“Yes, I’ll be right there!”
She heads for the kitchen. It runs the width of the house, with beamed ceilings, whitewashed walls, and tall windows overlooking Honeybee’s spot-lit perennial gardens and the wooden arbor with its barren wisteria vine.
Plump, apron-clad Raelene bustles from the Frigidaire to the sink and back again. Wisps of gray hair escape her bun, and her fair, freckled complexion is flushed with exertion.
Raelene has been with the Abernathy family since Melody’s parents were newlyweds—born into the position, she likes to say. Her own mother had worked for the Beauregard family for decades, and Raelene and Honeybee are the same age—childhood playmates turned employer and employee. Honeybee often comments by way of praise that Raelene knows her place. Yet she understands Honeybee perhaps better than Melody and her father do.
She flashes a warm smile. “Evenin’, Mrs. Hunter.”
“I hate it when you call me Mrs. Hunter, Raelene. That’s my miserable mother-in-law’s name, and I—”
“Oh, hush, now! You’ll get used to bein’ a Mrs. just like the rest of us.”
Melody sighs. Maybe if her husband were a wonderful man like Raelene’s Elmer. They’d married young, raised four children and now have more than a dozen grandchildren. They’d waltzed like young lovers at her wedding last February. At the time, Melody had fancied that she and Travis would be the same way, still head over heels thirty, forty years into the future.
“You’d best get to the table so that I can serve up the supper,” Raelene tells her. “Your Mama’s been frettin’.”
“Why? Who’s joining us, Princess Margaret and Lord Snowdon?”
“I guess they’d be a lot more down-to-earth than . . .”
“Than who?”
Raelene shakes her head, lips sealed.
Melody heads for the dining room and stops just outside the door, eavesdropping. Andy Williams is singing “Charade” and her mother is going on about the weekend trip.
“And then Wayne and Donna showed us some land where Walt Disney’s going to build a new theme park, and—”
“In Orlando?” a familiar female voice asks.
“Isn’t Walt Disney dead?” a familiar male chimes in.
No. Oh, no. Mother, what have you done?
“He passed away a year or two ago,” Melody’s father is saying. “I’ll tell you what, there’s nothing on that land but grass and cows right now, but Wayne said it’s going to be bigger and better than Disneyland.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it. We were out in California with Travis when Disneyland opened back in ’55. A hundred degrees in Anaheim. Miserable. Just miserable.”
“Melody! My goodness, where are you?” Honeybee calls as though she’s miles away, and tells the guests, “I’m so sorry, I’m sure she’ll be—”
“I’m right here.” She plunges into the wallpapered, candlelit room like a child who can barely swim stepping off the high-dive.
The oval table is set with bone china, silver, and crystal. Her father is at the head, her father-in-law at the foot, her mother and mother-in-law seated opposite each other. All four are smoking cigarettes and drinking gimlets. Both women are attractive blondes and wearing green. But Honeybee’s sprayed bouffant, pastel mint cashmere sweater and pearls look dated beside the other woman’s smooth coif and citron geometric-patterned shift accessorized with a chunky Bakelite pendant.
“Look who’s here, Melody!” Honeybee’s smile is strained, her tone too bright. “I thought it would be a nice surprise for you. I know you’re missing Travis and so worried.”
“We all are,” his mother says.
“How nice to see you,” Melody manages. “I was wondering who was . . . um, did you get a new car?”
Her father-in-law nods. “Just a few days ago. A beaut, isn’t she?”
So sneaky of them. She would never have come inside had she realized they were here.
“Sit right down, sugar. Supper’s been ready for a while.” Honeybee points to the vacant chair and place setting between Travis’s parents—her designated spot, as if she’s one of them. “Raelene? You can serve now!”
As Melody moves toward her place, the baby kicks sharply in protest. She gasps and presses a hand to her belly. One of the buttons across her midsection has popped right off. Looking up, she sees her parents and her in-laws gawking at the telltale gap.
Her mother claps her hands and jumps to her feet. “Melody! You’re expecting!”
“I’m . . .” She shakes her head, helpless. There’s no denying it.
“Well, I declare! Isn’t this the most magnificent news ever?” Honeybee embraces her, beaming. “Wait until I see that rascal Doc Krebbs. I was in for my checkup just last week, and he never said a word. When are you due?”
“April. April . . . 4.”
“Why, that’s Travis’s birthday!” His mother smiles at Melody for the first time in . . .
Ever, she realizes. That same crazy, irrational part of her is pleased, as if she’s an ordinary daughter-in-law seeking approval from the mother of the man she loves. As if the baby inside of her is a part of him. As if everyone in this room is one big happy family.
“Now, can all y’all think of a more divine birthday gift for Travis than becoming a daddy?” Honeybee crows.
“Sit down, poppet. You look a little pale.” Her father pulls out her chair and gives her shoulder a squeeze when she lowers herself into it.
“You do look pale, dear. Too much excitement. Relax. Here, calm your nerves.” Honeybee thrusts her gold-plated cigarette case and lighter into her daughter’s hands, and calls into the kitchen, “Raelene? Can you please bring a gimlet for Melody?”
“I’ll have another myself,” Travis’s father says. He isn’t smiling, but he doesn’t look quite as stern as usual.
“Another round, Raelene!” Honeybee calls. “We must toast this marvelous news. If only Travis was here. I’m sure he was just tickled when you wrote to tell him, Melody.”
She says nothing, and feels her mother-in-law’s gaze.
“Melody?” Doris asks, a freshly lit Pall Mall poised in its opera-length silver holder against her pursed red lips. “You did tell him?”
“Not yet,” she says. “I wanted to . . . be sure.”
“Sure? Bless your heart. Your due date is two months away! How much more sure do you think you’re going to be?” Honeybee pats her shoulder and offers Doris a bemused mother-to-mother smile.
Doris doesn’t return it, focused on Melody. “Don’t you think you should have told my son before you went around telling the rest of the world?”
Ah, there’s the disapproving mother-in-law.
Melody glares right back at her, not in the mood to play nice with the woman who spawned the likes of Travis Hunter.
“Raelene?” Honeybee shouts, before she can reply. “The gimlets!”
“Coming, Mrs. Abernathy!”
“I’m sure Melody hasn’t gone around telling anyone,” her father says firmly. “Have you, poppet.”
It isn’t a question. Nor is her response a lie.