Exclusive extract from Those Garrison Women by Louise Shaffer, published by Bantam.
The newspaper could have been hers. Hank had been toying with the idea of selling it for a couple of years, and Peggy had offered to buy it for her. Peggy Garrison had been her friend, as were the two other members of a trio of older women known in town as the three Miss Margarets. They were Dr Margaret Long, Margaret Elizabeth Banning, and Mrs Margaret Garrison, known as Dr Maggie, Miss Li’l Bit, and Miss Peggy, respectively.
Dr. Maggie was in her late eighties and still ran the clinic where she’d been treating patients since the 1930s. Miss Li’l Bit was in her late seventies and had a pedigree as impressive as the fortune she used to fund charities throughout the state. Miss Peggy was in her mid-sixties, and while her family tree might not have been as illustrious as the Bannings’, the fortune she’d inherited when she became Widow Garrison was even bigger than Miss Li’l Bit’s. And she used it just as generously.
Most of Charles Valley addressed the trio formally with the emphasis on the titles “Doctor” and “Miss.” Laurel was one of the privileged few who was close enough to call them simply Maggie, Li’l Bit, and Peggy. She was the only person in town who joined them every afternoon on the porch of Li’l Bit’s antebellum home to chat and sip the beverage of her choice as the sun went down.
There could not have been a more unlikely combo than thirty-five-year-old Laurel and the three older women, who were all icons of Charles Valley respectability. Laurel’s past was, to put it politely, colourful. Her mother, Sara Jayne, had been a drunk with a high profile at the major and minor honky-tonks along Highway 22. Her daddy, who hadn’t lived long enough to see Laurel born or give her his name, was equally well known as a murderer who then went out and got himself killed over the affections of a black woman in a scandal that still lived in the hearts and minds of many of the townspeople, even though it was thirty-six years old. The fact that Laurel Selene, with her family history, was welcome at the sacred afternoon gathering of the three Miss Margarets drove the Charles Valley grapevine nuts.
Laurel turned on the light and studied herself in the mirror over the sink. The face that started back at her was a series of circles: round cheeks, round brown eyes, a round mouth, and a rounded nose. It was an old-fashioned country face, free of makeup, because she had no patience for it, and framed by a mass of red hair she usually kept pulled back in an unhip ponytail. She’d never land on the cover of a magazine, but that was fine with her. She’d always had her own way of being memorable. When she was in the mood, she’d let her hair fly free, put on a tank top, jeans with a wide belt, and cowboy boots. It was a true and tried outfit that showed off her good boobs, small waist, and the long legs she’d inherited from her ma. With a couple of beers in her she could pretty much get any kind of attention she wanted – and some she regretted after the fact.
Laurel looked at her face in the mirror. “Oh, what the hell,” she said. She opened her purse and took out the black and gold makeup case Peggy had given her.
“I hope you don’t take this wrong,” Peggy had said tentatively, “but you’re such a pretty girl…” She’d trailed off. Because that was two years ago and all of the three Miss Margarets were tentative with her then. In some ways, Li’l Bit and Maggie still were. But Peggy had reached out.
“When I was young, I wanted a baby more than anything” she’d said, when she gave Laurel the makeup case. “A little girl. I was going to name her Amanda. Don’t tell Li’l Bit and Maggie, but I used to talk to her sometimes. I told her she’d never be afraid of anything, and if anyone ever tried to call her Mandy she should spit in their eye.” She let out a wicked little giggle. And for a moment Laurel could see how she’d managed to capture the heart of Dalton Garrison so many years ago. Then the giggle died. “I never did have her, of course,” Peggy said. “But if I had, she’d be about your age.”
Laurel dumped the contents of the makeup case into Hank’s sink and found the mascara wand. “This one’s for you, Peggy,” she murmured, as she began to unscrew the top. The mascara was old and dry because she never used it, although for a while, when Peggy was bedridden and near the end, Laurel had tried for her sake.
“Don’t you ever let anyone tell you keeping up appearances is shallow, sugar,” Peggy’s tired voice had whispered from the bed. “You just put on your face and tell yourself you’re doing a public service. No one ever felt better by looking at a woman who let herself go.”
Two days later Peggy didn’t know who she was talking to. “I fixed everything for you, Amanda,” she’d said.
Her voice was so far gone by then that Laurel had to bend over to hear her. But the wasted hand that held Laurel’s was amazingly strong. And hot – even now, Laurel could still remember the heat.
“They’ll try…” Peggy had started to say, but the mists that had been carrying her in and out of consciousness took over, and she had to struggle to pull herself back, “Don’t let…” she got out before the mists took over. “Don’t let them…”
“It’s okay, Peggy, I won’t let them do it,” Laurel whispered, and wished to God she knew what they were talking about.
A dried flake of mascara, the size of a boulder by the feel of it, had lodged itself under Laurel’s eyelid. Which could have been an accident. Or a warning from on high about the morning ahead of her.
“Stop stalling,” she said to her refection in the mirror. “You promised you were going over there today.” Because this was the day when she had to deal with the way in which Peggy had “fixed” everything for her.
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