twelve

I turned away from Son and bumped my knee against the rocker. It banged against the house. My heart was beating just as hard.

Do something, Teeny. Channel Doris Day. She-Who-Can’t-Be-Lied-To is about to tell a whopper.

“Coop, there you are.” I waved, but cracks ran through my voice. I’d missed Doris by a thousand miles.

“I thought you were in the ladies’ room.” Coop’s foot went still. He gave Son a scornful look.

If I told a lie, I’d have to raise my tally. So I gave Son a pleading look. “Take care, Dr. Finnegan.”

“You, too, Miss Templeton.” He pulled my hair. “And try not to purée any peaches. That’s too brutal.”

Coop slipped his arm around my waist and drew me across the porch, but not before I saw Son’s lips curve into a machete-sharp smile.

“What were you and Son Finnegan talking about?” Coop asked.

“He was in Iraq.” That wasn’t an answer, but it was the truth. Sort of. Lord, my mouth was dry. I looked over Coop’s shoulder. “Where’s Red?”

“He’s coming.”

“Give me two minutes,” I said. “I want to say bye to Emerson.”

“Sure, but we’re meeting my parents for dinner.”

“We are?”

“Mother called while you were in the ladies’ room. I didn’t think you’d mind. But if you do, I can cancel.”

“No, no, no.” Had I just told lie number twenty-five? Dr. O’Malley had always been kind, but Miss Irene hadn’t liked me since that day I’d hollered in church. I went ahead and raised my tally, then I walked back to the Stonewall Jackson Room.

Emerson’s grandmother, Helen Philpot, stood near the coffin. She was tall and big-eyed, a killer tennis player with muscular forearms and leathered skin. Her bouffant, apricot-tinted hair was curled to perfection, and she reminded me of an entry at the Westminster Dog Show.

Emerson leaped out of her chair and grabbed my hands. “Bad news, Teeny. I’m not coming home with you and Coop.”

Helen rolled her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Emerson. That’s not bad news for them. Sit back down in that chair and be still.”

“No,” Emerson said.

Helen raked her manicured nails down the sides of her navy jacket. Emerson recoiled, as if she’d felt the sharp sides of those talons, and plopped in a chair.

Helen turned to me. Her irises looked like chopped green olives. “You must be Teeny Templeton.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Emerson won’t stop talking about you. Thanks for taking care of her.” Helen tucked her arm into mine and guided me toward the casket. “Do you play tennis?”

“Not in a while.”

“Barb used to play. She always made foot faults. She made them in real life, too. Thanks to her, I might not be a grandmother.” Helen frowned at the mahogany casket. The upper lid gaped open. Inside, Barb’s head rested on a white satin pillow. A scarf was draped around her neck.

I glanced away.

“I never liked Barb,” Helen said. “She was tricky. Even in death she looks like she’s up to something. And she was always in motion. Like a great white shark.”

Barb had once bragged that her lineage went back to Attila the Hun. I wondered how she’d handled Helen.

“I’ve got Emerson’s things in the van,” I said. “Shall I fetch them?”

“How clever of you to change the subject. You’ll make a fine lawyer’s wife. Unless you’re just Cooper’s rebound woman.” Helen’s voice held a fleeting edge of sweetness, like sugar water dribbled over gravel.

I stiffened. Helen had nailed one of my biggest fears.

She patted her hair. “I was surprised to hear he’d gotten divorced. He’s half Catholic, you know.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I shifted my gaze to the other end of the room. The Sweeney policemen were talking to Lester, who kept swiping a handkerchief over his forehead.

Helen pulled me into the far corner, out of Emerson’s earshot. “Are you worried that Cooper will turn out to be her daddy?”

“Not at all.”

She stared hard at me. “Either you’re a liar or you’re in love. But don’t worry. It’s highly unlikely than he’s related to that child. She’s got gray eyes, but other than that, she doesn’t look like the O’Malleys. She sure doesn’t look like a Philpot. And you know why?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Almost eleven years ago, Barb went into labor on Curry Island. It was early September, hot as blazes. We were gathered at my beach house, eating oysters and boiled crabs. Right in the middle of dessert, Barb’s water broke. When we got to the little hospital, it was pandemonium. The nurses put the patients on cots. Some of the poor dears gave birth in the hall. Barb got preferential treatment because Lester knew who to call.”

Something broke loose in my chest, as if a hard little egg had cracked. If I didn’t hold real still, it would shatter. “But Emerson said that her birthday was in December.”

“That’s what the poor child thinks. But she was born on September fourth—a scant seven months after the wedding. Barb was afraid people would call Emerson a bastard, and they would have. So Lester hired a big-shot lawyer to fix everything. Emerson got a new birth date. Highly illegal, of course. But we went along with it. We had to. We thought Emerson was our baby.”

I pulled in a breath. The egg in my chest tore open, and feathered things banged against my ribs. Everything Emerson knew about herself was a lie.

Helen stepped closer. “The OB ward was understaffed the night Emerson was born. I parked myself beside the nursery window and watched a nurse take off the babies’ ID tags and put them in a heap. I tried to keep track of Emerson’s tag, but the nurse saw me gawking and shut the curtains. After that, I couldn’t be certain if we’d gotten the right baby.”

“You could’ve checked footprints,” I said.

“Oh, we did. But one baby’s prints got on all the records. So Lord knows where Lester’s real child is—or Coop’s.” Helen’s bony fingers closed on my wrist. “Barb and Emerson stayed at the beach house for a few months. Then they returned to Bonaventure. The gossips never said a word. Wasn’t that nice?”

I nodded.

“Every time I go to Curry Island, I drive by the elementary school and look for a tall, green-eyed girl. I haven’t found her. But I know she’s out there.”

Her words slashed around me. Lies. So many lies, each one sticky-sharp. I must have flinched, because she abruptly let go of my hand. I moved away from her and walked to Emerson’s chair.

“I’ve got to leave, honey.” I smoothed her pigtails. “Give me a call sometime. My number’s in the phone book.”

I expected her to say “as if,” but she sprang out of her chair and wrapped her arms around me. “I’ll really miss you. And tell my daddy that we have unfinished beeswax.”

I stepped out of the funeral home, into the warm night air. I had the nagging feeling that I’d forgotten something, but I couldn’t think straight. My head was filled with Helen’s prickly words. The humidity sluiced around me, and I could feel my hair tighten and curl. I reached up, making sure my bobby pins were in place.

My thoughts scattered when I saw Coop. He stood at the end of the porch, leaning against a wooden column. He smiled at me. “Ready?”

I slipped my hand into his. As we walked toward the parking lot, I told him about Curry Beach. His eyebrows went up, but he didn’t comment. I smoothed my hair again, but this time the pins flew out and clattered against the asphalt. Coop bent down to gather them; I hunkered beside him. He slid a bobby pin into my hair.

“There you go,” he said, his hand lingering on my cheek, giving off the faint scent of pine-and-cotton.

I pushed down my worries about Emerson and forced out a smile. “Where are we having dinner?”

“Mother made reservations at Heads ’N,’ Tails.”

Now I’d totally lost my appetite. Heads ’N’ Tails was a trendy restaurant in the historic district, and items on the menu used every piece of the animal.

When we got to the van, Red said, “Sit up here with me, girlie.”

Coop helped me into the front seat, then he got into the back. From the radio, Drowning Pool whispered the opening lyrics to “Bodies,” and Red turned up the volume. The pins wouldn’t stay in my hair, so I plucked them out. I pulled down the rearview mirror. My image bore an uncanny resemblance to Emerson’s hedgehog, which, I suddenly realized, was still in the backseat, along with her backpack. So that’s what I’d forgotten. But it gave me the perfect excuse to see her again.

Red drove around Oglethorpe Square, the van’s tires bumping over the cobblestones. We parked by The Little Savannah, a popular bistro, where customers were lined up on the sidewalk. Across the street, rosy floodlights washed over the stucco façade of Heads ’N’ Tails. The building resembled a plump roast in a butcher’s case.

Red spread his arms. “Look at all the tourists laughing and carrying on. They don’t seem worried about being mugged. Bonaventure must have a low crime rate.”

“We’ve got our share of criminals,” Coop said. “But no one ever hears about them. The tourism council created a brand—“‘Bonaventure is a smaller, safer Savannah.’”

This was true. The Gazette was written by staffers with MFAs in creative writing. The crime log was carefully zany: a unicycle had either been stolen or borrowed; a man in a frog suit had eaten all the seedless grapes at Piggly Wiggly; a woman had forced her cheating boyfriend to eat habanero peppers, and he’d filed assault charges.

On our way to Heads ’N’ Tails, a tall, angular woman in a white nurse’s uniform walked toward us, her blond hair jutting up like cockatoo feathers. Her turquoise eyes blinked wide open. “Teeny!”

“Dot!” I blasted out her name. My mock enthusiasm matched her seemingly genuine joy. I looked up. She towered over me like a swing set. “I haven’t seen you in—”

“Eight years. It’s taken me that long to get an MA in nursing.” Dot was talking to me, but her eyes were on Coop and Red. She was taller than both of them.

“Eight years?” I repeated, shaking my head. I could have gone another eighty without seeing her. She knew about my tortured romance with Son Finnegan.

Dot couldn’t keep still. She smoothed one hand down her flat chest; then she fingered the gold praying-hands brooch that was pinned to her collar. Her gaze slid to Coop, then back to me. “Where are you all off to?”

“Dinner with my folks,” Coop said.

“I won’t keep you.” She darted a look at me. “Give me a call, Teeny. I’d love to catch up.”

I nodded, and my lips slammed into a smile.

She walked off, her narrow hips switching back and forth. Red stared until Coop hit his arm.

“I can’t help it,” Red said. “She’s pretty.”

“But skinny,” Coop said. “I thought you like big-chested women.”

“You don’t know what I like.” Red flashed a mysterious smile.

We stepped into the Heads ’N’ Tails lobby. The air smelled pleasantly charred, with a hint of fennel and caramelized onions. The brown-eyed hostess glanced up from a podium and smiled at Coop. “Your parents are already here, Mr. O’Malley.”

The hostess plucked three menus from a stack and led us into the dining room. It was U-shaped, with zebra-striped walls, a red ceiling, and a black-and-white marble floor. Smoke curled beneath the track lighting, floating over the empty tables and a small dance floor. In the corner, a band played Leona Lewis’s “Run.” My favorite heartbreak song.

I looked around for exits—you never know when a restaurant will catch on fire—but didn’t see any. I spotted Irene O’Malley, and my stomach cramped. Her chin-length brown hair was pushed back with a blue band that matched her eyes. She was an older, stouter version of Coop’s first wife, Ava, which made me wonder if he had a type.

“Hello, Teeny,” Dr. O’Malley said. He rose to his feet, candlelight glancing off his salt-and-pepper hair. My heart pounded in the roof of my mouth as Coop seated me next to his dad. Coop pulled out the chair beside me and sank down next to Irene. I breathed in her perfume, Eau du Bitch. Did she know Coop had given me a diamond ring? I still wore it on the chain, but it was hidden by my dress.

“Why, Teeny,” she said, drawing out the Es and the N in my name. “I haven’t seen you since the summer you dated Coop. He brought you to our pool party, and you wore a red polka-dot bikini.” She broke off and touched the back of her head.

“Nice to see you again, Miss Irene.” I tried not to remember that party. I had, as usual, dressed wrong for the occasion. I’d assumed a pool party had meant we’d swim, but the guests had worn shorts and sandals. I’d wanted to make a good impression on Coop’s parents, so the night before the party, I’d given myself a home permanent, taming my ungodly frizz into glossy, dark blond spirals. Unfortunately, I’d left a curler in the back of my hair.

Now, all these years later, I was pretty sure I’d committed another beauty faux pas. I touched my hair, and sure enough, a lone bobby pin jutted out. I plucked it out.

Irene turned her gaze on Red. “Mr. Hill, how long have you been working for my son?”

“Two years. Before that, I was a homicide cop. Cold cases. Stuff like that.” He lifted his finger and pulled an imaginary trigger. “Boss and I get along like mashed potatoes and sour cream.”

Irene leaned forward. “Who’s the sour puss? You or Coop?”

“We’re a good team.” Red looked at his menu.

“A word of caution,” Dr. O’Malley said. “Avoid the pan-fried goat brains—even if you like fennel and garlic.”

Irene tilted her head, the tips of her pageboy swinging like scythes. Her blue gaze impaled me. “Teeny, you look just as fetchin’ as ever.” She turned to Coop. “But do I know you?”

Coop looked embarrassed. “What have I done now?”

“Hmph,” she said, and lifted her wineglass, the burgundy swaying. “Your daddy told me you were in town, but I didn’t believe him. Because if my son came to Bonaventure, he would have visited his mother.”

She pronounced mother like a native Bonaventurian: muh-tha.

“I apologize,” he said.

“Your grandmother is in town,” Irene said. “She’d like to see you, too.”

“Why didn’t she join us for dinner?” Coop glanced at the empty seat beside Red.

“You know how Minnie is. She can’t leave those damn Chihuahuas.” Irene toyed with the gold buttons on her suit. “She’s cooking beef Wellington tomorrow night. Ava used to love it. But you used to love Ava.”

His cheeks reddened. “I’ve never been fond of British cuisine,” he said.

“Not even English trifle? We’re having that for dessert.” Irene set down her wineglass.

Coop’s right shoe slapped the floor ten times.

“Are you trying to send me a message in Morse code?” Irene asked. When he didn’t answer, she kissed his cheek, leaving a red smudge. “Lighten up, Poopy-Coop.”

“I’ll try, Mommie Dearest,” he said.

“Flatterer.” She grabbed her purse and stood.

All three men scrambled to their feet. She flipped her hand. “Sit, sit. I’m just going to the ladies’ room, not Antarctica. See y’all later.”

She bustled away, giving off gusts of perfume, her wide hips easing between the tables. Most Bonaventure women traveled in packs, but she hadn’t asked me to join her. I should’ve felt offended, but I was relieved.

Coop reached for my hand and squeezed it. “Mother isn’t always that way.”

“Which way?”

“A helicopter mother.”

The hostess walked by our table. She was followed by a man with green eyes and a blond pony-tail.

Dammit. Son of a bitch. I was totally busted.