“Next time I need help with an installation, I’ll hire Manny,” I told Austin. But I stepped back, took a look at the wall arrangement, and penciled in the next tack mark.
Will came breezing through the front door and stopped dead in his tracks.
“Wow,” he said, walking slowly back and forth. “This is awesome, guys. It really is. Better than I would have ever hoped for.”
He rubbed the canvas drapes between his fingers. “Cool. You were right. I like ’em. But I never saw anything like ’em before.”
“Desperation is the mother of invention, or something like that,” I admitted. “There was no time to find fabric or get anything sewn at our workroom, so I came up with this idea. These are nothing more than painter’s drop cloths. I bought the biggest ones they had, went to Farmer’s Hardware and bought industrial-sized metal grommets, and banged ’em in with a grommet-setter. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself.”
Now Will stopped in front of the art we were hanging, stared and stared again.
“Blueprints? For bras? Where the hell did you get this stuff, Keeley?”
“From the plant.” I straightened one of the drawings. It was actually a specification sketch for an early Loving Cup number called The Enhancer. From the look of the thing, I thought it should have been renamed The Enforcer. “You didn’t have anything to hang on the walls, so I decided to frame things that would have some meaning for you. Miss Nancy let me go through all the old files and pick out stuff I thought would work.”
Will picked up another frame. This one was a yellowing color magazine ad for Loving Cup brassieres—“We Hold You and Mold You Like Mother’s Own,” was the slogan that year. It had run in the September 1952 issue of Harper’s Bazaar. A model who looked a lot like Suzy Parker was pictured from the torso up, wearing a Loving Cup bra with bullet-shaped cups and enough strapping and hooks to harness a team of Clydesdales.
He laughed. “This is great. I mean it. What else have you got here?”
“More of the bra sketches, a couple more advertisements, and some old stock certificates for Loving Cup Intimates. I love the scroll-work and detailing on old documents like these. But these are my favorites,” I told him, showing him a series of three panoramic black and white photos.
“This one here,” I said, pointing to one showing a line of dour-faced women sitting at sewing machines, “is the swing shift. It was taken in 1945. There’s a handwritten note on the back that says they were sewing garments with specially made fabric loops. Because it was a war year, they couldn’t get metal hooks and eyelets, or even rubber for elastic, so they had to come up with all kinds of design substitutes.”
“I’d like to see one of those old designs,” Will said, picking the photo up to get a closer look. “I’ve been looking through the company archives myself, when I get time. It’s really fascinating how innovative the designers got over the years.”
Austin leaned over my shoulder and pointed at the next photo. “A baseball team? There was a Loving Cup baseball team?” The picture did indeed show what looked like a 1950s-era baseball team, all the members wearing shirts that proclaimed them “The Bombers.”
“I didn’t know we had a team,” Will said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised. Every textile mill in the South had all kinds of sports teams. They had regular leagues, and competition was killer. For a small town, a winning mill team was a tremendous point of pride. The whole town would turn out for big games.”
“Miss Nancy found one of these old black and white striped baseball jerseys,” I told Will. “It’s being framed too, but it takes longer because my framer had to build a special shadow box for it.”
“I love this one,” Austin said, tapping the third photo. It showed a lineup of young girls in ball gowns, each with carefully teased bouffant hairdos, elbow-length white gloves, each holding huge rose bouquets. The girl in the middle, who had a blond upsweep, had a tiny tiara balanced on her head, and a sash proclaiming her “Miss Loving Cup, 1968.”
“The bra queen!” Austin exclaimed. “It’s my absolute favorite.”
“I like this one too,” I said. I tapped my finger on the face of the girl on the far end. She was a little taller than the others, but with a regal bearing that was unmistakable, and a thousand-watt smile. “That’s Glo.”
“Your Aunt Gloria?” Will asked. “Let me see that thing.”
He took the photo and studied it carefully. “She was a stunner. Was then. Is now. How come she wasn’t named the bra queen?”
“’Cause her daddy wasn’t assistant manager at the plant,” I said. “It was a very political thing, even then. Gloria said she only entered because the winner got a free trip to New York, and she was dying to go, and my grandfather said no decent girl went by herself to New York City.”
Will kept studying the photo. He pointed to another girl, at the far right. She was younger and taller than the others, and tendrils of curls had escaped from her Aqua Net helmet. She was the only one wearing short, wrist-length gloves. “Why does this girl look familiar to me?” he asked, holding the photo at arm’s length now. “Is this somebody I’ve met locally?”
“I doubt it,” I said, taking the picture and putting it back in the box. “That’s Jeanine Murry. She was fifteen. The youngest girl in the pageant. Gloria was eighteen.”
Austin sucked his breath in. “Your mama! My God, you look exactly like her.”
Will picked the picture up again. “He’s right. You’re the spitting image. Same eyes, same nose.” He took a tendril of hair that had come loose from my ponytail and tucked it behind my ear. “Same hair.”
“Everybody says I’ve got the Murdock nose,” I said, turning away from him.
“She was a stunner,” Will said. “I’ve never heard you talk about your mother. Is she still living?”
“I have no idea,” I said, trying to keep my tone light and even. “She left my daddy and me when I was just a kid.”
“Oh,” Will said. He looked like he’d swallowed a bug.
“It’s not your fault,” I said, taking pity on him. “But come to think of it, I’ve never heard you talk about your family either.”
“What do you want to know?” Will asked. “My father was an engineer too, but chemical engineering. He retired from Procter & Gamble, and he and my mom live down at Hilton Head. He plays golf, she plays tennis and volunteers at the hospice. I’ve got two brothers and a sister too, and four nephews and two nieces. Should I go on?”
“Not necessary,” I said, conceding defeat. “Anyway, as soon as we finish hanging these pictures, we’ll have it wrapped up here.”
“I’ll get out of your way then,” Will said, glad to have an excuse for his retreat. “Just send the bill to the office.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll probably get there before you do,” I said.
“Business that bad?”
“It’s been better,” I said. “Summer’s always our slow time.”
“Especially since the Jernigans have decided to screw Keeley and her aunt to the wall,” Austin piped up.
“Austin,” I said, a warning note in my voice.
“It’s true,” he went on. “And you know it. Ever since you called the wedding off, that family’s done whatever they could to screw you over. They’re trying to run you out of business, is what they’re doing.”
“Will’s not interested in local politics,” I said. “And Gloria and I are doing just fine, thank you.”
“Hope so,” Will said, his hand on the doorknob. “Remember, Keeley, don’t let the ash-holes get you down.”
He was gone, and I turned my full attention to glaring at Austin.
“What?” he said, squirming under the heat of my gaze. “What’s he mean by ash-holes?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Will Mahoney has a very peculiar sense of humor. That’s just his idea of a joke. But you are not off the hook with me, Austin. You had no business telling Will about our problems with the Jernigans. That’s strictly personal. And my relationship with Will is strictly professional. And that’s how I intend to keep it. Okay?”
“Okay,” Austin said. “I’m sorry I mentioned it. But it just makes me so mad. Those people think they rule the earth. I hate to see them pushing you around.”
“They’re not going to push me around anymore,” I said firmly.
He nodded understanding, then picked up the next set of pictures and stood away from the wall. “Now where do these go?”
By three o’clock we’d finished with the installation. I left the Scotch on the kitchen counter, along with a note that said, “Welcome Home.” Then I took Austin on a quick tour of Mulberry Hill.
“He wants it done by when?” Austin asked, when we were back at my car.
“Christmas.” I said. “At first I told him it was impossible. It really was. But I guess I underestimated him. When Will Mahoney sets his mind to something, I think it generally gets done. Look at the house. What he’s accomplished out here already is unbelievable. When he says it’s going to be done, by God, it gets done.”
“Money has that effect,” Austin observed.
“It’s more than just the money. Somehow he’s got all these workers all hyped up about making this house a showplace again. I think they really believe he’ll get the plant up and running again too. And I’ll tell you something. I’m beginning to believe it myself.”
Austin gazed out the window at the wildflower meadow as I threaded the car up the new driveway. “Are you still mad at Austin?” he asked, in a mock timid voice. “Are you friends with Austin again?”
“Friends,” I said with a sigh.
“Best friends?”
“Well, yeah, now. Ever since I crossed Paige off the list.”
“Good,” he said, smiling widely. “I’ve got something I want to tell you. I’ve been waiting for the right time, but I keep getting sidetracked.”
“What’s this about?”
He took a deep breath. “It’s about your mama.”
“Oh hell.”
“It’s just that I love mysteries. Always have. You know, when the other guys on my block were out playing baseball and football, and trying to run each other over with their bikes, I was inside reading Nancy Drew mysteries.”
“Not Hardy Boys?”
He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “The Hardy Boys had no style. Now Nancy…” He sighed. “That roadster coupe. The chic little frocks. And don’t get me started on that Ned Nickerson.”
“Okay. So you had a crush on Nancy Drew’s boyfriend. What’s that got to do with me and my mother?”
He waited. “I’m trying to figure out if this is the best time to talk about this. You’re kind of in a pissy mood today, you know.”
“I am not being pissy,” I said, slapping the Volvo’s dashboard for emphasis.
He rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”
“You started this, now finish it,” I said. “Or I really will get pissed.”
“All right, all right. The other day, when you told me you had no idea where your mother was, I just started thinking. I mean, as I may have mentioned, I know right where my mother is at. And most of the time, she’s standing right on my last nerve cell. Don’t get me wrong. I love the old girl, but she makes me crazy. The thing is, we all need our mothers. And you need yours. Good, bad, or indifferent. Especially now…”
“Now, meaning what?”
“Now that you’ve called off this big wedding. You’re at a crossroads here, Keeley. And with what’s happened with A.J., and your abandonment issues, it just occurred to me, having your mother around could help matters.”
“No.” I said it flatly. “She’s been gone more than twenty years. I appreciate the thought, Austin, but I’m over losing my mother. And I don’t have abandonment issues.”
He rolled his eyes again. “Oh please. Take a look at yourself, girl. You have more issues than the National Geographic.”
We were just passing through the new gates to Mulberry Hill. There was no traffic coming, so I could have pulled onto the county road. Instead I stopped the Volvo, leaned across Austin, and opened his door.
“Out,” I said.
“Keeley!” he protested.
“I mean it,” I said. “I don’t want to hear another word on this subject. You’ll have to hitch a ride back to town with somebody else. Maybe one of the Mexican stone masons can stand to hear you jibber-jabber. You don’t speak Spanish, do you?”
“No I do not,” he said. He closed the door and locked it for effect. “You just don’t want to hear the truth, that’s all. Denial, denial, denial.”
“All right,” I said, turning off the Volvo’s engine. “Let’s get it over with. Right now. Tell me everything you’ve just been itching to tell me. Then I’m gonna haul your ass back to town, and I don’t want to see you or hear from you again for at least the next couple days.”
“Tsk. Tsk. Could you cut the air conditioning back on so I don’t suffocate out here?”
I turned the motor on, but for lack of anything better to do, cut the radio off.
“Okay,” Austin said. “Your mother’s full name was Jeanine Murry Murdock, is that correct?”
I nodded.
“Birthdate 1–31–53?”
“How’d you find that out?”
“Research,” he said airily. “And she and your daddy were married on 11–27–71?”
“Right.”
He bit his lip. “Let me ask you something. When and where do you think your daddy divorced your mama?”
“I don’t know. I guess right after she left us. Daddy never talked about it. I just assumed he went off and got a quiet divorce.”
Austin swung his head back and forth dramatically. “Negative. I could find no record of a divorce between Wade Murdock and Jeanine Murry Murdock in any county in Georgia. So I searched the records in Florida, South Carolina, North Carolina, Tennessee, and Alabama. Every state that touches Georgia. No record of any such divorce.”
I felt a faint buzz in my head. “What’s that mean?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Austin admitted. “Just that as far as I know, and the law’s concerned, your parents are still married.”
“On paper.”
“There’s something else.”
I felt a jab of unexpected pain, right around my rib cage. Why was this so hard? I’d written my mother off years ago. After she’d missed my eighth birthday. After she’d missed Christmas. Middle school graduation. Having my tonsils out. My first date. High school and then college graduation. Each occasion had been another reminder that she was gone, well and truly gone. Never coming back gone. “She’s dead, then.”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I can’t find any death certificate.”
“What did you find?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.
“Mostly dead ends,” he said, his voice full of regret.