Fern almost didn’t go to her aunt’s funeral. It wasn’t because of the shabby neighborhood the Divine Word of God Church called home, in a former movie theater at one end of a half-empty strip mall, nor was it because of her distaste for Bible thumpers. Despite everything her hypocrite aunt said about her over and over all her life, she was the one responsible for the survival of the family line. Not her famous dead brother who never married. Not her sister the judge who never found a man good enough.
So, of course she’d go. It would be a pleasure to watch them pile dirt on top of the bitch.
Fern stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom and smoothed down the black sheath dress, enjoying the feel of the silk sliding across her palms. Smoke colored stockings and black patent leather pumps completed the look, the effect enhanced by the diamonds flashing around her neck and on her manicured fingers. Not bad for a woman of fifty-six with two grown sons. Payoff for the nips and tucks and Botox, the high-end stylist who matched her original dark brown hair, Elizabeth Taylor’s natural color. All the beauty money could buy. And why not?
Her husband called up to her from the foyer. “Aren’t you done yet? The limo’s been waiting on us for twenty minutes and we’ve got to pick up your sister.”
“She’s only ten minutes down the road, for Christ’s sake,” she said. Let them all wait on her, the living and the dead. Especially the dead, the grandmother and aunt who’d said she wasn’t good enough for the sons of Virginia’s best families. As if they weren’t responsible for those families avoiding her. And when she did find a man who wanted her enough to overlook the family vipers they made it clear neither she nor Mike would be welcome in their home.
She and her two sons were the family’s future. Satisfied, she was ready to descend the curving staircase and leave for her aunt’s funeral.
#
On the way to the church Fern sat beside her older sister. It was the closest physically she’d been to Lily in months. As they’d aged they’d begun to look more and more alike and today, both dressed in black from head to toe, they could have been mistaken for twins, though she thought her older sister had let herself go a little—after all, Lily didn’t have to undress in front of anyone.
Her aunt’s body lay in the cheap pine box she’d chosen for herself. Closed, it sat on a white-skirted chrome trolley in front of the pulpit. Fern sat in the first row between Lily and Mike. He was still a good-looking man in his dark gray suit with his Knights of Columbus pin in the lapel. Branford, just twenty-one and her youngest, sat next to him in matching suit and tie. She was proud of the way they looked sitting with her.
Mike Junior hadn’t come up from LSU. How could he when he was too busy preparing for a tryout for some rinky-dink minor league soccer team. Bigfoot, they called him. Bigfoot Marshall. But honestly, why should he care that his great-aunt was finally dead?
Fern looked around, taking in the crowd, the tiers of seats curving around the auditorium, the recessed lights, the spotlight shining on her aunt’s coffin. She turned to her sister and whispered, “It still smells like a movie theater. Did we miss the popcorn concession on the way in?” Lily ignored her. She turned and repeated it to Mike. He snickered. Their son shushed them.
The pastor clicked on his lapel mike and a scratchy pop sounded from speakers built into the walls and ceiling. He put his hands on the coffin. “The Lord is with us today!” he said and his amplified voice boomed like thunder.
“Jesus is with us today!” the congregation roared back, unamplified, just as loud. Fern buried her face in her right hand to hide the disgust she felt. Lily touched her shoulder, correcting her. Fern sat up, angry and embarrassed.
The congregation and family were welcomed. The deacon and the choir sang two pop-style Songs of Praise. The pastor read out the one paragraph obituary Lily had provided him and added his own reminiscences. That was followed by a thumping up-tempo version of “Amazing Grace.” The congregation joined in and the hand clapping was like rhythmic rifle fire. Fern flinched with each sharp bang. Branford clapped along with the rest.
The sermon followed, ending with a reminder for those present to sign the guest book out front and share coffee and punch and pastries in the dining hall. Refreshments Fern wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. Then it was over.
The family stood as the pastor came around the coffin to shake their hands. Holding Lily’s right with both of his, he said, “I know you will miss her. As will I. A beacon in the wilderness for us all.”
“Thank you, Pastor,” Lily said. Fern rolled her eyes.
He shuffled a foot to his left and repeated the handshake and words to Fern. She stared at his hands the whole time, unable to find anything polite to say. He shuffled another foot to his left and shook Mike’s hand, then turned and took Branford’s hand. “You are welcome here any time.”
“Thanks, Pastor,” Branford said. “Great service.” Fern’s eyes narrowed.
He smiled. “Thanks, son. Your great-aunt spoke highly of you.”
Fern bridled. That was a lie. On more than one occasion her aunt had called her boys “feckless twigs at the tip of the Faber family tree.” Some words were beyond forgetting or forgiving. She turned to her husband and patted down a lapel that needed no attention.
Two men dressed in undertakers’ black entered from a side door and wheeled away the coffin. Mike led the family out front to a black limousine that would follow the hearse to the family’s estate. There Aunt Elizabeth would be buried with her ancestors.
How strange that she’d wound up with Mike instead of one of the boys she’d danced with at Cotillion, kissed and more on those humid summer nights. So many promising matches sunk on the reef of her aunt’s ravings about walking and talking with God. Mike might come from common stock but he was successful and loyal. The family’s disapproval when she adopted his religion was a joke in the face of her aunt’s choice of church. She’d said so.
As soon as they were seated in the limo Fern said to her son, “You will not go back there.” She wasn’t going to let this son betray his breeding the way her aunt had.
“Why not, Ma? I thought it was great.”
“Because, Branford, you need to learn the difference between a religious service and a circus. That was a circus with your great aunt as the main attraction. Even in death she was an embarrassment. Oh, yes. Holy Sister Elizabeth who walked with God. The embodiment of their beliefs.”
Branford said, “They’re your beliefs, too, aren’t they?”
“That she and God walked and talked together? Of course not. God doesn’t speak to people unless they have something wrong in their brains.”
“Um, I think that came out wrong,” Mike said.
Fern flushed. “I didn’t mean it that way. I mean people who hear voices have something wrong. Like schizophrenics hear voices telling them to kill people or–.”
“So all those people in the Bible who spoke with God to were schizophrenics?” Branford said.
She snapped, “No. Of course not. That’s different. It’s the Bible. And stop it, both of you. You know what I mean.” She turned to Lily, cutting off the discussion. “Have you seen the old woman’s will yet? I bet she’s left whatever she had to that church.”
Lily said, “You know I can’t talk about that until the paperwork’s been processed.”
“Of course you can. We’re family. Also, we’re the only members of the family Foundation left until we vote my boys in and you won’t do that because then we’ll outvote you.”
“I won’t talk about the will until I’ve filed the paperwork.”
“You could, but you won’t. That’s just like you, Lily. Just like you.”
Lily said nothing.
After Fern’s outburst the family was silent the rest of the way.
They walked along the cleared path from the main house to the family plot, Fern’s mood matching the occasion. An associate pastor from St. Paul’s was waiting for them at the gravesite. Two workmen with shovels stood several paces back to finish the job. Reading from handouts, the family mumbled the proper words at the proper time and Aunt Elizabeth’s body was buried beside her mother, father and brother.
The family followed the priest back to the limo where the sisters peck-kissed each other’s cheek wordlessly, as distant cousins might. With the house she’d been born in disappearing out the limo’s rear window, Fern felt no relief. Even now going back caused her an exile’s pang. Despite the morning’s expectations, she felt no more part of the family than she had before her aunt was in the ground.
#
Fern really couldn’t say why she walked by her brother’s house the next day, the one he’d left in his will to his girlfriend, a nice-enough woman though young, as all his lady friends had been. Perhaps it was because she’d realized she and her sister were now the family elders and they only saw each other at funerals and meetings of the family foundation in their lawyer’s office. Dear Bud, gone barely a year, her ally from childhood. Even dead he was still the only link she felt to her family.
The couple running the B&B, Savannah and Joe, were friends of his. He’d had a knack for making friends that she’d never had. His friends and his house were closest she could come to him now.
The house looked good. They’d put a new coat of paint on the clapboards, cream with black shutters. The sign out front stopped her, forced unexpected tears from her eyes. They’d painted ferns, lilies and buds—ferns, lilies and buds!—twining around the name ‘The Faber Inn’ and they’d wrapped a black ribbon across it in honor of her aunt’s passing.
They didn’t have to do that. If she’d been in their place she wouldn’t have had the Christian charity to do that. She sniffed back her tears. She was sorry her life hadn’t turned out the way it should have, sorry Savannah and Joe—a nice couple—were victims of her aunt’s outrages, sorry she hadn’t stood up for them and for Bud’s right to do what he wanted with what he owned. She’d shut the old bitch up when she dared to say something about how Mike and she spent their money.
An impulse towards apology turned her onto the flagstone walk and up to the door of the Inn, though she wasn’t at all sure what she’d say to whomever opened the door. As she reached for the doorbell she noticed the hand-lettered sign tacked to the door. “Closed. Inquire at Joe’s across the street.” She knew the bar because it also used to belong to Bud. He’d given it to Savannah and Joe as a wedding present.
Fern huffed and bounced a toe, undecided whether to walk away or inquire. She could go home to an empty house or she could call Mike and arrange to meet him for lunch. Or she could cross the street and inquire at Joe’s. She didn’t even have to inquire if she chose not to, she could have a bourbon old fashioned and then go home. She crossed the street.
“Oh, no, Joe’s not here,” the waitress said when she asked after them. “They’re at the hospital. Savannah is having a baby.”
A baby. How wonderful. “Oh, so that’s why the house—.”
The waitress nodded. Fern ordered her drink. “In honor of the baby.” When it came Fern said, “I know you, don’t I?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh yes. I remember you. Of course, you’re a young woman now. You’re Tom Claiborne’s daughter. You were in Junior Cotillion with my son Mike. Mike Marshall, Junior.” What was a Claiborne doing working in a bar wearing tight jeans, a tight VCU tee shirt and no bra? Well, she could guess.
“Of course. Mikey Marshall. That was years ago.”
“That’s right,” Fern said. “Though not such a long time ago to someone my age. He’s living in Baton Rouge now, in line to play for a professional soccer team.” Why did she feel the need to brag to this young woman? She hurried to change the subject, “You’re Tammy Jo. How are your parents?”
“They’re just fine Mrs. Marshall, thanks for asking.”
Fern leaned back against the soft leather of the booth and admired the color of the orange peel floating among the ice cubes in the deep amber of the bourbon. She sipped and watched Tammy Jo Claiborne go about her work. Daughter of the Claibornes of New Kent County with a Virginia history not nearly as long as the Branfords, the family not having arrived until 1652, with all that implied—losing side in the English Civil War—not that anyone cared after 400 years, did they—though the UVA teams were called the Cavaliers and not the Roundheads.
Tom Claiborne. She’d thought of him in passing only yesterday at the funeral. If not for her crazy aunt he probably would have proposed. Fern allowed herself a little self-satisfaction with her bourbon. His loss. Brother Bud’s fame sprinkled stardust on the family name.
She remembered the award or trophy or whatever-it-was lying on its side atop the bookcase in Bud’s parlor and the canceled check for a hundred thousand dollars he’d framed and hung in his office. Not that money was ever an issue for the Fabers. And Mike had done well. Two S-Class Mercedes sedans were parked in their drive in front of their home on ten acres with an indoor pool, a housekeeper and a gardener.
Mother was a Gardiner. Another family not good enough for Grandmother Faber, who used to say, “Merely jardiniers, French servants” when Mother wasn’t around. But the Gardiners were also a first family, John Gardiner having survived the sinking of the Sea Venture off Bermuda to arrive in Jamestown in 1610.
If she ever divorced Mike she might take her name back: Fern Gardiner Faber. But he was Catholic, as was she now. So: no divorce and perhaps that was for the best.
Were all us Faber women bitches? Yes, bitches all, though our styles differ.
The bar was getting busy. Time to go. Fern waved her credit card at Tammy Jo, who came over with her tab. “So when do you think the Inn will be open?” Fern said, “I’d really love to see what they’ve done to my brother’s house.”
Tammy’s eyes widened. “Mr. Faber was your brother? I didn’t know that. We read one of his books in my American Lit class, I don’t remember which one.”
Fern nodded. And that’s why you’re working in a bar with your nipples showing through your tee shirt.
A man walked in, stopped and looked around. He looked to be in his forties, wearing khaki slacks, work boots and a blue polo shirt with the city logo embroidered on it. He carried a clipboard. All in all, Fern thought he looked like a worthwhile investment of her tax dollars.
He waved the clipboard at Tammy. “Is there anyone I can talk to about the place across the street? The sign says to come here.”
Tammy said, “Uh, yeah.” She looked around. Kyle was behind the bar serving beers and Luis was somewhere in the back preparing lunch. “Um. This is the, ah, but there’s, uh–”
“I’m here to do the final inspection.”
“Okay, this is where people are supposed to come but there’s nobody here can go over.” She waved the hand that held Fern’s tab and credit card.
Fern slid out of her booth and joined them. “I can take him over,” she said, and introduced herself to the inspector. He ought to recognize the name Marshall if he was a building inspector; Marshall’s Plumbing Supplies was the largest in the metro area. “It was my brother’s house.”
Tammy looked around again for support but she was alone. “Okay, I guess,” she said and went behind the bar to collect the keys to the Inn. Handing them to Fern she said, “I’ll hold on to your card until you return the keys.”
How rude. So Claiborne. “Give me that!” Fern snatched her card from Tammy’s hand. To the inspector she said, “Let’s go,” turned and marched out, credit card in one hand, house keys in the other, purse swinging from the crook of her arm. He followed.
Entering the Inn’s foyer Fern was struck with how different the house felt. She hadn’t been inside in the year since Bud’s funeral, not all that long a time, really, but what changes. The shafts of midday sun that filtered through the old maples outside poured in through cleaned windows. In what used to be the front parlor Bud’s bookcase were still there but all the other furniture had been replaced with tables and chairs to make a cozy dining room.
Photographs of Bud hung on the walls: Bud in oversized cap and gown receiving the honorary doctorate from the U; Bud in a tuxedo accepting the National Book Award in New York; Meryl Streep kissing Bud on the cheek during the filming of his novel Reconstruction Follies; handshake photos with politicians local, national and global. Fern imagined his ghostly presence fading into the walls of the house. The world was moving on without him.
How long would his fame last? Ten years? Twenty? More? He’d endowed a chair at the U and set up a foundation to put on an annual literary festival in his name. Bud professed a disdain for reputation but he’d certainly built a levee against time and changing tastes.
The inspector got to work prowling through the house, checking plumbing, electrical outlets, smoke detectors, the sturdiness of the stair railings, making check marks and scribbling brief notes on the pages on his clipboard. Fern followed him silently. He began commenting to her, instructions on minor items that needed attention, screws needing tightening, brighter bulbs in the stairwells. She dug her address book and a pen out of her purse and began taking notes.
At one point they had a lengthy discussion about a tankless hot water unit on the top floor bathroom that she was able to convince him satisfied code for volume and flow. Why didn’t he know about that? How could he do his job if all he knew was old technology?
When he was finished the inspector handed Fern a form and said, “Send this in with the other documents and you can open for business.”
For a moment Fern felt like a part of the Inn project. Now that was a thought. Then she looked over the sheet of paper. Along with his signature next to the box marked ‘Approved’ were a few comments in ink. Yes, the smoke detectors were only battery powered and they needed to be replaced semi-annually. Yes, the faucet in the kitchen leaked a little, an easy fix even she could manage. “What’s this about the hot water on the third floor? I thought we’d agreed on that.”
“Tankless heating isn’t in my code book,” he said. “I agree the solution works so I only made it a comment, not a problem.” He looked her in the eye.
“But–.” Fern stopped herself. He was spouting bullshit. This was all about her correcting him earlier. If it were her fight to fight she’d face him down, but it wasn’t. It was Savannah’s and Joe’s.
“I see,” she said. Of course she did. He nodded. They parted outside the front door.
Fern went back inside to prepare notes for the couple. Finding a legal pad in a drawer she sat at the kitchen table and began writing. Using Mike’s password she logged on to the City website on her cell phone and swiped through the online plumbing codes. Of course there was a whole section on tankless water heaters and she could see that the one the inspector cited satisfied code. She noted the sections for the couple in case there was any question further on.
She was almost finished when Joe walked in. “Oh, there you are,” she said. “I’m almost finished writing up my notes.”
“Tammy told me you brought the inspector over while I was gone.”
Fern was sure Tammy Jo also told him she hadn’t paid her tab. She handed the papers to him. “Just submit the forms and wait a week to get your occupancy permit. Or you could drive over to Public Works and they’ll issue it to you on the spot.”
“Mrs. Marshall. Thanks.” Joe took the papers.
“Fern. How’s your wife? And the baby? Oh, and here are the keys.”
“Fine, fine,” Joe said. “A little girl, Aretha, after the Queen of Soul. Everybody’s fine.”
The name stopped her, but only for the briefest moment. “Congratulations, that’s wonderful,” she said. Neither of her sons—she’d like to have grandchildren. Mike’s brothers and sisters clearly delighted in theirs. She’d even started to canvass her friends for names of available young women still on the vine. “Oh, I almost forgot. I owe you for a bourbon old fashioned.” Fern opened her purse and pulled a twenty out of her wallet.
Joe put up a hand. “No, no. On the house. For helping out.”
“Don’t be silly. Joe, isn’t it? The waitress is due a tip–” she would not have Tammy Jo Claiborne criticize her, “–and it was my pleasure to see what you’ve done with Bud’s house. I’m impressed. You’ve put a lot of work into it and it shows.”
Joe took the twenty. “Okay then, thanks.”
“I can only imagine how much trouble my aunt caused you.”
Joe grinned. “Didn’t succeed in stopping us, though.”
She grinned back. “So I see. And you came to her funeral anyway. I noticed you. That was—you didn’t have to do that. And the sign out front. Very nice and appreciated. I’ll make sure my sister knows.”
“Just common decency.”
“Not so common. Let me know when the baby can have visitors.” She’d warmed to this couple, Bud’s friends. She could go shopping for onesies and stuffed toys. If only her boys—well, Millennials had such different ideas about marriage and family. Though the time may come when she’d have to do something about that. “And if there’s anything else, please, don’t hesitate to call. My number’s on the notes page.”
#
While Fern meant it when she made the offer, she was surprised when Savannah called her the next day. “I wanted to thank you personally for helping us out,” Savannah said. “Your notes were especially helpful.”
“Men,” Fern said.
Savannah laughed. “Yes. Men.”
“How is the baby? How are you? How big?”
“Oh, we’re fine, doing fine, though ‘Retha was a little early. Six pounds eight ounces and eighteen inches long. Mother used to say the smaller they come the hungrier they are.”
Fern laughed. “Firstborns are usually on the smaller side, not that it makes any difference.”
“No, yes, look at me. I only weighed five pounds ten. Now I’m almost six feet tall.” She hesitated a moment, then said, “I’m also calling to see if you might be able to help me.” Savannah sighed. “Our first confirmed reservation is on Tuesday but there are already inquiries coming in by phone and I just can’t keep up. Yet.”
“Don’t you have someone?”
“No I don’t. I was supposed to hire an assistant but we were so busy that I didn’t get around to it. And now I’m really stuck. So do you know someone who can do the job? Maybe through your contacts or something?”
“What do you need, precisely?”
“I’ve got maids and suppliers and a handyman contractor all arranged and we rely on Joe’s kitchen across the street for food service. So look after everything else, I guess. Run the place. Know something of Virginia history, the plantations down the river, basic concierge knowledge of the city.”
Isn’t life strange? She’d just thought about being part of their project and now here’s this opportunity. “I have some ideas, yes.”
“And someone who’s familiar with your brother’s books and life would be a big plus. I should be good to go by next week but ‘til then–.”
Who better than herself? Plus, it beat going to charity committees in warm dark rooms after cocktail-fueled luncheons where bored staff droned through PowerPoint presentations. And The Faber Inn. That would be making a statement, wouldn’t it! And connect to her brother’s social family. Bud cared for them and she could, too.
Fern said, “I know the perfect person. Me. I’d be happy to take the job.”
“You? Really? I mean, that’s great! You’re Buddy’s sister! Thanks so much! And I’ll pay for your time.”
That would be something, wouldn’t it. When was the last time she worked for pay? She couldn’t remember. Grandmother was against Faber women working; it was something common people had to do.
“Can you come by tomorrow morning so we can go over things? At nine?”
“Yes. Yes I can.” She could work with the young woman. She would.
“Talk to you then.” Savannah rang off.
Fern sat back in her favorite chair in her gray and black and gold living room and sipped premium bourbon from a crystal glass. She could rescue some of Bud’s awards from the cardboard boxes her sister had dumped them into, put a few back on display in the house. Things that couldn’t be nailed down, his trophies, medals, the key to the city, those should stay at the house and be given a place of honor on the second-floor hallway along with the family portraits.
She walked over to the wall of windows and looked out over her Japanese garden. The edges of the lower koi pond looked a little overgrown with algae. She’d speak to Mr. Takamura about that.
Sunlight rippled along the gold at her neck, flashing off the facets of the diamonds on her rings and bracelets. Run The Faber Inn? She might not have inherited Buddy’s genius or Lily’s diligence but she could manage, yes, she could manage.
