Holidays Are Murder
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“Wow,” Bill murmured as we stepped into the soaring atrium. “Great space.”
Seeing the courtyard through his eyes made me reevaluate where I’d played as a child. A triple-tiered fountain anchored the center of the huge expanse of Mexican terra-cotta tiles. Tropical plantings of frangipani, gardenias, bird of paradise, and travelers’ palms softened the corners of the huge area. Open hallways with Moorish arches circled both the first and second floors, and an arching glass ceiling flooded the area with natural light and kept the air-conditioning in and the weather out.
Groupings of wrought-iron chairs and tables with plump cushions were scattered in conversational clusters across the open area. With unusual grace for an eighty-two-year-old, Mother rose from a nearby chair and came to greet us.
“I thought perhaps you weren’t coming,” she said in a benevolent tone that didn’t entirely hide her disapproval of our tardiness.
The coolness of her greeting was in stark contrast to the bear hug and resounding kisses my father would have offered and made me realize one of the reasons I hated coming home was the fact that Daddy was no longer there to welcome me.
A muscle ticked in Bill’s cheek, the only indication that Mother’s attitude had annoyed him. He seldom showed anger, not because he didn’t feel it, but because he’d learned over the years to effectively leash his deep rage, an appropriate response to the injustices he’d encountered on the job and in his personal life. I watched as he somehow managed to bleed the tension from his body and relax, a skill I envied.
“If we’re late, Mrs. Skerritt,” Bill said, “it’s my fault. I lingered too long admiring the beautiful grounds of your house. A fitting prelude, I might add, to its exquisite interior.”
Mother’s stiff demeanor softened slightly. “You must be Mr. Malcolm.”
“Please, call me Bill.” He gave her his warmest smile, the one that had caused hardened criminals to spill their guts in the interview rooms, and grasped her hand in both of his. I watched in amazement as the Iron Magnolia succumbed to his charm, a quality that made Bill irresistible. He had, hands down, the best people skills of anyone I’d ever met.
“And you must call me Priscilla,” she insisted.
I almost swallowed my tongue. Mother rarely allowed anyone to call her by her first name. In fact, I’d heard it so seldom, I’d almost forgotten it.
“Priscilla,” Bill said. “It suits you. Very regal.”
Mother did appear regal in her floor-length skirt of black taffeta, a high-necked, white silk blouse with long sleeves, a cummerbund in gold-and-black plaid, and her snowy hair piled high like a crown.
Leaving me trailing in their wake, she escorted Bill deeper into the courtyard to meet the usual suspects. My sister, Caroline, looking like a younger clone of Mother in both dress and hairstyle, although her tresses were a golden bottle-blond, sipped a martini and eyed Bill with interest over the rim of her glass. Her husband, Huntington Yarborough, a big man whose usual florid complexion had turned an even deeper red after a few drinks, rose from his seat by the fountain where he was nursing what looked to be a double Scotch.
Michelle, their oldest daughter, and her husband, Chad, hovered in a far corner with my nephew Robert and his wife, Sandra. My four great-nieces and great-nephews were conspicuously absent, either at home with a sitter or farmed out to their other grandparents. Mother was adamant that small children had no place at social functions, not even family holiday celebrations.
Bill, well-versed in my family tree and its twisted branches, met and greeted each of my relatives with his usual ease. A waiter appeared and took our drink orders.
“So,” Bill said to Hunt, “Margaret tells me you’re in the insurance business.”
I suppressed a groan. Once Hunt began talking business, there was no stopping him. I’d dozed through many of his dinner-table monologues.
Hunt pounced on Bill like a puppy on a bone. “You name it, I insure it. Property and casualty, life and health, annuities. I can do all your financial planning—”
Someone grasped my elbow and a familiar voice said, “How are you, Margaret? I haven’t seen you in too many years.”
Seton Fellows, Daddy’s best friend, smiled down at me from his extraordinary height of six foot five. The best neurologist in the Tampa Bay area, the man was a giant in the medical profession, as my father had been. His thinning gray hair matched his deep gray eyes, but the age that lined his face hadn’t affected his erect posture or his usually sunny disposition.
“What a nice surprise, Dr. Fellows. Mother didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“It was a last-minute invitation,” he said with a conspiratorial wink. “Your mother needed an even number at the table.”
Bill’s last-minute inclusion had thrown off Mother’s seating arrangement. “Lucky for us,” I assured him. “How have you been?”
His gray eyes clouded. “Lonely. This will be my first Thanksgiving without Nancy. So it’s good to be with friends.”
“You’ve known Mother and Daddy a long time, haven’t you?”
He nodded and sipped his drink. “Philip and I were in medical school together.”
Across the courtyard, Mother and Caroline hung on Hunt’s every word, and somehow even Bill managed to appear interested. With Dr. Fellows as my captive audience, I had found someone who might satisfy my curiosity about my parents’ early years, a time neither had discussed, at least, not with me. Their large wedding portrait hung in the sitting room of the master suite, but neither Mother nor Daddy had ever talked about the few years prior to or immediately following their marriage.
“What were they like then?” I asked Seton.
“Your parents?”
I nodded. “Before Daddy became Pelican Bay’s best cardiologist.”
The lines in his face crinkled with amusement. “Philip, as all of us, worked long, hard hours.”
“And Mother?”
His hesitation was brief but notable. “She organized the wives’ association. Not many female medical students in those days. Why do you ask?”
I shrugged. “They were so different from each other. I never could understand the attraction.”