“Out in the garden by now, I’d guess,” Lorna replied. “Don’t worry—she didn’t see your visitor. I made sure of it. Even if you don’t care.”
Val slid on her shoes and went to stand at the east-facing window in the bedroom, where her mother’s herb garden had just been installed behind a row of overgrown, flowering bushes that bloomed blood-red the day Mama Fee had arrived in Georgia to help her daughter bury the dead.
Val locked eyes on her mother’s bare knees in the cool, fall dirt. Everything she’d planted was just sprouting out now and Val knew Mama Fee was out there, singing to the baby leaves that would never make it into a pot of anything they’d eat. These weren’t those kinds of herbs. These herbs would be plucked and stashed in cloudy glass jars in Mama Fee’s room. They’d come out again, bunched together in ribbon and rope to be burned or drenched in oil with instructions to be tucked behind something or buried beneath it, hung over it. Possibly for tea.
“You’re gonna have everybody calling you a witch if they see you out here singing,” Val said to her mother’s back once she’d made it outside to the garden.
“Maybe I am a witch,” Mama Fee said soberly into the dirt. She turned and squinted up at Val, looking all aglow between the sun and the bloody bushes. “And maybe you’re a witch too.”
“Maybe,” Val confirmed flatly. “Perhaps if you can change that w to a b, then you probably have me.”
Mama Fee didn’t laugh at the joke with Val. It was too true to be funny. This was her third and last baby girl. The one who thought she never needed her mother, but who always did. Seemed Val had been hell-bent on being a bitch since she came kicking out of the womb. She wanted everything on her own terms and obviously thought that being a bitch was the best way to go about it.
Mama Fee snatched off the face of a new, blooming lavender Morning Glory and held it up to her daughter. “Put this in your pocket.”
Val sighed and waved off the gesture. She knew Mama Fee had already started drying the roots of that flower and had been grinding it into a fine powder and stashing it in corners all around the house.
“I won’t be needing John the Conqueror’s luck where I’m going,” Val said, sliding on her Chanel frames.
“It ain’t just for luck, girl. It’s for protection too.”
“I won’t be needing that, neither.” Val turned to head to the front of the house, where the car Jamison had bought her was waiting in the circular drive. A too-thin stray cat nearly knocked her over trying to get to Mama Fee’s side. Val hissed and kicked at the cat. She knew Mama Fee had been feeding the thing but Val refused to let it into the house. “And get out of the dirt. You’re not in Tennessee anymore, Mama Fee. We have people who can tend to our gardens here.”
It might have been wise for Val to have accepted that blooming head from her mother in the garden. While she was correct that they were far from the voodoo conjuring women and their tricks practiced at St. Peter’s Spiritual Temple in Memphis, protection and a little luck were certainly needed to navigate the new political landscape in Atlanta, where politics as usual now meant scandal, murder, and a quick cover-up.
Driving into Atlanta that morning after refusing the aid of John the Conqueror’s bloom, Val was preparing to cover up a murdered politician’s scandal. Ironically, she’d once been in the same shoes as the woman who was waiting for her in a back booth at the Buckhead Diner. But that was when she was trying to get everything she had. Now she just wanted to protect it.
“So, you’re Coreen,” she said, sliding into a booth across from a petite, light-skinned woman with a fiery red bob that swooped over her right eye.
Coreen hardly smiled as a response.
Neither woman held out her hand for salutations. They’d slept with the same man years apart, but still there was envy simmering between them. One had the baby. The other had the ring. Neither had the man.
“Do you have my money?” Coreen asked tightly.
“Well, let’s order some drinks, a little food, before we get down to business,” Val said, beckoning the waiter over to the table with a dubious smile Coreen could easily read.
Coreen had seen so many pictures of Val on the Internet. At first, she was standing beside Jamison at the podium after he’d won the election. Val was smiling in her red business suit with the high split, trying hard to look like she was just there supporting her boss, but Coreen could tell there was something there. Something Jamison had to see in her. Her complexion was a milky tawny, just a few shades darker than Coreen’s, and she had a hard body wired into the perfect figure of an S. She looked like the kind of woman a man would brag about sleeping with. The kind a man couldn’t resist. Her assumptions proved correct just months later, when she learned on a gossip Web site that Jamison had married his assistant and was expecting a child. His second child. But Coreen knew better right then. It would be his third.
Coreen sat silent, eyeing Val’s real diamond earrings and Oyster Collection Rolex watch as she ordered a cotton-candy martini and fruit salad. It wasn’t even noon yet.
“So . . .” Val batted her eyes at Coreen, like she was a man who’d asked her out on a date, and grinned. “Remind me of why we’re here. You know, my schedule is so crazy these days.”
“Please stop. You know exactly why we’re here and what I want,” Coreen snapped. “I’m here for my money. The ten thousand dollars Jamison would owe me for this month, the fifty K for the last few months, plus the two he missed before he died. You said you’d have my money.”
“No.
I said I’d look into having your money,” Val snapped back, correcting Coreen as the waiter dropped off the drink and fruit tray. “Besides, I can’t possibly have money ready for a child my dead husband never claimed. How do I know how much he was giving you? What you all agreed on?”
Actually, Val was lying. Before he’d died, Jamison told Val all about Coreen and the little boy. Well, she figured it out the old-fashioned way—snooping—and then he’d told her. Jamison admitted that he’d produced a little boy with the mistress he’d run off to California to be with after Kerry found out about their affair. After he’d left Coreen high and dry on the West Coast when Kerry decided to take him back, Coreen kept the child a secret, planned to raise the boy on her own. But then Jamison’s name ended up in the news and . . . well . . . Coreen couldn’t resist coming for what she felt was rightfully hers—or her son’s. A part of Jamison’s growing fortune.
“Jamison loved his son,” Coreen said. “He wasn’t the best father, but he knew Jamison Jr. was his. He accepted him.” Coreen’s voice faded thin as her statement was clearly meant for her own ears and Val had long blocked her out. But Coreen really needed to hear herself say that to someone other than herself. She hadn’t expected her relationship with Jamison to produce anything. She learned early on after his mother introduced them that Jamison had a pregnant wife at home. She tried to push away from him, to move on, but when he’d come into her life she was splintered wide open from an old thorn in her heart. Her husband had died. She wanted a new start, a new love, and while she knew inside Jamison couldn’t be it, one answered e-mail led to another answered e-mail, and then so went the story. His hands were big enough to hold her. His words were healing. His promises were just endless. And then he left. And then she realized she was pregnant.
“What was he like with him?” Val let out after her third sip of cotton candy–flavored vodka. She was still trying to sound detached and tough, but she had her own needs lingering in her voice.
“Patient. Funny.” Coreen looked away distantly and spoke with detachment. “They were always in their own little world when Jamison came to L.A. to see him. He’d just take Jamison Jr. and they’d go into their space.”
Val felt a little flutter in her stomach and pushed the fruit tray away from her. She took another sip of the martini, though.