When Renoir Loved Thomas Jefferson

By Becky Lyn Rickman

By the time Renoir "Rennie" Chandler married Thomas Jefferson Culpeper, she had their life completely mapped out. Together, they raised a lovely daughter, Dante, who was attending William and Mary and about to go pre-med. They lived in the shadows of the glorious Smokey Mountains and enjoyed their prosperity and good standing in the community. They had the relationship most folks only dream of. All was running like clockwork. Until, that is, Dante makes an unexpected disclosure that will interrupt her schooling and just when Rennie is coming to grips with that little project, the sheriff comes to the door to inform her that Thomas Jefferson, a beloved pillar in the community, has been arrested for stealing lingerie from Saxon's Fine Department Store. Add to this the agonizingly untimely onset of menopause and Rennie's life gets thrown for a loop. With the support of a colorful cast of characters, including Sarah Jean, their housekeeper and the quintessential voice of sanity, an inept banker, a high-strung decorator and the town blabbermouth, Rennie manages to muddle through the trials and tribulations of life with grace and dignity . . . well, most of the time, anyhow. In the tradition of Steel Magnolias, this is a book that will make you laugh, cry, and find the time to turn just one more page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Becky Lyn Rickman
• Release date: Dec 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465841612

Becky Lyn Rickman

Since I've only had a few creative writing-type classes, I would have to defer to my life experience as my credentials. As Evelyn Waugh so aptly put it: "Novel-writing is a laborious trade. The raw material is every single thing one has ever seen or heard or felt, and one has to go over the vast rubbish-heap of experience, scraping and delving, until one finds a few discarded valuables." I have had a husband that dated other women. I have had another that dated other men. I have raised four biological children, five stepchildren, and 45 foster children and now enjoy ten grandchildren (so far). I have had over 70 addresses. I have advocated for myself and others in cases of domestic and drug abuse, rape, and have worked with hospice, Special Olympics, preschool reading programs, literacy groups and drug rehab. I also spent 15 months homeless. In short, I have ample raw material and I am constantly having to deal with unwritten or partially written novels vying for my full attention. Voices are what I hear; writing is what I do. Published Work: My writing credits include website articles, articles and editorials for local newspapers, the voice of a Booker the bookshop cat (who did amazingly articulate book reviews and commentaries), well-crafted notes to my children’s teachers, captivating shopping lists, scathingly brilliant letters of accusation, followed by the inevitable ensuing heart-wrenching letters of apology. Having finally completed When Renoir Loved Thomas Jefferson, I am currently working on its prequel and sequel, as well as a number of other novels. Work History/Expertise: My work history is varied and colorful: Executive Assistant, Deli Schlepper, Carpenter and Cabinetmaker, Designer and Dressmaker, Childcare, Foster Parent, Executive Housekeeper (wait until you see that manuscript!), Executive Director of Literacy Council, Used Bookstore Maven, Entrepreneur, Botanical Apothecary Technician, among other things. None of this may seem to qualify me as a writer, but I would have to dispute that. They have been amazing parts of my journey. Awards/Honors/Associations: 2nd Place in Missouri State Art Contest in 10th grade. Safety Award in Carpentry School. National Honor Society. None of this probably sounds terribly impressive, but it's been FUN!

Book preview

Prologue

I, Rennie Culpeper, had always counted myself fortunate that my mother had not embraced cubism or surrealism. I might then have been named Picasso or, even worse, Dali. But because my mother had always been a devotee of French Impressionism, she had named me, her only daughter, Renoir. And I could live with that.

In turn, being more inclined toward literature, I had named my only daughter after one of my favorite authors, Dante. I had no idea that by so doing I would create my own little inferno. Dante grew up too fast and became a force that consumed everything in its path, occasionally including boys of questionable breeding. The result of her fire was a little spark that she named (in her youthfully zealous attempt to right herself before God) Matthew Mark Luke John Culpeper. Her reasoning was that if there was power and righteousness in one apostle, four could only serve him better.

The three of us now live a colorful existence in the grandest home in Chandlerville, NC, under the protective shadows of the Great Smoky Mountains. To my great amusement, our presence in town evokes prolific conversation among the other inhabitants. We are esteemed eccentric to say the least. But no one can deny the good that the Chandlers and Culpepers have brought to this stagnant little town. Once known as Sorrow, NC, and plagued by unemployment, apathy and discontentment, it now flourishes under our strong but nurturing collective hand. However, I must admit it was not our generation who turned things around, but rather my maternal grandfather, Nathan Chandler III.

The town had been founded by Nathan Chandler, Sr., a man whose passions and financial reserves had ignited a booming economy. But he was also a man whose great accomplishments had nearly been obliterated by the selfish and thoughtless acts of his son, Nathan Chandler, Jr.

Well, to say Junior was a lush would be a gross understatement. He had taken to liquor like an ant to a sugar bowl and countless resources had been utilized and numerous attorneys hired to redeem the Chandler family name. The one good act that Junior Chandler had performed was to marry Becky Hawkins and sire Nathan the III. Through Becky’s relentless long-suffering and unceasing good example, Nathan III had denounced the demons of alcohol and walked uprightly before the Lord. Through his countless acts of service, good academics and sports heroism, he restored the town’s faith in our family. He worked very hard in and out of school and eventually became a successful family doctor, serving faithfully and charitably, further improving our family’s reputation.

The goodness that had begun in that generation continued on through the next, when Nathan IV carried on his father’s legacy and opened the Chandlerville Hospital, a 30-bed facility that turned away no one. He married Lillian Bradford Gardner, a lovely woman from New England who was tenacious in her determination to bring culture and refinement to the locals. She spent all her days in this cause and it was through this kindness and generosity that the natives were now privileged to sit and ponder the works of the masters in the Smokey Mountain Museum of Art. It was also thanks to her that they could enjoy an evening of chamber music at the Chandlerville Cultural Center. And it was through her womb that I sprung forth on a frigid night in late December, unleashing a spirit that would permeate the residents of Chandlerville and eventually give them all some nice juicy fat to chew on.

Grandfather Chandler had strongly advised Lillian against childbirth. After all, she had a history of feminine-type ailments and she was a mere eighty-five pounds of frailty on a pocket-sized frame. She was told in no uncertain terms that the risks would far outweigh the joys. My mother would have no part of that. She was bound and determined to produce a mini-Lilly to carry on the cultural education of this now prosperous but persistently backward town. She was determined to rear a lovely young lady of the best breeding and refined in the best schools to live amongst them and show them what was possible. But something happened somewhere up there . . . some sort of cosmic mix-up, and mother would spend the rest of her days in a quandary about her decision to ignore medical advice and to forge ahead with the production of offspring.

She tells me that I came out kicking, nearly beating her to death in the birthing process and I then managed to get my way on nearly every issue toward which I was inclined. As a toddler, I far surpassed the other children in town, walking, talking, and reasoning sooner than any of them. I blossomed quickly and by the time I was a student of Miss Eileen’s Finishing Academy, I was regarded by all with whom I had contact as much older than my 14 years. Though my flower was in full bloom and my mind keen, I was emotionally not quite there. I knew very little about sharing and caring, and had an only child’s myopic view of the world. Still, somehow, under mother Lillian’s staunch New England supervision, I grew into the quintessential example of Southern gentility, thus bringing my mother the pride she had so diligently labored toward.

Upon completing my education, I married well, if I do say so myself, though folks in Chandlerville swear my husband was the one who married up. After an all-too-brief stint at playing hard to get, I said yes to Thomas Jefferson Culpeper. He was heir to the Culpeper fortune, acquired originally through running liquor during prohibition. That initial booty was later converted into construction and when the Culpeper brothers won the bid for the new county courthouse, their fortune and notoriety were guaranteed. They won all the county contracts and then, in accordance with the statutes of the good ol’ boys club, they also won all of the private contracts of the members of the county government. Blessed with a preponderance of sons, the Culpepers were as numerous as magpies in a cornfield, and now, with the union of Culpeper to Chandler, prosperity really abounded.

After a lengthy five-year honeymoon and with nothing but money and time on my hands, I obediently embarked on the physical manifestation of my wedding vows by joyfully and frequently making every attempt to be fruitful and multiply. With no financial constraints, I set my heart on eight children; but, with the birth of Dante, those dreams were quelled. Dante came out fine, just fine—as good-looking and healthy a baby as anyone could desire. However, taking after my mother, I did not fair so well. The delivery was taxing and no one could anticipate the trauma that ensued shortly afterward, and so, those in authority that it would be best to ensure no future pregnancies decided it. Thomas Jefferson, in his concern and need for me by his side, made the judgment call and signed away my ability to reproduce. As enormous a disappointment as that was, I grew to love him even more for it.

All of the love and attention that I would have spread among eight were now given in concentrated doses to Dante. She had everything a child could want. She did not, however, always have the one thing she needed most—a firm hand. I recognize this fact now that she is an adult. Isn’t it odd? I once read that we should start out old and grow younger, raising our children with the wisdom of age and then having energy and vitality to really live after they are grown. I believe there is innate brilliance in that concept.

Regardless of what I should have done or not done, I rarely held Dante accountable for any wrongdoing that she had a part of. While she did learn all about repentance and restitution in summer vacation Bible school, those notions never quite sank in. Any troubles she got herself into socially were quickly paid off, swept under the carpet, and forgotten—until now.

Chapter 1

My daughter and I had enjoyed, for the most part, an intimate and loving relationship. I doted on her throughout her childhood. She was my focus and my joy. But sometime in between skinned knees and senior prom, she started becoming her own woman. Now maybe this happens with all girls, but it was new to me and as uncomfortable as the perfect shoes a half size too small.

Suddenly, she knew everything and I knew nothing about life in the real world. She was all about change: saving this endangered thing or another and recycling and amnesty and human rights and I don’t know what all. She had passion and along with that passion, an increasing impatience with me and with my provincial perspective. I chose my battles carefully with the realization that these passions sometimes fizzled out, but often drove people to greatness.

Dante called me one afternoon from her dormitory at William and Mary. Could we get together this weekend for lunch? She knew this quaint little bistro that she would like to introduce me to. Would this be too much bother? She knew full well that I would drop everything for the chance to carry on a civil conversation with her rebellious but beloved self. I took the train and then caught a cab and met up with Dante at the café she had suggested, The Ostrich Feather, a new age-type establishment specializing in alternative eats and music.

I walked through a curtain of beads and was welcomed by the lonely wailings of a sitar. There were posters of lions lying with lambs and peace signs and lots and lots of tie-dye. I felt like I had tripped on the hemp welcome mat and fallen into 1968. To add insult to injury, the tables were about 18 off the floor and surrounded by beanbag chairs. This clearly was not an eating establishment for the establishment."

The moment I spotted my daughter my heart broke a little. What I didn’t know before about maternal instincts, I learned in that instant. I fully comprehended the reason for my visit; but, fighting back the urge to turn and run, I forced myself to patiently sit back and let the news come from Dante.

She smiled, but I sensed it was more out of good breeding than genuine warmth.

I managed to hover over one of the beanbag chairs and plopped myself down in a full Technicolor display of clumsiness. It was not a pretty sight, but, thankfully, the place was sparsely populated.

That brought a smile to Dante’s face, although she did her best to withhold it.

Well, this is a lovely place, Dante. Thank you for inviting me.

You’re welcome. I hope you like it. So, how are things back in Chandlerville, mother?

Things are fine, dear—status quo and all. How about you? How are your classes going?

They are going great—just great. I suggest the hummus and pita with a side of tabhouli. It’s out of this world.

That sounds lovely. Tell me, Dante, have you gone vegetarian? I don’t see any meat on this menu?

Yes, actually, I have been leaning toward that. There is so much cruelty in the meat industry. Do you have any idea how ‘agri-business’ works? (And, yes, she made the exaggerated quote" gesture with two fingers on each hand when she uttered this word with conspicuous repugnance.)

"What those poor animals go through! I have read the exposés. I know. And once you know something you can’t just conveniently un-know it. I feel more comfortable abstaining. It was a soul-searching, conscientious decision and I’m holding to it.

Anyway, mother, down to the reason I called you. I need a little loan. I am broke right now, my expense money is shot, and there are some things that need to be taken care of.

I think that you are probably right about the meat industry and I applaud you for your consideration of big-eyed cows. You’re not getting another dime this semester. Do they have coffee here?

No, only herbal tea. And it’s about more than big-eyed cows. Good grief. I can’t talk to you about any of my true feelings. And since when do you tell me ‘no’?

Herbal tea sounds fine. I had to hold my ground.

Mother, I need some money! Goodness knows you’ve got more than even you could ever spend!

Dante, whatever is going on with you, child? You have always done so well with your expense money. What has you so short all of a sudden and what is it that needs to be taken care of? Perhaps we can find another way to help. I knew what this was all about, but she had to volunteer the information. Forcing her hand would only alienate her right now.

Mother, you and daddy have more money than you know what to do with. How can it possibly matter what I need the money for? It’s just some little thing and $500.00 should cover it.

Some little thing, my eyeballs!

Are you two ready to order? The server’s timing was agonizingly ill, but brought a blessed momentary pause to the ensuing battle. When I turned to order, I had to hold back an audible chuckle. For a generation that was all about being real, she fell a little short. Her hair was dyed some shade that was at the same time both black and red. She had earrings everywhere but her ears. And there was something tattooed on her arm that resembled the Loch Ness monster. But her demeanor was sweet and genuine.

Yes, my daughter recommends the #3 combination plate, which I will try with an open mind and may I have a nice cup of chamomile tea with that?

Mother, don’t act like I’m not here! Please address my request.

Dante, don’t be rude. You can see this lovely girl is ready to take your order. Tell her what you want, dear.

Miss, do you have $500.00? Dante made no attempt to hide her exasperation.

Maybe I should give you two a few more minutes. The server was acutely aware of the cloud of contention that hung mercilessly over table seven.

Dante composed herself and returned my righteous indignation with sincere humility. She turned with eyes full of apology and softly offered, No, really, that’s o.k. I’m terribly sorry. Forgive me. I’ll have the #3 as well, with water, no ice, but with a wedge of lemon. Thank you. The bewildered server took her leave.

Dante, what has gotten into you? I have not seen you act that childish since you were a teenager. You were openly rude to that young working girl.

You want to know what’s gotten into me, mother? I’ll tell you. A child. I am pregnant. There, I’ve said it. Now how do you feel?

I feel like that cup of chamomile can’t get here any too soon. That’s how I feel, Dante. You can’t keep anything from me. I knew the minute I laid eyes on you this afternoon that you were harboring a fugitive. How in the world did this happen? Who did this to you? I have hundreds of questions, but the most important is, what are we going to do about it?

Well, if you would just loosen the strings of your pocketbook, I could have it taken care of this afternoon.

I’ll do no such thing, missy. You may not have been held accountable for much of the self-imposed drama in your life, but it’s time to learn. Whether or not you want to acknowledge it, you have suddenly, and for the first time in your life, made a great big commitment. You have always done as you pleased and now the time has come to be an adult. You just pack on up and come home with me and we will work on this little project together. You have my full support—and your father’s, of course—that goes without saying. This will probably break his heart, but I know him and he’ll . . .

What are you thinking? I’m in the middle of my third year of college. I have a 3.95 GPA. I’m practically into medical school. I cannot possibly work on this ‘project’, as you so simply put it, right now. This is not the time or the circumstances to bring a child into the world.

The gloves were off.

Dante, tell me something. How did this happen? Was it in the water you drank? Were you unconscious? Did some angel come down and pronounce you pregnant? I don’t think so. No doubt some young man was fooling around and your body decided to take him seriously. I just hope he comes from good stock. Who was it? I need to know. He needs to know and be held accountable, as well.

You don’t need to know. He doesn’t need to know about this, nor will he. This is my problem not yours or his.

There was a chilly pause so that we could collect ourselves before we involved everyone in the restaurant and a peace demonstration broke out.

I’ll accept that for now, but we will talk about this later. Here’s the bottom line: you, however it happened, are with child, and you will go through with this. Finish up the semester. You should be fine to do that.

So far, so good.

Then you can take the next semester or two off, have this baby, and go back to complete your degree. It is all so simple. I don’t know why on earth you can’t see that!

And then I went too far.

You know, mother. I’m not that hungry after all.

With that, Dante took her little dark cloud and set off, presumably for her dorm. I knew that the best thing to do for her was to give her some space. I knew she would figure things out given the chance.

I stayed and finished my lunch. It wasn’t so much that the tabhouli was divine. It was more that I needed the comfort of the meal. Then I scooted Dante’s plate over in front of me and acquired a little more comfort. Food has always been a crutch for me when my man wasn’t around. And golly gee whiz, did I need a crutch right now.

I caught a cab to the train station, all the while trying to analyze whether to feel remorse or to embrace guilt, and boarded the train for home. I had a lot to mull over. Our lives were about to change forever and though she thought herself wise and determined about her future, she didn’t have a clue what toll it would take on her to just erase the problem. I had known of a girl who went that route and even though she was now in a stable marriage with children, she mourned the loss of that unknown child. I knew my daughter very well and I knew that, in the end, I was going to be a grandmother. And that would mean some monumental arrangements and adjustments. I was suddenly very full and very world-weary, and I still had to face the rest of the train ride home and then find a way to break the news to my lifelong sweetheart.

I knew his heart would break just a little, as mind did, but I also knew that he would make the adjustments and his love for her would remain as unconditional as it ever was. He was just that kind of man.

Chapter 2

I calmly unlocked the door and called out to my husband.

Thomas Jefferson Culpeper! Where are you, man? Through the years, Thomas J. and I had developed the most delicious friendship. Unbridled with the typical money worries that most young couples have, we took advantage of the chance to play for the 5 years prior to Dante’s birth. And from the time she arrived, we never let our little sweetheart get in the way of that one-ness that we had worked so hard to attain.

Darlin’. Where have you been? You didn’t bother to tell me you would be out. Is everything OK?

Momentary silence, crossed arms, pursed lips and knitted brow.

Uh-oh, I can see by the look on your face that something’s amiss. What is it darlin’? Sit right down here and tell me all about it.

He wrapped