Catherine Coulter: The Cove

"Careful of leaning on that end of the table, Sally. Purn Davies wanted to fix it for me, but I wouldn't let him." She knew Sally wasn't hearing her, but it didn't matter, Amabel was just making noise until Sally got some of that brandy in her belly.

"This tea's something else, Amabel. Strange, but good." She took another drink, then another. She felt warmth pooling in her stomach. She realized she hadn't felt this warm in more than five days.

“You might as well tell me now, Sally. You came here so you could protect your mama, didn't you, baby?"

Sally took another big drink of the tea. What could she say? She said nothing.

"Did your mama kill your papa?" Sally set down her cup and stared into it, wishing she knew the truth of things, but that night was as murky in her mind as the tea in the bottom of her cup. "I don't know," she said finally. "I just don't know, but they think I do. They think I'm either protecting Noelle or running because I did it. They're trying to find me. I didn't want to take a chance, so that's why I'm here." Was she lying? Amabel didn't say anything. She merely smiled at her niece, who looked exhausted, her face white and pinched, her lovely blue eyes as faded and worn as an old dress. She was too thin; her sweater and slacks hung on her. In that moment her niece looked very old, as if she had seen too much of the wicked side of life. Well, it was too bad, but there was more wickedness in the world than anyone cared to admit.

She said quietly as she stared down into her teacup, "If your mama did kill her husband, I'll bet the bastard deserved it."

2

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SALLY NEARLY DROPPED her cup. She set it carefully down. "You knew?"

"Sure. All of us did. The first time I ever got to see you was when she brought you home. I was passing through. That's all our folks ever wanted me to do-pass through and not say much or show my face much, particularly to all their friends. Anyway, your mama showed up. She was running away from him, she said. She also said she'd never go back. She was bruised. She cried all the time.

"But her resolve didn't last long. He called her two nights later and she flew back home the next day, with you all wrapped in a blanket. You weren't even a year old then. She wouldn't talk about it to me. I never could understand why a woman would let herself be beaten whenever a man decided he wanted to do it."

"I couldn't either. I tried, Aunt Amabel. I really tried, but she wouldn't listen. What did my grandparents say?" Amabel shrugged, thinking of her horrified father, staring at beautiful Noelle, wondering what the devil he would do if the press got wind of the juicy story that his son-in-law, Amory St. John, was a wife beater. And their mother, shrinking away from her daughter as if she had some sort of vile disease. She hadn't cared either. She just didn't want the press to find out because it would hurt the family's reputation.

They pretended not to believe that your papa had beat your mama. They looked at Noelle, saw all those bruises, and denied all of it. They told her she shouldn't tell lies like that. Your mama was a real mess, arguing with them, pleading with them to help her.

“But then he called, and your mama acted like nothing had ever happened. You know what, Sally? My parents were mighty relieved when she left. She would have been a loser, a failure, a millstone around their necks if she'd left your father. She was special, a daughter to be proud of, when she was with him.

Do you ever see your grandparents?"

"Three times a year. Oh, God, Aunt Amabel, I hated him. But now-''

"Now you're afraid the police are looking for you. Don't worry, baby. No one would know you in that disguise."

He would, Sally thought. In a flash. "I hope not," she said. “Do you think I should keep wearing the black wig here?"

"No, I wouldn't worry. You're my niece, nothing more, nothing less. No one watches TV except for Thelma Nettro, who owns the bed-and-breakfast, and she's so old I don't even know if she can see the screen. She can hear, though. I know that for a fact.

"No, don't bother with the wig-and leave those contacts in a drawer. Not to worry. We'll just use your married name. Here you'll be Sally Brainerd."

"I can't use that name anymore, Amabel."

"All right then. We'll use your maiden name-Sally St. John. No, don't worry that anyone would ever tie you to your dead papa. Like I said, no one here pays any attention to what goes on outside the town limits. As for anyone else, why no one ever comes here-"

"Except for people who want to eat the World's Greatest Ice Cream. I like the sign out at the junction with that huge chocolate ice cream cone painted on it. You can see it a mile away, and by the time you Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

get to it, your mouth is watering. You painted the sign, didn't-you, Amabel?"

"I sure did. And you're right. People tell us they see that sign and by the time they get to the junction their car just turns toward The Cove. It's Helen Keaton's recipe, handed down from her granny. The ice cream shop used to be the chapel in the front of Ralph Keaton's mortuary. We all decided that since we had Reverend Vorhees's church, we didn't need Ralph's little chapel too." She paused, looking into a memory, and smiled. "In the beginning we stored the ice cream in caskets packed full of ice. It took every freezer in every refrigerator in this town to make that much ice."

"I can't wait to try it. Goodness, I remember when the town wasn't much of anything-back when I came here that one time. Do you remember? I was just a little kid." "I remember. You were adorable." Sally smiled, a very small smile, but it was a beginning. She just shook her head, saying, “I remember this place used to be so ramshackle and down at the heels-no paint on any of the houses, boards hanging off some of the buildings. And there were potholes in the street as deep as I was tall. But now the town looks wonderful, so charming and clean and pristine."

"Well, you're right. We've had lots of good changes. We all put our heads together, and that's when Helen Keaton spoke up about her granny's ice cream recipe. That Fourth of July-goodness, it will be four years this July-was when we opened the World's Greatest Ice Cream Shop. I'll never forget how the men all pooh-poohed the idea, said it wouldn't amount to anything. Well, we sure showed them."

"I'd say so. If the World's Greatest Ice Cream Shop is the reason the town's so beautiful now, maybe Helen Keaton should run for president."

"Maybe so. Would you like a ham sandwich, baby?" A ham sandwich, Sally thought. "With mayonnaise?

Real mayonnaise, not the fat-free stuff?" "Real mayonnaise." "White bread and not fourteen-vitamin seven-grain whole wheat?"

"Cheap white bread."

"That sounds wonderful, Amabel. You're sure no one will recognize me?" "Not a soul."

They watched a small, very grainy black-and-white TV while Sally ate her sandwich. Within five minutes, the story was on the national news broadcast.

"Former Naval Commander Amory Davidson St. John was buried today at Arlington National Cemetery. His widow, Noelle St. John, was accompanied by her son-in-law, Scott Brainerd, a lawyer who had worked closely with Amory St. John, the senior legal counsel for TransCon International. Her daughter, Susan St. John Brainerd, was not present.

"We go now to Police Commissioner Howard Duz-man, who is working closely with the FBI on this high-profile investigation."

Amabel didn't know much of anything about Scott Brainerd. She had never met him, had never spoken to him until she had called Noelle and he answered the phone, identified himself, and asked who she was.