave. “I should go. Booker is waiting for me in the car.”

  Willa reached for her hand. “Will you come back to see me?”

  Nell smiled down at her. “I’d like that.”

  “When?” Willa pressed.

  “I’d forgotten how determined you are,” Nell said with a chuckle. “Saturday is my next day off. Does that work for you?”

  “Saturday is lovely,” Willa said. “You promise you’ll come?”

  She offered a firm nod. “I promise.”

  “And bring Booker with you?”

  Nell worked hard to keep a straight face. That was a can of worms she wasn’t yet ready to open. “We’ll have to see about that.” She patted Willa’s hand. “You hang in there now, Miss Willa. You’ll feel better once you get these treatments behind you. Think about how much fun you’ll have regaining the weight you’ve lost. And if you’re lucky, your hair will grow back curly.”

  Willa’s hand flew to her head. “That would be a welcome relief. I know I should shave off this mess, but I can’t bring myself to go to the beauty parlor. I can’t bear having those women staring at me with pity.”

  Nell smiled at her. “In that case, I’ll bring my clippers with me when I come on Saturday.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  REGAN

  Regan approached the Mercedes parked on the street in front of her house with curiosity. The only person she knew who drove a Mercedes was her father, and his graphite-gray sedan sported Illinois tags. She turned toward the house and then stopped in her path. Was that Booker in the passenger seat? She looked closer. The boy’s face was partially hidden by the book he was reading, but she could tell from the shape of his head and curve of his neck that it was definitely Booker. What could he possibly be doing at her house?

  She tapped on the car window. Startled at first, he shrank back, but then he recognized her and swung his car door open. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I live here,” she said. “What’re you doing here?”

  He stuffed his book in his backpack and stepped out of the car onto the sidewalk. “You live in that house right there?” he asked, pointing at her house.

  “Yes, Booker. What house do you think I’m talking about? You’re parked right out in front of my house. Besides, you can’t even see the neighbors’ house through the bushes.”

  He craned his neck as he tried to see through the overgrown hedgerows on either side. “Oh. Right. My mother is visiting some old lady with cancer who lives in that house. I guess that would be your grandmother.”

  Regan nodded. “She’s the only elderly woman on the street with cancer.”

  “That’s an eerie coincidence, don’t you think?”

  She considered the possibilities before responding. “Maybe not. Your mother’s a nurse. I bet they met in the hospital when Willa had her lung surgery last month.”

  “Except that Mom’s patients all have kidney disease. Hmm . . . I love a good myst
ery,” Booker said, rubbing his chin.

  “In that case, Sherlock, why don’t we go inside and find out how they know each other. I’m thirsty anyway. Do you want some lemonade?”

  “Sure,” he said, and followed her up the sidewalk, across the piazza, and into the house. He stopped short when they arrived at the kitchen. “Cool! A retro theme.”

  Regan slid her backpack off her shoulder and let it drop to the floor beside the door. “You’re looking at the real deal, Booker, not a theme. My grandmother doesn’t like change. She and my grandfather had this kitchen installed when they remodeled the house right after they were married in 1954.”

  Booker nodded his approval. “That’s cool. A vintage kitchen. I bet these walls have seen some stuff.”

  Regan poured two glasses of lemonade from the pitcher in the refrigerator and handed one to Booker. “I’m sure they have.”

  Booker lifted the glass to his lips. “Do you think our mothers met somehow? Maybe through our school?”

  “Maybe,” Regan said, pressing the cool glass to her cheek. “But my mother’s not involved with any of the parents’ association stuff at school.”

  “Neither is mine. She’s too busy at the hospital.” Booker’s eyebrows danced across his forehead as though he were solving a calculus problem. “I assume they’re about the same age. My mom’s fifty-three.”

  “Same as mine.”

  “Mine’s originally from Charleston. What about yours?”

  “Born and raised.” Regan set her glass of lemonade down on the counter and removed the lid from a metal food tin. She offered Booker a cheese biscuit. “Want one?”

  “Sure.” He removed a biscuit from the tin and held the silver dollar–size biscuit, coated in powdered sugar with a pecan pressed in the center, close to his face for inspection. “It’s not like a real biscuit.”

  “I know. It’s intended for snacking, not to be served with a meal.”

  He stuffed the whole biscuit into his mouth at once. “This is good,” he said, spitting out crumbs. “Did your mom make them?”

  “Not hardly. My mom’s a terrible cook. So is my grandmother.” Regan nibbled at a biscuit. “I made them. I found the recipe card, labeled May May’s Cheese Biscuits, stuck at the way back of the junk drawer. I think they’re pretty good, if I say so myself, but Willa, my grandmother, claims mine aren’t as good as May May’s.”