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Authors: Tanya Anne Crosby
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show and certainly not long enough to feel sorry for herself. No, Florence W. Aldridge had led a full life . . . it just so happened that it didn’t include her daughters. And if she ever slowed down for five minutes, and feelings crept in, she’d medicate them with alcohol or drugs.
Unfortunately, that was the Florence Aldridge that Augusta recalled.
“Have you started writing your new book?” Augusta asked Savannah.
Savannah opened her eyes and shook her head. Taking the last swallow of her wine, she leaned forward to set her goblet down on the table, then snuggled deeper into the sofa, pulling their grandmother’s quilt down off the back of the couch.
She was facing away from the TV now, which gave Augusta a bit of relief. The banner at the bottom seemed to permanently read: Ian Patterson Free on Bail.
“Maybe once I get this cast off,” Savannah said, lifting her arm and inspecting the frayed edges around her fingers.
Augusta was trying hard not to be distracted by the newscast. “When will that be?”
“Next week—thank God!”
“I’m really sorry about the hand, Sav.”
“Augie, you need to stop apologizing. You elbowed me. I dropped the bacon. Tango went after it. He tipped my stool. Accidents happen. I’m over it.”
Augusta sighed. “So why do you think Mom left you with that particular task anyway?”
“Writing a new book?” Savannah shrugged. “Who knows.” She met Augusta’s gaze squarely, looking much as though she wanted to say something, but then she hesitated and said, “It’s not as easy as it seems, you know.”
Augusta knew she was referring to the comment she had flung at Savannah in anger—that her task was a no-brainer and that it wasn’t fair—but she couldn’t apologize for believing Flo was playing favorites. Augusta still believed it was true. Savannah’s task had absolutely nothing to do with the house or the newspaper. In fact, their mother was asking Savannah to do exactly what she had chosen to do with her life. There seemed to be nothing punishing about that. In contrast, neither Caroline nor Augusta had wanted anything to do with the Tribune or the house. The fact that Caroline suddenly seemed to embrace her role at the paper was beside the point. Augusta couldn’t get past the feeling that, in fact, Flo had meant to teach both of them a lesson . . . or reel them in at the very least.
Helpless to ignore it, she returned her gaze to the television, watching as Sandra Rivers paused in front of the darkened entry of the little broken-down church, her white-tipped nails perfectly manicured. Looking more like Marilyn Monroe than a news reporter, she gripped the microphone with slender fingers. Augusta could almost hear her break out in a breathy strain of “Happy birthday, Mr. President.” Bright yellow tape stretched across the church door, barring humanity from its shadowy interior. The broken window behind her was a dramatic backdrop, and her blond hair was perfectly in place. If she had sweat glands, they clearly weren’t working.
“That woman makes me ill,” Caroline said, walking into the room.
Tango, their mother’s black lab, who seemed to have taken to Caroline more than anyone else, had probably been waiting for her by the front door. He sauntered in behind her, his collar jingling as he walked.
Savannah sat up. “You’re home!” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in. Are you hungry?”
Caroline shook her head, dropping her purse on the French marble-topped console their mother would have cut off their fingers for touching. She chose a seat on the end of Savannah’s couch and Savannah pulled back her legs to give her room. Tango sat on the floor at Caroline’s feet. “Rose Simmons died tonight,” she said solemnly, and then reached down to stroke the top of Tango’s head.
“We heard,” Augusta said, glancing anxiously at the television screen. She reached forward to pick up the remote, switching the TV off.
Savannah’s feet
Unfortunately, that was the Florence Aldridge that Augusta recalled.
“Have you started writing your new book?” Augusta asked Savannah.
Savannah opened her eyes and shook her head. Taking the last swallow of her wine, she leaned forward to set her goblet down on the table, then snuggled deeper into the sofa, pulling their grandmother’s quilt down off the back of the couch.
She was facing away from the TV now, which gave Augusta a bit of relief. The banner at the bottom seemed to permanently read: Ian Patterson Free on Bail.
“Maybe once I get this cast off,” Savannah said, lifting her arm and inspecting the frayed edges around her fingers.
Augusta was trying hard not to be distracted by the newscast. “When will that be?”
“Next week—thank God!”
“I’m really sorry about the hand, Sav.”
“Augie, you need to stop apologizing. You elbowed me. I dropped the bacon. Tango went after it. He tipped my stool. Accidents happen. I’m over it.”
Augusta sighed. “So why do you think Mom left you with that particular task anyway?”
“Writing a new book?” Savannah shrugged. “Who knows.” She met Augusta’s gaze squarely, looking much as though she wanted to say something, but then she hesitated and said, “It’s not as easy as it seems, you know.”
Augusta knew she was referring to the comment she had flung at Savannah in anger—that her task was a no-brainer and that it wasn’t fair—but she couldn’t apologize for believing Flo was playing favorites. Augusta still believed it was true. Savannah’s task had absolutely nothing to do with the house or the newspaper. In fact, their mother was asking Savannah to do exactly what she had chosen to do with her life. There seemed to be nothing punishing about that. In contrast, neither Caroline nor Augusta had wanted anything to do with the Tribune or the house. The fact that Caroline suddenly seemed to embrace her role at the paper was beside the point. Augusta couldn’t get past the feeling that, in fact, Flo had meant to teach both of them a lesson . . . or reel them in at the very least.
Helpless to ignore it, she returned her gaze to the television, watching as Sandra Rivers paused in front of the darkened entry of the little broken-down church, her white-tipped nails perfectly manicured. Looking more like Marilyn Monroe than a news reporter, she gripped the microphone with slender fingers. Augusta could almost hear her break out in a breathy strain of “Happy birthday, Mr. President.” Bright yellow tape stretched across the church door, barring humanity from its shadowy interior. The broken window behind her was a dramatic backdrop, and her blond hair was perfectly in place. If she had sweat glands, they clearly weren’t working.
“That woman makes me ill,” Caroline said, walking into the room.
Tango, their mother’s black lab, who seemed to have taken to Caroline more than anyone else, had probably been waiting for her by the front door. He sauntered in behind her, his collar jingling as he walked.
Savannah sat up. “You’re home!” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in. Are you hungry?”
Caroline shook her head, dropping her purse on the French marble-topped console their mother would have cut off their fingers for touching. She chose a seat on the end of Savannah’s couch and Savannah pulled back her legs to give her room. Tango sat on the floor at Caroline’s feet. “Rose Simmons died tonight,” she said solemnly, and then reached down to stroke the top of Tango’s head.
“We heard,” Augusta said, glancing anxiously at the television screen. She reached forward to pick up the remote, switching the TV off.
Savannah’s feet
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