Page 44 of Hello, Summer
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Rowena settled back in her chair, waiting to see Conley’s reaction to this last gossip bombshell, idly picking bits of bacon from the last remaining doughnut and feeding them to Tuffy, nestled snugly in her lap, the pink bow on the dog’s topknot brushing the bottom of the old woman’s chin.
“Wow,” Conley said finally. She had to let the information sink in. Charlie Robinette was a love child? It made sense, now that she thought about it. “A child born out of wedlock to a sitting congressman’s secretary?” she said finally. “While he was still married to his first wife? Stuff like that’s not all that uncommon now, but back then, in Silver Bay, it must have caused quite a scandal.”
Rowena’s fuchsia-caked lips formed a girlish pout. “It would have, but your fuddy-duddy of a grandfather wouldn’t print it. The biggest story of my career, and it never saw the light of day.”
“Granddaddy?” This was more of a shock than the revelation about Symmes Robinette’s secret baby. “I can’t believe he would choose to suppress a story just to protect a local politician.”
“‘We are not theNational Enquirer,Rowena,’” the columnist said, using fingers as quote marks. “That’s what he told me. ‘We do not deal in salacious gossip or scurrilous rumors.’”
“That part sounds exactly like Granddaddy,” Conley had to admit. Her grandfather had always been a stickler for facts.
“But it wasn’t gossip!” Rowena insisted. “I made it my business to get a copy of the baby’s birth certificate. I rode the Greyhound bus all the way up to Washington, D.C., and paid for my fare with my own money just to make sure it was true. Charles Symmes Robinette Jr. was born on February 15, 1986. And he weighed nine pounds and seven ounces, so Vanessa could hardly claim he was premature.”
Her chin was quivering with indignation at the memory of her suppressed scoop.
“Vanessa and Symmes were married—by the U.S. House of Representatives chaplain, mind you—three months later. The dayafterthe divorce from Toddie was finalized.”
Conley struggled to put those facts together with what she’d already discovered about Symmes Robinette’s marital history. “So it wasn’t generally known around town? About the baby?”
“There was talk, of course,” Rowena said. “Around the bridge table and at cocktail parties. You know how people talk in a small town like Silver Bay.”
Conley’s smile was brittle. She knew all too well about the corroding nature of prying eyes and whispered insinuations and always the questions about her own mother’s whereabouts, couched in terms of sincere concern from those same bridge players and cocktail partygoers.
“The talk died down after Toddie disappeared,” Rowena said. “She never said a word to any of her friends. One day, she and the children just up and got in their station wagon and drove away.”
“Surely not,” Conley scoffed. “People, especially the wives and children of prominent politicians, don’t just vanish.”
Rowena sniffed. “I suppose she might have told someone where they were going, but even Myrtis, her real estate agent, swore she didn’t know where Toddie and the children relocated.”
“And then Vanessa settled into town pretty seamlessly, right? I mean, she’s a member of G’mama’s church and everything.”
“That womanslitheredinto Silver Bay,” Rowena said, waggling unkempt eyebrows that resembled a pair of fuzzy white caterpillars. “Somepeople have short memories. And I suppose, for poor old Toddie, it was a matter of out of sight, out of mind.”
Conley glanced down at her watch. She still had several more people to talk to before writing her story for theBeacon’s Tuesday deadline.
“I’ve taken up enough of your time today, Rowena. But I do keep wondering, what was Symmes doing out there in the country so far from home and at that time of night?”
Rowena polished off the third doughnut, chewing rapidly, and Conley realized her hostess had never offered her one.
“I really couldn’t say what he was doing. But I have my sources, and you can be sure if I find out, I’ll write all about it inmycolumn.”
Conley picked up her backpack, preparing to leave, when Rowena said, “I wrote a book. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t. That must have been so exciting for you,” Conley said, trying to feign interest.
“Oh yes. It was the most… empowering thing I’ve ever experienced,” Rowena gushed. “Would you like a copy?”
“Oh no,” Conley said quickly. “I mean, I’d love to read it, but I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”
The old woman hoisted herself from the chair and tottered over to the wall of bookcases. Opening a cabinet door, she revealed rows and rows of garish pink-jacketed hardback books. She plucked one from the shelf.
“Here it is,” she said gaily, thrusting a copy at Conley.
The cover of the book featured the same heavily retouched photo of Rowena Meigs as the one currently used for her column in theBeacon, her blond bouffant coiffure an architectural marvel, lavish false eyelashes fluttering, smiling coquettishly into the camera, a pink feather boa draped loosely around her generous décolletage, her wrists, neck, and ears decked with diamonds—or something resembling diamonds. The title was written in flowing purple script:Rowena Remembers: Secrets of Silver Bay Society.
“It’s a collection of my columns from theBeacon,” Rowena said. “I had the most marvelous time compiling it. So many wonderful memories.” She sighed heavily. “Everyone said it was the most amusing thingthey’d ever read. I really think it was the crowning achievement of my journalistic career.”
