The Widow Of Magnolia Lane

At the sound of his name, the room changed. The pink roses on the wallpaper seemed too bright. The perfume of magnolia drifting in from the garden turned thick and sweet.

Vivienne set the glass down. “You’re a remarkably direct man.”

“I’ve had twenty-three years to practice.”

“Then practice somewhere else.”

“I’m in Savannah.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Where?”

“On Magnolia Lane.”

For one moment, she heard nothing but the fan.

Vivienne crossed the room in her silk dress, the telephone cord trailing behind her. She stopped at the window. Below, the white gravel drive curved through the live oaks toward the iron gates. Morning sunlight lay across the lawns. A delivery truck stood near the service entrance, its engine coughing. Evelyn Price would be in the kitchen, scolding somebody over the proper temperature of the coffee. Charlotte had planned to arrive at eleven with a basket of peaches and three questions about a charity luncheon.

The household was visible from the street. That did not mean it was available.

“You have no business being there,” Vivienne said.

“I came to see the house.”

“My house is not a museum.”

“I know what it is.” His voice had lost its smoothness. “My father wrote about it.”

“Richard wrote about everything. Usually incorrectly.”

“Did he write about the night he died?”

Her fingers pressed into the receiver.

“Mr. Whitmore - ”

“Jack.”

“I don’t believe we’re acquainted well enough for that.”

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”

The quiet confidence in those two words unsettled her more than anger would have. Vivienne had spent a lifetime managing men who wanted something from her. They announced themselves with gifts, threats, or flattery. Jack Whitmore had offered none of the three. He had simply placed himself at her gate and waited for her to decide whether fear would bring him inside.

She looked toward the dressing table, where her diamond necklace rested in its velvet box. The necklace had belonged to Richard. He had clasped it around her throat on their fifth anniversary, his fingers cool against her skin.

“You may leave,” she said.

“I could. But then I’d have to come back.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a promise.”

Vivienne smiled, though no one could see it. “You sound very sure of yourself.”

“I’m sure of what I came to find.”

“And what is that?”

“The truth about my father.”

The glass of bourbon stood between them on the table, amber and still.

Vivienne had met Richard when she was thirty-two, a widow already, with one child and a reputation that made people lower their voices. Richard had been older, richer, and clever enough to understand that her beauty was not the most dangerous thing about her. He had married her because he believed he could own every secret she kept.

He had been wrong.

“Come to the house,” she said.

A pause.

“Are you inviting me?”

“I’m giving you one chance to stop frightening my staff by lurking at the gate.”

“I wasn’t trying to frighten anyone.”

“Men rarely are.”

“Should I come now?”

“No. At noon.”

“Why noon?”

“Because I’ll have had lunch by then, and I dislike fainting in front of strangers.”

A low laugh came through the receiver. It was not the laugh of a grieving son. It was warm, surprised, and dangerous in its ease.

Vivienne felt the unexpected pull of it before she could stop herself.

“Your sense of humor is intact,” he said.

“My sense of humor has outlived three husbands.”

“I’ve heard.”

“There’s the Savannah you came looking for.”

“I didn’t come for gossip.”

“You came to my gate with a dead man’s name in your mouth. Gossip is the least of what you brought.”

He was silent again. This time the silence felt less like a weapon and more like consideration.

“At noon,” he said.

Vivienne hung up before he could say anything else.

For several seconds she remained beside the window, the receiver still in her hand. Then she placed it carefully on its cradle.

The door opened without a knock.

Charlotte stepped inside, carrying a straw basket covered with a blue cloth. At thirty-nine, she had her mother’s pale coloring but none of her daring. Her brown hair was pinned neatly at her neck, and her yellow dress was modest enough for church.

“Mama,” she said, “why are you standing there as if someone has died?”

“Someone has.”

Charlotte’s expression tightened.

Vivienne turned from the window. “Not today.”

“Who was it?”

“Richard.”

The basket lowered an inch. “Richard is dead.”

“His son is not.”

Charlotte stared at her.

Vivienne reached for her robe, a cream-colored silk garment hanging over the back of a chair. She slipped it over her shoulders and tied the sash. “A man named Jack Whitmore is coming for lunch.”

“Whitmore?”

“Richard’s son.”

Charlotte’s fingers closed around the basket handle. “I didn’t know Richard had a son.”

“You were six when your father died.”

“He never mentioned one.”

“Richard mentioned very few things that did not serve him.”

“Why is this man here?”

Vivienne went to the mirror and examined her face. Her lipstick had faded at the center. She took up the silver tube and repaired it with two precise strokes.

“He says he has business with me.”

“About what?”

“His father.”

Charlotte set the basket on the dressing table. “Mama, if this concerns money, you should call Evelyn.”

“Evelyn will hear soon enough.”

“You always say that when you don’t want me involved.”

Vivienne met her daughter’s eyes in the mirror. “And you always become involved anyway.”

Charlotte’s mouth tightened. “You make it sound like a fault.”

“It is a talent. Talents are often inconvenient.”

A car door slammed somewhere beyond the house.

Both women turned toward the window.

A dark green Buick had stopped at the curb outside the gates. A man stepped out. Even at a distance, he carried himself with the ease of someone accustomed to being watched. He was tall, broad through the shoulders, and dressed in a pale summer suit. He shut the door and looked up at the mansion.

Not at the windows.

At the house.

Vivienne watched him remove his hat. His hair was dark, touched with silver at the temples. He stood in the heat without moving, as if allowing Magnolia Lane to present its evidence.

“Is that him?” Charlotte whispered.

“Yes.”

“He’s handsome.”

Vivienne glanced at her. “That is not a useful observation.”

“It is an accurate one.”

The bell rang below.

Evelyn’s voice carried faintly up the stairwell. “Mrs. Montgomery?”

Vivienne moved toward the door. “Stay here.”

“Mama - ”

“Charlotte.”

The single word stopped her. Vivienne softened her voice. “I want you out of sight until I know what he intends.”

Charlotte looked toward the hall, then back at her. “You’re afraid.”

The question landed cleanly.

Vivienne lifted her chin. “I’m cautious.”

“You never used to be.”

“No. I used to be seventeen.”

Charlotte frowned, but Vivienne was already leaving.

She descended the broad staircase slowly, one hand resting on the polished banister. The foyer smelled of beeswax, gardenia, and the faint tobacco smoke that clung to the curtains from last night’s guests. Evelyn Price stood beside the open front door, a compact woman in a gray dress, her expression sharpened by years of protecting Vivienne from callers, creditors, and curious neighbors.

Jack waited outside.

Up close, he was more arresting than he had been from the window. His face was lean and composed, his eyes a clear, watchful gray. There was no resemblance to Richard around the mouth, but the eyes were unmistakable. Richard’s eyes had always seemed to measure a room. Jack’s measured the person standing in it.

“Mr. Whitmore,” Vivienne said.

“Mrs. Montgomery.”

His attention moved over her - not crudely, but fully. He noticed the silk dress, the diamond necklace she had fastened around her throat, the heels that made her appear taller. She saw the moment he understood that the rumors had not exaggerated her wealth or her refusal to hide it.

She also saw him decide not to be impressed.

That interested her.

“Come in,” she said.

Jack crossed the threshold. Evelyn closed the door behind him.

For a brief moment, he stood beneath the chandelier, surrounded by marble, gilt frames, and the cool scent of the house. He looked neither intimidated nor comfortable.

“You’ve made yourself at home,” Vivienne said.

“I’ve been in Atlanta all morning.”

“Then you have not made yourself at home. You have made yourself late.”

His mouth curved. “I was told Savannah women appreciated a man who arrived with a reason.”

“Savannah women appreciate a man who arrives with flowers.”

“I didn’t know whether you’d accept them.”

“Flowers die.”

“So do men.”

The smile vanished between them.

Evelyn’s hand tightened around the door latch.

Vivienne did not look away from Jack. “We’ll have lunch in the blue room.”

“I’d rather see Richard’s study.”

“No.”

He glanced toward the hallway. “Why not?”

“Because I said no.”

“Was it left as he kept it?”

“Richard kept nothing. He collected things and expected other people to remember where he had put them.”

Jack’s gaze returned to her. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“I’m avoiding your question. There is a difference.”

He stepped closer, close enough that she caught the scent of cedar and hot pavement on his clothes. His presence altered the temperature between them. Vivienne had spent years surrounded by men who leaned toward her because they wanted to be admired. Jack leaned toward her because he wanted an answer.

It was an unfamiliar kind of attention.

“You knew my father was afraid,” he said.

Vivienne’s fingers touched the diamond at her throat. “Richard was afraid of very little.”

“He was afraid of you.”

“No.”

“You were the last person with him before he died.”

“Your father died in his study. His doctor was there.”

“His doctor signed a statement saying he believed it was a heart attack.”

“It was.”

“Then why did Richard leave a letter saying you would never let him speak?”

The foyer seemed to contract around them.

Vivienne’s hand fell from the necklace.

“What letter?”

Jack watched her closely. “You don’t know?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t ask.”

“Perhaps you’re better at lying than I am at reading faces.”

“Perhaps you came to Savannah with a conclusion and intend to force every fact into it.”

His jaw tightened. The resemblance to Richard disappeared. This anger belonged to Jack alone.

“I came because my father died with your name on his desk.”

“His name was on many desks.”

“And because three wealthy men married you, died under suspicious circumstances, and left you richer.”

Evelyn made a small, shocked sound.

Vivienne felt the old Savannah whisper rise around her - the Black Widow of Magnolia Lane, the woman who had buried husbands and collected fortunes. Usually the rumor amused her. In Jack’s mouth, it became an accusation with a pulse.

“You should be careful,” she said.

“About what?”

“About mistaking an inheritance for proof.”

“Did you kill him?”

There it was.

The question entered the room without raising its voice.

Vivienne looked at Jack’s face and saw the grief beneath the suspicion. He had come prepared to hate her. That was easier than mourning. Easier than admitting that a father could die and leave behind more questions than love.

She understood that kind of survival.

“No,” she said.

The answer came quietly, but it cost her.

Jack searched her expression. “You expect me to believe that?”

“I expect nothing from you.”

“Then why invite me inside?”

Vivienne looked past him, toward the staircase where Charlotte waited unseen. She thought of Richard’s hands, his promises, the locked room in 1941, and the long years in which she had turned every man’s confidence against him. She had believed herself finished with the past.

Jack had brought it to her front door wearing a summer suit.

“Because,” she said, “if you mean to accuse me, you will do it where I can see your face.”

Something shifted in his expression. Not trust. Not forgiveness.

Interest.

He held her gaze. “I’ll come back at noon tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“You need time to decide whether you’ll show me the study.”

“I’ve already decided.”

“And?”

“You may come back.”

“That sounds almost like an invitation.”

“It is a warning.”

His smile returned, smaller this time. “I’ll try to tell the difference.”

Jack turned toward the door, but Vivienne stopped him.

“Your father did not leave a letter on my desk.”

“No?”

“No. And if you have one, bring it tomorrow.”

He looked over his shoulder. “You want to see it?”

“I want to know what you think you know.”

“That’s not the same as wanting the truth.”

Vivienne felt the necklace cool against her skin.

“No,” she said. “It isn’t.”

He left without offering his hand. Through the glass beside the door, she watched him cross the drive and return to the Buick. Only when the car disappeared beyond the gates did she realize she had been holding her breath.

Evelyn came to stand beside her.

“Should I ask Charlotte to leave?”

“No.”

“Should I call your attorney?”

“Not yet.”

Evelyn studied her. “He believes you killed Richard.”

Vivienne looked at the bright garden, at the magnolia leaves trembling in the heat.

“Yes.”

“And did you?”

The question was not frightened. Evelyn had been with her too long for fear to survive between them.

Vivienne touched the diamond necklace.

“Not in the way he means.”

Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. Charlotte was listening.

Vivienne turned toward the staircase. The house, which had always belonged to her, no longer felt private. Jack had crossed its threshold, spoken Richard’s name, and left a question behind him.

Tomorrow, she would let him into the study.

But she would not let him near the locked drawer beneath the window.

End of chapter one. 11 more chapters in the full book.