Karen Young - Belle Pointe

“So, how long do you intend to be here in Tallulah? Naturally, we’d like to have you over for dinner and soon.”

“Thank you,” Anne said. “In fact, I was just thinking today that I’d call and find a convenient time to visit. I’ve hardly done anything but putter around Beatrice’s house. She and Dad have been very gracious in just giving me the run of the place.”

“It’s been our gain,” Beatrice spoke up. “In just two days, Anne’s got everything in the house spic and span. Next, I expect her to start doing yard work.”

“That sounds as if you might be bored,” Victoria said, still studying Anne’s face keenly. “If so, there’s plenty to do at Belle Pointe.”

Anne smiled. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about farming cotton.”

“And I wouldn’t expect you to. I meant there were other diversions. You’ve never spent much time with us and Belle Pointe has an interesting history.”

“I’ve always thought so. I’d love to know more.”

“Well, now’s a good time, wouldn’t you say? I’ll check with Pearce and Claire about their calendars and we’ll fix it. Now, I should be on my way.” With a nod, Victoria headed toward the door. Just short of her destination, she paused and turned back. “By the way, with Pearce’s campaign in full swing, as he must have mentioned, it occurs to me you’d be an asset. I’ll have Pearce call to see how best to use you.” With a tinkle of the tiny bell, she was gone.

Anne met Beatrice’s amused eyes. “Use me?”

Beatrice laughed. “I’m sure she didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

Anne sighed. “That woman scares me to death and has from day one. I feel as if I’m back in the fourth grade and I’ve failed to turn in my homework.”

“She has presence all right,” Beatrice said. “But rest easy, you were very gracious and respectful. Which is as it should be.” She watched Anne pick up a platter from one artist’s display. “Maybe it would help to remember that Victoria hasn’t always been the chatelaine of Belle Pointe. She wasn’t born a Whitaker, you know. She married into the family.”

“I know that, of course, but it’s hard to imagine her as anything except the quintessential Southern matriarch.”

“Which is exactly how she wishes to be perceived.” Beatrice moved a beautifully glazed bowl to a different position. “However, in high school, she was Vickie Hinton.”

“Vickie?” Anne gave Beatrice an astonished look. It was hard to visualize Victoria Whitaker as a schoolgirl, let alone being called Vickie.

“Yes, Vickie. Before she married John Whitaker, her father worked for the Whitakers. Benny Hinton was a master mechanic and since farming at Belle Pointe is highly mechanized, his job was important. Still, he was hired help. In fact, he died in an accident while on the job and Victoria’s widowed mother moved somewhere up north, I believe.”

“That is so amazing. It explains why Buck’s memories of his maternal grandparents are pretty vague.”

Beatrice studied her thoughtfully. “The Whitakers figure prominently in Tallulah history, which is the reason I’ve suggested you might want to drop in at the Spectator and poke around a bit in the archives.” She paused, tweaking a quilt displayed on the wall. “If, as Victoria suggested, you’re a bit bored, I’ll bet that once you start digging, you won’t be bored for long.”

Anne wondered at Beatrice’s prediction as she surveyed the newsroom at the Spectator a while later, finding it as calm and quiet as a doctor’s office. The level of activity was nothing like the frenetic energy that characterized the news-rooms in a daily newspaper or a television station and, from her observation, unlikely to relieve anybody’s boredom. On the other hand, one reason Franklin gave for leaving his job in Boston was his desire to work under less pressure. He’d certainly managed that.

His face brightened when he looked up and saw her. “Anne!” He rose from his computer and motioned her inside. “Bea called and told me you were headed this way.”

“Don’t let me interrupt whatever you’re doing, Dad. I’ll just look around and get acquainted until you’re free to talk.”

“You aren’t interrupting anything and I mean that literally.” He looked at the screen of his monitor with disgust. “I’ve spent the afternoon trying to write next week’s editorial. So far, I’ve deleted almost everything I’ve written.”

He waved at a chair. “Bea suggested you might want to look at the Spectator archives. Curious about the Whitakers, are you?”

“The Whitakers and other Tallulah history. The Mississippi Delta is a very unique place. Maybe I’ll write a book.”

Franklin looked delighted. “Good idea. And I think you’ll find the Whitakers figuring pretty prominently in your research.”

“I was kidding, Dad.” Unwilling to interrupt him, she lingered at the door. “Actually, I was thinking that since there’s a political campaign going on I might do something with that. I ran into Pearce as I was pumping gas and he gave me the idea himself. Of course, he suggested an article favorable to him, but I thought it would be interesting to put Pearce and his opponent in the same article, showing the contrasts in their platforms.”

“Good idea. I’ll schedule it for next week’s edition.”

She gave a small laugh. “Just like that? What if it doesn’t meet your standards?”

“Then I’ll act like an editor and demand revisions,” he said.

“Gosh, you make it sound like I have a real job.” But she was smiling. Just the idea of working again and her adrenaline was flowing. “By the way, who is Pearce’s opponent?”

“Jack Breedlove, the current chief of police and a hometown boy who returned to Tallulah after a stretch in the army. He was discharged after an injury in the Gulf War. He’s about the same age as Buck, so I bet he could give you a few insights into Jack’s character.” He gave her a sly look. “Of course, you’d have to call Buck to pursue that source for your research.”

“Give it a rest, Dad,” she told him. “I think I can research the article without Buck, who probably hasn’t seen Jack Breedlove since they both graduated from high school.”

Franklin, still smiling, shrugged. “Just a suggestion, Annie.”

“Okay, now I’m really fired up.” She gave two quick taps to the door frame and stepped back, ready to begin. “Just point me in the right direction and I’ll get started.” Without turning, she backed into a person hovering in the doorway. “Oh, excuse me! I didn’t know there was someone there. Did I step on you?”

“No.” The reply was terse, almost rude.

“You remember Paige, don’t you, Anne?” Franklin asked.

“Of course.” Somewhere beneath a mass of coal-black hair tipped with neon orange, Anne recognized the youthful and vaguely familiar face of Buck’s teenage niece. She had missed seeing Paige at Franklin and Beatrice’s wedding. The teenager had been away on a skiing trip to Colorado. “How are you, Paige?”

Appearing utterly bored, the girl turned, exposing an ear pierced with no fewer than six tiny silver rings. “I’m okay.”

In light of her bizarre appearance, okay was not the word that came to mind, Anne thought. Paige’s eyes were outlined in dark mascara, which matched the hideous purple on her lips and nails. Slim to near anorexic, she looked even more wraithlike in a long, straight black coat and boots, which appeared to be at least one size too large and more suitable for combat duty in a war zone than for the rigors of middle school.

“You’ve grown since I was here last,” Anne said faintly, hoping her reaction wasn’t revealed on her face.