"Ravenously. Oh, I can't wait for your party," she said to me.
"I'll tell Julius to bring your things to the house," Mommy said. "You'll be staying there . . . in Fern's room," she added.
"Isn't she coming home from college for this?" Aunt Trisha asked, her eyes wide with surprise.
"Yes, but she agreed to stay at the hotel," Mom-my said. The look between Aunt Trisha and Mommy explained it all—how glad Mommy was that Aunt Fern was staying at the hotel instead of the house, how there had been new problems, problems my parents tried to discuss privately. But the walls have ears and both Jefferson and I knew Aunt Fern had gotten into some serious trouble at college again recently.
"Come," Mommy said. "I'll take you to the kitchen for something special. You know how Nussbaum likes to fuss over you. And we'll catch up."
"Okay. Christie, I have the show programs in my suitcase."
"Oh thank you, Aunt Trisha." I kissed her again and she and Mommy went off to the kitchen, the two of them talking a mile a minute, neither waiting for the other to finish a sentence.
The rest of the day moved far too slowly for me. Of course, I was anticipating Gavin's arrival and hovered about the front of the hotel as much as I could. Finally, late in the afternoon, a taxicab from the airport arrived. I rushed out and down the steps hoping it was Granddaddy Longchamp, Edwina and Gavin, but Aunt Fern stepped out instead.
She wore a pair of old jeans and a faded sweat-shirt. Since I had seen her last, she had chopped her hair off, her beautiful, long silky black hair that Daddy said reminded him so much of his mother's hair. My heart sank, knowing how disappointed he was going to be.
Aunt Fern was tall, almost as tall as Daddy, and had a model's figure—long legs and slim torso. Despite the terrible things she did to herself: smoking everything from cigarettes to tiny cigars, drinking and carousing into the early morning hours, she had a remarkably clear and soft complexion. She had Daddy's dark eyes, only hers were smaller, narrower, and at times, downright sneaky. I hated the way she pulled her upper lip up in the corner when something annoyed her.
"Take the bag inside," she commanded the driver when he lifted it from the trunk. Then she saw me.
"Well, if it isn't the princess herself. Happy sweet sixteen," she said and took a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket. Her pants were so tight fitting, I couldn't imagine any room for anything in the pockets. She stuck a cigarette in her mouth quickly and lit it as she looked at the hotel. "Every time I come back here, my body tightens into knots," she muttered.
"Hi Aunt Fern," I finally said. She flashed a quick smile.
"Where the hell's everybody? In their offices?" she added sarcastically.
"Mommy's with Aunt Trisha at the house and Daddy's in the back working on the grounds."
"Aunt Trisha," she said disdainfully. "Has she taken a breath yet?"
"I like Aunt Trisha very much," I said.
"First off, she's not really your aunt so I don't know why you insist on calling her that, and second, good for you." She paused, took a puff, blew the smoke straight up, and then gazed at me. "Guess what I got for you for your birthday," she said, smiling coyly.
"I can't imagine," I said.
"I'll give it to you later, but you can't show it to your mother or tell her I gave it to you. Promise?"
"What is it?" I asked, intrigued.
"A copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover. It's about time you found out what it's all about," she added. "Well, here I go. Home again," she said and marched up the stairs and into the hotel.
A ripple of apprehension shot down my spine. I hadn't spoken to her for more than a few minutes, but already my heart was pounding in anticipation of what was yet to come. Aunt Fern was like unexpected lightning and thunder shaking the very foundations of any happiness. I looked out toward the ocean. The clouds were still thick, still rolling in with fervor, determined to hold back the sunshine. I bowed my head and started up the stairs when I heard the sound of a horn and turned to see another taxi approaching.
A hand was waving from the rear window, and then I saw a face.
It was Gavin, his wonderful smile driving the emptiness out of the pit of my stomach and bringing the hope of sunshine back as quickly as it had been driven away.
2
AND NEVER BEEN . . .
GAVIN STEPPED OUT OF THE TAXI QUICKLY, BUT paused. I wanted to run to him and hug him, but I knew that would turn his face bright crimson and send him stuttering with embarrassment if I did any such thing, especially in front of his mother and father. I called his father Granddaddy Longchamp because he was Daddy's father. He was a tall, lean man with deeply cut lines in his face. His dark brown hair had thinned considerably, but he still wore it brushed back on the sides and flat on top. More and more gray had snuck in since I had last seen him, especially along his temples. His lanky frame, long arms and hands, and often sad eyes made me think of Abraham Lincoln.
Gavin's mother, Edwina, was a very sweet and warm woman who spoke softly and seemed always terribly in awe of the hotel and the family. Aunt Fern never hesitated to remind her in whatever ways she could that she was only her stepmother, this despite the friendliness and love Edwina tried to show her. In his letters and whenever we were together, Gavin often told me about the mean things Aunt Fern had said or done to his mother.
"She's my half-sister," he told me, "but I'd much rather she wasn't."