Magnolia Wednesdays Part 16

Ruth snorted. "I may be getting old, but I'm not blind. Although at first I did think she was just getting fat."

"Well, I hadn't noticed," Angela said with an odd little grimace at the word "fat." "That's great. Congratulations."

"Yes," Ruth added somewhat grudgingly. "Mazel tov. I didn't realize you were married."

Vivien felt the heat rise in her cheeks. "I'm not, and according to my ob-gyn it's not actually a requirement."

"No. But it's a lot better for the children to have two parents," the older woman replied.

"Yes, well," Melanie said stiffly. "That may be. But it doesn't always work out that way." She slipped an arm around Vivien's waist in a show of solidarity. "For all sorts of reasons."

It was Ruth's turn to flush. She was clearly unused to being at odds in any way with Melanie. "Of course not, but . . ."

"And I don't think any of us need to pa.s.s judgment on the other."

"Well, of course not, but . . ."

Melanie didn't let Ruth finish. "Here," she said as she turned to the boxes and began to open them. "Let's put the snowflakes up first. That'll be the biggest job, because I want to cover the whole ceiling except the area immediately around the chandeliers."

The three of them began unpacking the boxes while Melanie went to get the ladder. "She always protects you," Ruth said to Vivien. "No matter what you do. Or don't do."

"I know," Vivien said. "And I know I don't deserve it. But it's kind of amazing, isn't it?"

"I think it's great," Angela said, her hands overflowing with snowflakes, her expression wistful. "Both James and I are only children. I, for one, would love to have a sister or brother to run interference for me. Or at least deflect some of my parents' attention."

Vivien looked at the bride-to-be and wondered, not for the first time, about the mixed signals she sent. She was young and attractive and engaged to the son of a major sports celebrity, yet she hid what appeared to be an above-average figure in clothes at least a size too big and seemed oddly determined not to call attention to herself.

Vivi would have liked to know why, but it wasn't really her business nor did she want to get too personal. She was just pa.s.sing through. Observing and reporting. She shouldn't get any more involved with the people here than a scientist might get with the earthworm he was dissecting.

Parental distance was apparently an alien concept to Ruth Melnick. "You believe a parent can give too much attention, too much love?"

Vivien looked at Ruth. "Do you really think love and attention are the same thing? We're debating mother love versus mother attention," Vivien said when Melanie returned, curious to see whether Melanie, who was not only Caroline's daughter but a mother in her own right, would feel the same as Ruth. "Ruth thinks they're one and the same. I'm not so sure."

"Well," Melanie said. She'd gotten the ladder positioned and was now giving the question serious thought. "I think everything I direct at Shelby and Trip is out of love and wanting what's best for them, though they probably wouldn't agree. But I know from being our mother's daughter that a lot of things she thought were best for me weren't. And that loving your child doesn't automatically make you right.

"I mean, if I'd listened to Caroline, I never would have married a . . . gasp . . . Republican," Melanie continued.

"Or chosen to live in the suburbs. Or sent my children to public school, even one as good as Pemberton." She looked at Vivi. "And if you had paid the slightest bit of attention to her, you certainly wouldn't have become a network-level investigative reporter living in New York City. But I think in her way she loves us. She just loves us best when we're doing what she thinks is right."

Vivien was having a hard enough time coming to grips with the idea of becoming a parent without thinking that she might be the kind of parent Caroline was.

"I'll do the hanging if you want to hand the snowflakes up to me," Angela volunteered.

Still intent on their conversation they formed a chain, sort of like an old-fashioned bucket brigade, but they pa.s.sed gossamer snowflakes on string instead of pails of water.

"My mother has become someone I hardly recognize," Angela said as she climbed the ladder then reached down for the first snowflake. "My parents have always been so levelheaded and supportive. Now they're obsessed with the details of the wedding. I know part of it's their relief that I'm actually getting married; the other part is their amazement that I'm marrying Cole Wesley's son. That's how my parents say it, *Our Angela is marrying Cole Wesley's son.' I'm having a hard time believing it myself."

Angela removed the ceiling tile and hung a snowflake at each corner before replacing it. Then she climbed down to reposition the ladder. "I mean it's such a big step."

Melanie offered another snowflake. "Being married to J.J. was the best thing that ever happened to me," she said. "Well, that and having Shelby and Trip. Being a family." Her eyes glistened. "There's nothing better than that.

"Don't you agree, Ruth?" Melanie asked.

On the dance floor the couple glided effortlessly while Enrique watched, but they might have been on another planet. Vivien felt like the four of them were an island unto themselves.

"I would have said the same as Melanie when I was her age," Ruth finally said. "Even a few years ago, I wouldn't have questioned the life I've had with Ira. Or that we would simply go on like we always have. But now . . ." Her voice trailed off as she seemed to struggle to find the right words. "Now, well, things are a lot different than I expected."

They worked until the entire ceiling appeared to shimmer and glow, softening the stark angles of the ballroom.

"I love the snowflakes," Melanie said as she pulled strands of tiny white lights from one of the boxes. "Let's put these around the mirrors."

"Our lives have been so different." Angela picked up their thread of conversation as they began to frame the mirrored walls with strings of the lights. "I'd barely been to a professional sporting event before I knew James. Between his dad and his work, sports are pretty much his life. I can't go to everything; I don't even want to. But I hate for him to feel like I'm not interested."

"What do you think?" Melanie asked once they'd gotten the lights plugged in.

"Festively elegant," Ruth said and all of them agreed as they considered their collective reflection in the mirror. They were different ages and sizes and, Vivi thought, they had little in common but membership in a dance cla.s.s and their regard for Melanie.

"Well, I'm sure James's feelings for you aren't based on how many games you make it to. Or how you feel about sports." Again, Melanie was all rea.s.surance, a veritable poster child for love and commitment.

"If you ever can't make it to something, I happen to have a nephew who would love to fill in for you," Vivien said. "Don't you think Trip would enjoy going out with James and his father sometime, Mel?"

Melanie blushed and shot Vivi a look. "We wouldn't want to put the Wesleys on the spot, Vivi. I'm sure they . . ."

"No, I'm sure James and Cole would enjoy having him along," Angela said. "I'll check and see what's coming up."

Melanie raised a warning eyebrow at her sister as she thanked Angela. "We need to finish up," she said. "There's Naranya and Lourdes. It's almost time for cla.s.s."

They began to move more quickly then, doing more decorating and less talking.

"You never did say when you're due," Angela said as they tidied up and prepared to join the others. "And I don't know how to tell by looking."

"Around the twelfth of April." Vivien gulped. Just saying the date aloud made it so much more real.

"That's just a week before the wedding," Angela said, also gulping. Her face did not reflect unadulterated joy. "I guess it's going to be a big month."

Vivien just nodded her head. But what she was really thinking was that her due date was now barely four months away. There was a decisive movement in her belly and as her hand flew to the spot, she had the thought that the baby wasn't any happier about that than she was.

"So I suppose that's actually why you're here. To have your baby," Ruth muttered under her breath as they moved into their places in front of the now-twinkly mirror.

If she'd said it louder, Vivien might have felt compelled to argue with her. But now as she weighed the accusation, Vivi realized that it was true. She'd told herself she was here to research and write her column, pretended-even to herself-that she didn't actually need anything from her sister or her parents. But that was just a great big rationalization. Once again Ruth Melnick was right about her, she thought after the Shipley sisters and Sally arrived and they stretched out into two ragged lines. When Vivien had found herself unemployed and pregnant, she hadn't turned to Stone or drawn strength from her own life; she'd thrown up her hands and come running home to her family.

Her lack of self-awareness might have been comical if it hadn't been so pathetic.

Vivien sighed as they began to stretch. Following Naranya was not as difficult now, so she could actually think even as her body moved. For someone who'd always hunted for and demanded answers, it was amazing how many she'd allowed herself to sidestep. Lying to others was bad. Lying to yourself was infinitely worse.

The kids were already up in their rooms when they got back to Melanie's. Tired and out of sorts, Vivien hugged her sister good night and went up to her room. Logging on to her email account, she spotted an email from Stone and hesitated; just the sight of his name in her inbox dredged up a mixture of guilt and longing that practically paralyzed her. Bracing herself, she clicked it open. The email was short and carried none of the probing questions or recriminations she knew she deserved. Her relief at being let off the hook made her feel even worse.

Now know exactly what the middle of nowhere looks like. In fact, we've got footage of it. Have been on the northern border where the army is focusing its efforts on rooting out militant strongholds. The villages we pa.s.sthrough barely have names and don't appear on maps. Another aid worker was abducted this morning and I've got a lead, so we're packing up to head back into the field. Don't know when I'll be able to be in touch again. Send me an email and I'll pick it up when I can. Need to know that you're okay and how investigation is going. Miss you, Stone.

She sat for a few long moments wishing Stone were here and a few more glad that he wasn't. He was exactly where he was supposed to be, doing exactly what he was meant to do. He didn't need his thoughts muddied by news of his impending fatherhood.

The house grew quiet around her. Vivien had been waiting for an opportunity to search J.J.'s study and when she felt certain that everyone was either asleep or at least in their room for the night, she tiptoed downstairs and went inside, pulling the door closed behind her.

She'd been in the room several times, but never alone. As before, the mahogany gun cabinet, emptied of all but dust, dominated the wall opposite the door. A deer head with an impressive rack and suitably gla.s.sy eyes had been mounted beside it.

The walls were a warm putty color and were covered with framed photos that spanned J.J.'s political career. There were shots of J.J. with his tie loosened and shirt-sleeves rolled up, shaking hands on what must have been a campaign stop, a shot of him in the county commission chambers where he'd begun his professional political career, another being sworn in to the Georgia House of Representatives. On the adjoining wall were the obligatory photos of J.J. with other political figures; one with each of the President Bushes, another with Governor Sonny Perdue. There was even a shot of him with California governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, the two of them mugging for the camera and flexing their muscles.

The rest of the wall was covered with plaques and commendations, including one from Georgia State University. Easing herself into the executive chair behind the large and decidedly masculine desk, Vivien began her search. The first few drawers yielded little more than stray rubber bands and paper clips, a few dried-out pens, notepads with company names or logos on them. She wondered what Clay Alexander had been looking for. And whether he'd found it.

In a bottom drawer she found a large envelope stuffed with credit card and phone bills. A stack of old day planners filled another. She leafed through them quickly but was afraid of getting caught with them, so she tucked them back into place until she could get back when she was truly alone.

On the bookshelves that filled one wall of the office, bestsellers and thrillers sat beside tomes on government and politics while biographies of famous politicians and historical figures sat cheek to jowl with those about well-known dancers and performers. Interspersed between the books were family photos that began with a wedding shot of the brand-new Mr. and Mrs. Jordan Jackson Jr. in front of the church where they'd just been married and continued through the appearance of first Shelby and then Trip; the Jackson family's life played out in a progression of photographs from birth to right around the time of J.J.'s death. There were also numerous shots of J.J. and Clay in hunting gear with their arms around each others' shoulders, though presumably none from their final tragic trip.

On the last bookcase she found a photo of J.J., Melanie, and Clay Alexander. She couldn't tell where it had been taken, but all three of them were dressed formally, the men in tuxes with snowy white shirts and crisp black bowties. Melanie, who was sandwiched between them, her arms around each of their waists, wore a strapless black gown that exposed creamy shoulders and a swell of breast. Her brown eyes shone with good humor and her lips curved upward in an unself-conscious smile. She looked directly into the lens of the camera, her eyes contemplating the photographer from beneath arched brows. Both men were tall and dark and well built, though J.J. was slightly taller and broader than Clay. Both men were looking not at the camera but at Melanie.

Vivien tilted the photo in her hands but the photographer had focused on Melanie and no matter what angle she tried, she couldn't make out the expressions on the men's faces.

Setting the photo back on the shelf, Vivien squatted down so that she could read the t.i.tles on the bottom shelves and realized that they were high school and college yearbooks arranged, like the rest of the shelves, in no particular order.

Lowering herself the rest of the way to the floor, Vivien sat cross-legged on the oriental carpet and pulled the copies of the Pandora, which were from the University of Georgia, into her lap. She flipped through them quickly at first more out of nostalgia than anything else. But when she opened the copy from what would have been Melanie's freshman year and J.J. and Clay's junior year, she began to read the autographs and inscriptions. In the faculty section, she came to a page whose corner had been turned down. Across the photo of a Professor Sturgess in the political science department there was a message that read, Congratulations on your successful run for student council president. I trust you will find governing as satisfying as running. It was signed, Phillip Sturgess.

Not sure why the name seemed familiar, Vivien carried the annual over to the photos and commendations on the wall. She found the professor's name at the bottom of the Georgia State University commendation, which thanked J.J. for his partic.i.p.ation in the Georgia Legislative Internship Program. The letter was dated just over two years ago, not long before J.J.'s death. Which meant the professor might still be teaching here in Atlanta.

Excited to have a name to start with, Vivien took the yearbook upstairs and left it open on the bed beside her as she used her laptop to do a search of Georgia State University faculty. She was rewarded with a current photo and contact information for Professor Phillip Sturgess.

Scribbling his number and email address on the pad beside her, Vivien refused to speculate on what she might discover or how it might impact others. But she was very pleased to have a place to begin.

21.

IN THE LAST weeks before Christmas, Vivien took Melanie's place setting up for the teachers' holiday buffet, helped restock the Pemberton spirit shop, and spent an afternoon at the school's welcome desk to give Melanie time off to get ready for the holidays. Her sister was at first unflatteringly stunned and then embarra.s.singly grateful, which made Vivien, whose ulterior motive had been research for her column, feel horribly guilty.

John Harcourt felt none of the guilt Vivi did at her subterfuge. On the phone, he crowed about the success of the column and the intensity of reader response. City dwellers found it funny, suburbanites, especially women, were increasingly incensed. He hinted that the Weekly Encounter might be able to come up with more money at the beginning of the new year.

Vivien had been composing her next "postcard" in her head since the first decorations had appeared in stores sometime after Halloween. In her room, she booted up her laptop and worked at turning them into a holiday column.

After several false starts she opted for, Christmas in New York City is a vibrant and elegant thing. It begins with the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, which is viewed with envy by the rest of the country, and in terms of excitement and grandeur it goes uphill from there. There's the tree in Times Square. The show at Radio City Music Hall. Skating at Rockefeller Center and in Central Park. The tastefully exciting windows in the shops on Fifth Avenue. Red ribbons on the horses and carriages that drive the tourists, the jangle of bells, the smell of snow.

There's a lot of holiday spirit here in suburbia, too. But like pretty much everything else here, each person seems to feel compelled to personalize that spirit and then display it for all to see. One of the places they display their homage to the holiday is-surprise, surprise-on their cars, with which they are in love. The first time I saw the big green wreath with the bright red bow on the front grille of a Jeep Cherokee, I thought I was imagining things. But such a sighting is quite common here. Just as the magnets on the back of their vehicles tell us what they're into, the wreaths poking out over the asphalt like figureheads on the prow of a ship tell us just how festive they feel. I for one am grateful that no one has figured out how to hook up blinking colored lights around their windshields. But it's probably just a matter of time.

Vivien settled back against her pillow, enjoying the rant.

For those not satisfied with wreaths there are what I can only think of as "car costumes." Like the Mercedes sport coupe that I saw with a red nose on the grille and two brown antlers protruding above the front driver and pa.s.senger windows. She was, of course, describing Catherine Dennison's reindeerized silver two-seater, which she'd spotted for the first time just yesterday. A fine example of German engineering rendered ridiculous. And they don't stop with their cars, she continued. The most insistently celebratory wear green-and-red holiday T-shirts with pithy holiday greetings on them. And some insist on dressing up their pets for the occasion, too. Like the small white Havanese wearing a big red nose and a plush pair of antlers that I saw strapped into its car seat in that Mercedes. The poor animal was so mortified it didn't even look out the windows. Its face was downcast as I beeped in sympathy, but it was too embarra.s.sed to meet my eye.

Vivien laughed at the memory of poor Pucci, who seemed to have more sense than her owner. She summed up with a few last licks. I know there's an energy crisis and house decorations are nowhere near as prevalent as they used to be. But I simply don't believe that cars were meant to be decorated. And I believe dressing up animals against their will qualifies as a form of cruelty. Maybe it's time to get the Humane Society on it. Or PETA. Just somebody to make it stop so the rest of us aren't forced to dodge cars and animals along with the sugarplums already dancing through our holiday dreams.

Vivi closed this time with, Happy holidays from your stranger in an even stranger land, Scarlett Leigh.

ON A CRISP morning in late December, Vivien drove Shelby's car to the Georgia State campus in downtown Atlanta and parked as close as she could get to the Andrew Young School of Policy Studies building, where Professor Sturgess's office was located.

The students were already out for the holidays and so the campus, unlike the city it was tucked into, was unusually quiet. Inside the building, her heels echoed in the empty hallway as she made her way to the professor's office. His was one of the few open doors, and she found him leaning back in his desk chair, his feet propped up on his desk, his hands pillowed behind his head. He was staring out the window.

"Professor Sturgess?" She stood in the doorway and waited for him to acknowledge her.

"Miz Gray," he said in a p.r.o.nounced southern drawl. "Do come in."

He removed his feet from the desktop and rose to greet her. The professor was six foot three or six foot four and looked to be somewhere in his midfifties, which meant he would have been fairly young when he'd taught at Georgia. His dark hair was streaked with gray, the blue eyes behind stylish tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses were intelligent and a.s.sessing. There was a mutual sizing up as they shook hands. His eyes widened slightly as he noted her obvious pregnancy.

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," she said as he motioned for her to sit.

"No problem. I had to be in to take care of some paperwork. The interruption is welcome."

Vivien had debated her approach, not knowing how close the professor had been to either J.J. or Clay or how in touch he'd stayed. She'd also been unsure whether he might recognize her from CIN, so had been reluctant to use an alias.

"As I mentioned, I'm doing some freelance work and I had an idea for a series on the new breed of politicians and their impact on the political process."

He listened intently and if he saw anything strange in her choosing not only a family member but one who was deceased he didn't say so. Still, she thought it important to address the issue. "J.J. wasn't the only one cut down in his prime and I'm toying with using that angle. But I'm just in the early stages." She smiled as if that particular part of the story were neither here nor there. "You don't mind if I record our session, do you?" she asked as she pulled out a portable ca.s.sette player. "If I actually do the series, we'll rerecord more formally. This is just so I get it all right."

He nodded his a.s.sent and leaned forward, folding his hands on his desk.

"So, tell me, Professor Sturgess," she said as if this were a real interview. "What was J.J. like at the University of Georgia and what do you think propelled him into politics and public service?"

"He was one of my most motivated students from the beginning," the professor said. "And although I'd like to take credit for his commitment to the political process, he was already completely focused on a career as a public servant when he arrived in Athens. He'd held positions in student government all through high school and he had an understanding of what it took to get elected that I suspect he was born with."

She nodded encouragingly, careful not to interrupt the flow of words.

"He was extremely charismatic and he knew how to get others to do what he wanted. Not all that different from your father and brother," he said with a smile. "Though their political points of view were quite different."

Vivien let the reference to her family go by; both she and Melanie had been drawn to magnetic public figures, but she wasn't here to debate whether they'd been looking for versions of Daddy. "So he ran for student government at UGA, too?" she asked.

"Oh, yes. He ran in his freshman and soph.o.m.ore years and won by a landslide. He was the ultimate candidate: good-looking, personable, but with a drive that very few young people have at that age."

"Did you know Clay Alexander then?"

"Of course. You couldn't know one of them without the other. He and J.J. were the kind of students every teacher hopes for. They loved to debate each other and anyone else that would sit still long enough. They actually ran against each other in their freshman and soph.o.m.ore years."

"How did that turn out?" Vivien asked.

"Clay always came in second. He was very astute and very tuned in to the nuances of campaigning, but he wasn't the extemporaneous speaker J.J. was. He was always a little more cautious, more of a planner. In many ways he was a more private person all round. And he wasn't as willing to tell people what they wanted to hear."

"I'm surprised losing to J.J. like that didn't impact their friendship," she said. Or maybe it had.

"Didn't seem to. In the spring of their junior years, Clay became J.J.'s campaign manager in a bid for student council president. Did a bang-up job, too. One of the most professionally run campaigns I've ever seen at the student level. I think the backroom position suited Clay best. J.J. had tons of personality and the glibber tongue. But Clay was a long-term thinker. Together they were pretty much unbeatable."