Whirlygig: The Dancin' Man's Daughter

By Mary Ann Claud

It’s 1999. Volly Brunson comes home to Parkersburg, SC, determined to resurrect the family’s failing textile business and to assume the responsibilities she has run away from for the past ten years. In her early thirties, with a failed relationship behind her and an MBA in hand, Volly faces an aging business, a dysfunctional family, and the entrenched attitudes of a typical Southern town. But she’s smart and she’s ready. Or so she thinks.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Ann Claud
• Release date: May 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997448412

Mary Ann Claud

Mary Ann Claud is a singer, a lover of the arts, a mother and grandmother, a wife, a friend, a lover of life. She has written professionally for decades and has now brought her talent and experience to her first novel. THE DANCIN' MAN is a family saga, its drama playing out against the backdrop of social and economic change in the American South from the 1950s until the 1980s. In her second novel, WHIRLYGIG; THE DANCIN' MAN'S DAUGHTER, Claud focuses on Volly Brunson and her return to Parkersburg SC in 1999. With a recently won MBA in hand, she intends to revive and modernize the family business and accept the responsibilities she has run from for the intermittent ten years. But there are problems. Volly's father, the company president, has other plans for the business he has handled for the past thirty years. Volly's uncle, Sam Ward is in increasingly poor health and Montvue, the family estate he manages, needs attention. Very quickly Volly discovers that life in Parkersburg has not changed since she left. But she has. Mary Ann lives in Tryon, NC with her husband, Olin. Together they have visited over fifty festivals, book club meets and book stores talking about the dysfunctional Ward/Brunson clan and sharing what she describes as the great adventure of writing as a career.

Book preview

The Ides of March, 1999

1

Volly Brunson wakes at six with a sour taste in her mouth, angry still over what happened the day before. She needs to run. She dresses, leaves the house quietly, unobserved. At the end of the long driveway, she turns, looks back, sees her history in the allée of giant willow oaks standing guard like ancestral ghosts, protecting the family seat. The house glows eerily in the pre-dawn light. She sighs, clamps her blond hair into a ponytail, and leans against one of the square brick pillars that flank the entrance, stretching her hamstrings. Just above her head, she notices that ivy has overgrown the granite plaque incised with the word Montvue.

Not good, she thinks. They’ve let things slide. The mills too, I’ll bet. They’re giving up. Well I’m not.

She stretches her arms over her head, pulls her shirt down, begins to jog. She tells herself to focus on this day, this morning, this run. It’s Wednesday. Enough time to set a new course and get to Philly on Friday, but it will be tight. The few street lights in the quiet neighborhood dim as the sky lightens. She gets a rhythm going on the asphalt, cuts off the street onto a well-traveled path through an empty field of scrub pines and knee-high grasses. She skirts the edge of a backyard scattered with bicycles, swings, and slides, wonders what life with children would be like, wonders if she will ever know for herself. She bites her lower lip, then remembers it’s an unconscious anxiety reflex she’s trying to subdue.

Up a slight incline, the front nine holes of the country club golf course unroll before her, the fairways pristine, fragrant with the smell of moist Bermuda grass. No carts, no players in this soft gray hour before dawn. Open space ahead. She breathes deeply, lengthens her stride, runs full throttle, releasing the anger, the humiliation, the distaste. She thinks of his earlier messages, his emails full of empty excuses. A sudden impulse. One last fling. Scared of commitment. Taking that first call was a mistake.

-I can’t let you go like this. I’ll be on the next plane.

-Do it and the sheriff will meet you.

At the number five tee she feels her cell phone vibrating. She checks the number, deletes the call. The phone vibrates again five minutes later. Too soon for him to call again. Must be Mica. She slows down to a fast walk and lets the call go to voice mail, then listens. Her stomach churns at the sound of his voice.

-You know my parents are flying in for the engagement party. Come back. Just for the party. Afterwards, if you still feel the way you do, I’ll let you go. But right now we’ve got to save face.

She calls him, so angry she can hardly speak.

-Let me go? Save face? What kind of insensitive jackass are you? You knew my one rule and you broke it. You bastard. I caught you.

-Volly. I love you. Doesn’t that matter? What am I supposed to tell our guests next weekend?

-You’re so damn impressed with the South. Tell them I send my regrets and the immortal sentiments of Rhett Butler. Frankly, my dear…

She stops at the water fountain outside the pro shop, splashes her face, wipes it with a bandana. No tears, just sweat. She tosses the phone into a handy trash can.

By the time she gets back to Montvue, she feels better. The run has accomplished its purpose. She needs to shower, to get the long day ahead rolling, but the grass is silver with dew and the osmanthus smells familiar and sweet. The sun, a huge orange ball, rises behind her, casting the house in a warm theatrical light she loves. The howling wind that blew in with her last night has slacked to a pleasant breeze. At the far end of the driveway she sees Jesse, Montvue’s groundskeeper and jack-of-all-trades, out already, gathering fallen limbs and debris, cleaning up.

Me too, Jesse. I’ve got some cleaning up to do myself. So what if the New York crowd, or anybody for that matter, judges her reaction as peculiar or callous. She doesn’t care. She will work her way through this debacle on her own. Eventually the disbelief, the embarrassment will morph into indifference. Everything passes. Eventually.

Mica was right about him. I should have listened to her. I should have known. It’s done now. Close call. Move on.

She feels relief, not disappointment or sadness. She blames her upbringing, growing up in a society where marriage follows college as surely as thread follows a needle. She rejects regret, feeding instead on the freshness of the morning. So much green after six years of gray city streets energizes her and she decides to take a cool-down walk around the house.

Montvue’s gardens, featured in at least one magazine, newspaper, or television home show every spring, are about to peak. Soon, too soon, photographers will begin to appear without invitation, snapping photographs of azalea varieties grown to massive proportions in full glorious bloom. Her uncle, Sam Ward, the lord of the manor, as she calls him, hates the invasion. She sympathizes, perhaps because he is a paraplegic, or perhaps because she shares his distaste for having her privacy violated. She smiles to herself, laughs when he tells her he’s called the police again, most recently when a whole family strolled in and set up a picnic on the front lawn. Damn bunch of crazies, he said.

To Volly, Montvue is not so much the imposing, elegant mansion others see, but a comfortable, traditional Southern house. Nothing like the McMansions she saw in California. Big, yes. But to Volly, homey. The setting is perfection. In front and around to the north, azaleas in well-mulched beds are blossoming, mostly the freckled crimsons and variegated magentas. They mass at the back stairs to the kitchen door where a paved path lined with miniature boxwood leads to the pool and the pool house. She walks around Sam’s bedroom wing, stops for a moment to admire the configuration, the way the deck has been designed to create an outdoor living room with doors to Sam’s wing on her left, to the butler’s pantry, the sunroom, and the office, as well as the living room. A great house for entertaining. Good flow.

She hops over the hedge, crosses a swath of grass, sidesteps the beds of daffodils and narcissuses, and heads for the park beyond. For two hundred yards or more, a broad terraced lawn rolls gently downhill to a half-acre lake. Towering pines, trimmed high for filtered shade, mix with thick-trunked hard woods, their sturdiness softened by flurries of white dogwood. Volly knows the names of the old reliable hybrid azaleas—Formosa, Mrs. G.G. Gerbings, George Lindley Taber—assured bloomers that range in color from blushing pink through delicate orchid to purple, spiked by the more brilliant hot pinks. The season at Montvue begins early and runs late. As an adult, she has come to understand the careful planning, along with continual maintenance, necessary for a project of this magnitude. The attention to detail connects with her sense of organization and structure. She appreciates the way each island of color reflects the planner’s eye for compatibility and sequential blooming.

That eye belonged to Dolly Ward, her grandmother, dead ten years this October. She hears Dolly’s voice repeating the names—Formosa, Gerbings, Tabor. Volly’s favorites, the blazing golden orange native varieties, flower later.

Like me. I’m a later bloomer.

She feels a new calmness seep into her body and her mind. Dolly Ward shaped the gardens for harmony and serenity, to soothe the distractions and clutter of her life, a gift to those who are perceptive enough to see. For the first time, Volly understands her grandmother’s intention.

She follows the driveway to the south lawn where she can see across the lake to the jasmine-covered gazebo. When he visited, she took him there, showed him the place where she’d stashed her treasures. A sand dollar from Pawleys Island, a giant pine cone from her first horse show in Southern Pines, hawk feathers she collected at the lake house in Dacus. He had kissed her, run his hands up under her shirt, wanted to make love, but she stopped him. Why? They had been sleeping together for months. He argued, pouted. Didn’t understand the gift of intimacy she offered. That should have been a clue. The relationship was out of kilter from the beginning. Now she understands. Events fall into place, explaining themselves.

She pulls her head high and stretches her shoulders back. She tells herself she is both Ward and Brunson and this is where she belongs, where her strength lies. She will have to start over. New York, her former fiancé, her mistakes, she will put it all behind her. She hesitates at the top of the park a moment longer. Where she is standing, here, on this spot. When she was twelve years old, she told her grandmother, this will be the perfect place for my wedding.

Irony. Typical Gen X reaction.

She turns away from the lake, the gazebo, remembers a Sunday school lesson from years ago. When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I thought as a child…

2

Volly sets herself up in the library before seven. For four hours she mines the new material Sam has saved for her, papers she missed during her original research the preceding summer. She needs to update her knowledge on current conditions in the textile and apparel industries, and do it quickly. She finds more unionizing within the apparel industry, less in textiles. Periodicals and reference books she pulled off the shelves litter the floor surrounding the mammoth desk that belonged to her great-grandfather.

She is looking for practical ideas, for openings where Ward Mills, Inc., might recreate itself, challenges for increasing income and diversification, and opportunities where she might bring her ideas into the company. The library doors behind her stand open, but Volly loses herself in the work, oblivious to the sounds of an awakening household until she hears the familiar metallic click-click, the sound of Sam’s wheelchair. He has rolled out from his wing of the house onto the deck. She looks at her watch, realizes he is later than usual. Another bad sign. Sam is her touchstone, her friend, the age difference between them insignificant, the concern mutual, taken for granted. Like religion and sex, the Ward family considers it tactless and intrusive to talk about feelings. As a child, she watched the adults around her stuff their emotions deeper and deeper inside, until those feelings, so long denied, burst out in uncontrolled behavior, misdirected anger, or meanness. She fears she harbors the same inclinations, in her case reflected in impatience and impetuousness. Sam understands her. She can say anything to Sam.

She watches as he rolls forward into the unusually warm March morning. He comes to rest, locks the brakes of his chair, throws his head back, and closes his eyes. She can see steam rising from the coffee mug attached to the arm of his chair.

Now that’s normal. Annie has brought his coffee. He knows I’m here.

As the hall clock strikes eleven, she calls out a good morning. Sam grunts a response.

-I thought you were skiing in Vermont this week.

-I hit a wall. The job, the commute to Philly every other weekend. I stressed out.

-Ha. Serves you right. Going back to school at your age.

Volly hears Sam’s habitual semi-coughing sound, the closest thing to a real laugh he can produce given his limited lung capacity. She manages to deny the implications, anticipating the ritual established years before when she spent her last two years of high school living at Montvue. She can count on Sam for an hour or so of coffee, disparaging comments on the news of the day, and allusions that never address family issues except indirectly.

-I’ll be out in a minute.

She goes out through the pantry where Annie has left lunch for her, carries her tray out, and sets it on the nearest of two wrought-iron tables. The heavy chair growls against the deck planks when she pulls it out to sit.

Sam flinches at the sound.

-Sorry. She has forgotten. Sam often wakes with a headache, his senses overly acute when he arises, the result of chronic insomnia and medication. His morning voice is raspy.

-Lunch? So early?

-I’ve been up a while.

Volly picks up a brochure from her tray, glances at it, and waves it at Sam.

-What’s this? Looks like some sort of racist screed.

-Oh Lord. It’s Annie. I just talked to Jesse yesterday. He says it’s the church they go to up in Dacus. Evangelical white trash. Red neck. Whatever you want to call it. Not enough black people in the whole county to cause any trouble, but Annie thinks they’re out to get her and all the rest of us white folks.

-Is it her age, maybe? Dementia? Paranoia?

-She’s answered the call. Sam raises his eyebrows and points skyward.

-I don’t care where she got the message. We don’t want this trash in the house and we don’t our staff handling it out.

-C’mon Volly. We can’t be responsible for the attitudes of the people who work for us.

-Why not?

-You want me to go after somebody who’s been with this family since before you were born? Let Jesse handle it. He’s married to her. Changing the subject, who’s this friend you’ve been telling me about? The one with the foreign name?

-I told you the last time we talked. Mica. It’s pronounced Mee-ka. Short for Michaela. I’ve got a picture of us together. Hang on a minute.

Volly goes into the office and returns with a large Coach shoulder bag, talking while she digs through the contents.

-We should have her down sometime. Here, look. We took this one afternoon at one of those photo booths in Grand Central. Aren’t we adorable?

-She’s black.

-You noticed. I don’t think I could have made it at Wharton without her. She’s been wonderful and I won’t have her embarrassed by seeing stuff like this if she comes to visit.

Volly waves the pamphlet again, tears it in half, and stuffs it into her hand bag. Sam sips his coffee while Volly takes a bite of her sandwich. In the silence, a large tabby cat appears from under the deck, yawns, hops up onto the ramp, and looks around as if he owns the place. Volly stops eating. She fingers the light scar on her right arm left by a barn cat when she was fourteen, recalling the blood poisoning that followed. The cat zigzags toward them, two steps forward, a backward glance, then two more steps toward Volly. He pauses at her feet, sits, looks up, and sniffs.

-Why do cats always cozy up to people who don’t like them? This one looks like a Maine coon cat. Big. Expensive. He must belong to somebody in the neighborhood.

-Don’t think so. He’s a free spirit. Comes and goes. Whatcha got? Tuna salad? That makes you irresistible. Give the nice kitty a bite.

Volly shrugs, breaks off a corner of her sandwich and gives it to the cat who accepts it delicately, claws retracted.

-I see you’re not wearing the ring.

-Aren’t you observant.

-Lose it?

-Sort of. It’s probably back in a case at Tiffany’s by now. The wedding’s off.

-Ha. So that’s what brings you to my humble abode in the middle of the night on a Tuesday. Came home to lick your wounds, did ya? Too bad. I liked that New York guy.

-You did not.

-Okay. Truth be told, I didn’t think he was up to you. What happened?

-You don’t want to know.

-Must have been your decision. You don’t seem upset.

Volly laughs. Out loud this time.

-You’re just disappointed you’re not getting rid of me.

-How old are you now, twenty-nine, thirty?

-Sam. You know good and well I’m thirty-two.

-And havin’ so much fun, aren’t ya?

-What can I tell you? My life’s been busy. I thought the PR job would be a breeze but the folks at Textiles International have insane expectations and they don’t pay me what I’m worth. Then there’s going to school. I like that part. Can’t believe we’ll be finished in three weeks. Might be looking for a better job. Anybody around here hiring?

-You’re serious this time? You want to work for Ward Mills?

-Yup.

-Ha. I figured we were your backup plan. When you mentioned the possibility last summer, I thought you were pulling my leg.

-Ooooo. I’m not up for paraplegic humor today.

Volly finishes her sandwich. Washes it down with tea.

-You look so serious. What’s the matter?

-Are you sure you want to come home to work? It’s not because of the breakup?

-I’m sure.

-Well. Reece would be proud.

-I know. It’s hard to believe it’s been three years since he died.

-He was crazy about you.

-The last time I saw him he was still pushing me toward the MBA. I was antsy, indecisive. He told me I was going to need everything I’d learn and then some. I didn’t dream I’d never see him again. About Reece and what he left us. I’m not so keen on this guy you and Dad hired.

-You’ve met him once and already you don’t like him.

-I’m just saying. He’s a lawyer. All lawyers are dull. Except Reece.

-Don’t start with me about Hughes Dixon. He’s working out fine. There’s a lot of hassle connected with being somebody’s handpicked successor. Reece chose him for a reason. He’s handled himself well. He’s smart and well-connected. One of his law school buddies is the editor of the state business magazine. He's asked him to write a memorial tribute to Dolly. I hope you’ll co-operate.

-Do I have a choice?

-Just behave yourself. It’s a good play. Hughes will get us a feature spot and maybe even a cover picture.

-You don’t think Dolly would mind being used?

-Not if it’s good for us. Right now the foundation needs publicity as much as the company does.

-I thought the foundation was doing just fine.

-It is. But we can use more public awareness. We’ll have to start raising money when Dolly’s trust matures in October if we want the principal to grow.

-Got it. I just think you picked the wrong man to present the story.

Volly breaks off a chunk of the chocolate chip cookie, watched carefully, but politely, by the cat. She keeps her eye on him.

-Has Dad ever said anything to you about my coming to work for Ward Mills?

-One of his dreams. He pretty much gave up hope when you got engaged. ’Course, he didn’t think you’d finish Wharton either and here you are. We both figured you’d stay in New York. You never said anything about a long-range plan. Follow-through has not been one of your finer character traits.

-Ouch. Volly wonders if they will add a broken engagement to her list of abandoned projects.

-Okay. Well then. How about if I ask him over for dinner so I can explain to both of you?

-You don’t have to prove anything to us.

-Except maybe that I’m a responsible human being?

-You’re obsessive compulsive. Typical Ward bullshit. And your mother? You’re not like her at all?

-Sorry, Sam, but she is an alcoholic and a whiner. Bad role model. And your brothers aren’t much better. Warren and Chip, both of them dissipated and self-centered. How did you turn out to be such a sweetheart?

-Jeez-us. No respect for your elders and suckin’ up to boot. A little encouragement on your part would go a long way, ya know. With your mother.

-Not my problem.

-Just a suggestion.

-What? You want me to run up to the farm and check on the empties in the trash can? If she’s really stopped drinking, we’ll all know soon enough.

Volly realizes from the tightness around Sam’s mouth that she has gone too far. She stands, pushing her chair away from the table. The cat, spooked by the sound, leaps into Sam’s lap. Sam strokes him and looks up at Volly without smiling, his eyes narrow.

-You’ve gotten hard living with all those Yankees. Your mother’s my twin, my baby sister. I hope she makes it this time. You should too.

Volly is touched and a little embarrassed.

-Heavy mood for such a beautiful today.

-I’m just an old man who wants some peace. And whatever’s best for you.

-I love you too. Gotta get back to work. Paper due this weekend. I’m flying to Philly on Friday night. Oh. I called my brother this morning. He seems to like living at the farm. He wants me to get some information on a small tech company in the Valley. I thought I’d email them for a phone interview. Geez. I need a new phone. Is there a store at the mall?

-I got mine at Best Buy. Why didn’t Billy ask me or your dad about this tech company?

-Do you have an MBA from Wharton?

-No and neither do you. Yet.

-Ask him when he comes by this afternoon. He’s bringing some information for me to look over. I don’t know what motivates my brother. Never have. Will you tell Annie? Please? About dinner? She’s put out with me. I didn’t get into town until after midnight and I had to wake them up to unlock the house. Forgot my key.

-Okay, all right. Got my work all cut for me doncha?

The cat jumps from Sam’s lap onto the table where Volly has left her tray. She shoos him off.

-Hey. Beat it. You don’t let that cat in the house, do you? He should be neutered if he isn’t already. If he’s going to hang around here…

-Go. Write your paper. Find something else to do besides nag me and bug my friend. Go buy a new phone. What happened to the old one?

-Never mind. One