“The girls” is how she often referred to her three widow friends.
My mother and I had been at denominational odds for years, so I didn’t expect a cheery acceptance. “You might be disappointed,” she said, returning to the mirror for a final look. “We don’t play guitars and worship crystals-or whatever it is you do at that hippie church. You’d have to actually bow your head in prayer. And sit with common folks, too, not your rich beach-people clients. I wouldn’t want to put you out.” Her eyes locked onto the leather satchel. “What you got there?”
I wanted to wait until after church. Her friends were all solid and sweet, but, as people age, gossiping becomes a favorite vocation. I tested the water by saying, “Did Mr. Chatham ever mention a man by the name of Sabin Martinez?”
“Why would he introduce me to a Mexican?” she asked. “True, he had a fondness for illegal citizens, and other outlaws, but you know I don’t speak Spanish.”
I said, “Mr. Martinez is Cuban, I believe, but that’s not what I asked. He claimed he was a close friend of Mr. Chatham’s. Do you remember hearing the name?”
She remained fixated on the satchel. “Maybe. Depends on what’s inside there. If you’ve got Mexicans bringing you presents, dear, I should know before allowing contraband into my house. If it’s a new purse, keep it. You might like masculine things, but it’s not pretty enough for me. Now, go wash your hands.”
I gave her the satchel. “What’s in there is confidential-that’s what he told me. You know what that means, Loretta. You can’t tell the girls, or anybody else, until Mr. Martinez says it’s okay. Are you sure you’ve never heard of the man?”
“Who? I told you, I don’t speak Spanish.” She unzipped the bag, looked in, then looked up at me. Her wild blue eyes took on a glow. “My lord… is this all mine?”
I was smiling at her. “Most of it,” I said. “There are two envelopes in there with legal documents-but only copies. It’s complicated. The will Mr. Chatham left when he died has to go through a probate proceeding, and some other stuff. It all has to be done and read to his heirs within thirty days of his death. That’s the law, which means there’re less than two weeks left. But his wife got a look at his will somehow. She’s already hired an attorney to fight for what she thinks is rightfully hers. Mr. Martinez came to warn us in advance.”
My mother’s face colored. “That pom-pom cheerleader harlot. She’s contesting my inheritance?”
“Loretta, don’t tell me you actually expected anything.”
“Why wouldn’t I? I put in a lot more miles than she ever logged. That woman only wanted one thing from Harney, and it wasn’t kept between his legs or his ears, neither. Liked to broke that man’s spirit, she did. Is it any wonder he come crawlin’ back to me for solace? It was that slut who killed him-not his new thingamabob, which is quite an invention, I’ll tell you. Or them blue pills.”
The medical examiner had listed the cause of death as cardiac arrest, perhaps exacerbated by conflicting medications.
“Let’s not get into that,” I said, and carried the satchel to the kitchen counter. Inside were stacks of hundred-dollar bills, some stiffened by saltwater. This suggested they dated back to the pot-hauling years. “Ten thousand dollars. He wanted us to have this up front. He knew there’d be legal fees-if Mr. Martinez told me the truth.”
One by one, Loretta was sliding five stacks her way. “Of course he told the truth. A man like Mr. Martinez wouldn’t lie to us. Sometimes, Hannah, I worry about your suspicious nature. It ain’t fair to judge others, least ye be judged-that’s Scripture, by the way. You’d know that if you attended a real church. As to legal fees, do what you want with your money, but I ain’t givin’ mine to no damn lawyer.”
I clenched my teeth until I had calmed. “You might change your mind when you see this.” I opened an envelope. “He left us his hunting cabin and a hundred acres of citrus. You, me, and Reggie; divided equally. Then we get into some complicated areas that an attorney-”
“Salt Creek Gun Club?” she interrupted. She’d spent time there; I could tell by her dreamy expression. “That’s the prettiest place there ever was. That river path, where the moss hangs so soft and cool? Many’s the time I told Harney we should be… we should be buried-” Her voice broke; she grabbed the second envelope and ripped it open and quickly regained control. “This must be for me, too. By god, this is better than Christmas.”
The envelope was addressed in masculine pencil to Darling Lorrie-Loretta’s nickname used only by the former lieutenant governor. In it were dozens of photographs-the oldest, black-and-white prints with scalloped borders. Thirty years of photo technology was in that stack, including faded Polaroids, and color shots so bright, they looked as if they’d been painted. My mother got through a few, saying, “Here’s me and Harney at the first moon launch… Here we are in Times Square… This here was took in a country I can’t pronounce-no… it was Paris. Yep, by the Arch of Trumpets. I can tell by the pigeons.”
“Paris,” I said. “In Europe? Where was I while you were jet-setting around?”
“Damned if I know-probably on a camping trip with your Uncle Jake. You expect me to stay housebound while you’re out having fun? Thick as thieves, you two-and never did thank me for that tent I patched so you’d have a place to sleep. Neither one, even a word.”
My jaw tightened again while her quivering hands chose another photo. “Aw… this was Christmas at the Biltmore. You wouldn’t know the name-it’s a big, expensive hotel in Asheville. Don’t Harney look fine in that suit? That’s where he… that’s where Harney… where we went after the first time he proposed…”
My mother’s emotions got the best of her then. She gave a great, shuddering yawn, then broke down, sobbing. I got an arm around her and sat her on the couch. With me, I brought the photo taken years ago at the Biltmore Hotel. While I held her close, I looked into my mother’s secret past. Mr. Chatham had been a big, confident man with curly hair and a Don’t cross me smile. Loretta, who was now a little bird of a thing, had once been a beautiful woman. Proud of it, too, judging from her fashionable jeans and tight snow-bunny sweater. On her face was a sly, territorial smile, her lover’s hand cupping the underside of her breast. I might have been looking at the photo of a woman I’d never met.
Strange how the eye is tricked more often by memory than light.
I said, “Go freshen your makeup. The girls will get on the church bus if I don’t call them soon. You still want to go to church, don’t you?”
She sniffed, and rubbed her eyes. “Every Sunday, I ask the Lord for forgiveness-all the sins Harney and me committed over so many years. I don’t know why I bother. I truly don’t. The Lord, He knows what’s really in my heart, and, truth is, I don’t regret one single moment I spent with that man. Not one, Hannah. In fact-you really want the truth?-my only regret is, there were times we could’a been together, but I said no out of conscience. All those lost moments of happiness we could have shared! You don’t think God knows? He does. So today, I’ll put a hundred-dollar bill in the plate, and buy the girls pizza. You go on, dear. There’s no need to drive us.”
What Loretta meant was, she didn’t want the awkwardness of having her daughter around when she had so much good news-and five thousand dollars-to share with her friends.