Heart of Ice

Chapter Thirty

Dixon, Tennessee

Even though she lived in the inland region of Washington, Jenna Kenyon knew she was a kind of a geographic snob when it came to her idea of natural beauty. After her parents tried to make a last stand in their marriage by leaving Seattle for her mom’s childhood home in Cherrystone, she reluctantly allowed herself to see some beauty in the arid part of a state split in two by the jagged edge of the Cascade Mountains.

Before she started traveling and actually seeing the “middle” parts of the country, she figured there was no compelling reason to go there. If there wasn’t a coastline, what was there to look at? When she took the job with Beta Zeta national offices, she had her eye on the West Coast. She imagined herself touring campuses in California, Oregon, Arizona, and even Washington. She thought of foggy days in San Francisco, surfing in Malibu, hiking in the Sierras. Shopping in Portland, where there was no sales tax, was also very, very appealing to a young woman on a squeaky-tight budget.

It just didn’t work out that way.

“Congratulations, Jenna, we want you to be our newest national consultant,” the call from some woman in the personnel offices of the headquarters. “We have a very special assignment for you, my dear.”

Jenna, who was at home when the call came through, motioned to her mother and mouthed the words “I got the job.”

Emily put her arms in the air and mouthed back “wonderful.”

Jenna’s face fell as the woman on the phone detailed the specifics.

“You’ll be the consultant for the Southern region, including Mississippi, Alabama, Florida, Tennessee, and Kentucky.”

“But I applied for the West Coast,” Jenna said, barely concealing her disappointment.

“I know, dear. But we’re trying to lead the way in geographic diversity. Diversity of all kinds is important to being the best we can be.”

At first it almost seemed an offer she could refuse. Alabama? Mississippi? Neither were places she’d ever imagined visiting if she lived to be a hundred. She’d have considered giving New Orleans a shot, but Katrina and the fact that there were no BZ houses on any campus there kept her from at least a little bit of Southern glamour.

Six months into the job, Jenna knew how foolish she’d been. She’d come to appreciate the warmth of the people of the South, a region in which it seemed there were no strangers. She loved the food, too. If eating real-crispy-buttermilk-soaked fried chicken and corn cakes meant an extra lap at the track that was fine with her.

With her mother immersed in the Mandy Crawford case, Shali drove Jenna to the Spokane airport for the flight to Nashville. It was a Friday morning and the next day had a full slate of things that needed her attention.

“I’d like to tell those old ladies in the BZ office that these girls have no interest in being the best sorority in America.”

“When we were at Cascade, we didn’t care either,” Shali said, digging a candy bar from her purse with both hands—while she drove.

“Right. I know.”

“You don’t have to do this much longer.” Shali pulled over at the passenger drop-off zone. A taxi honked and she resisted the urge to raise her middle finger.

Jenna smiled at her best friend. “I know. See you in a couple of weeks. Hey, maybe we’ll have a wedding to plan for the spring.”

Shali looked very interested. “Your mom’s going to finally say yes to Chris?”

“I think so. I hope so.”

“If she doesn’t I might. He’s old, but he’s kind of hot, don’t you think?”

Jenna rolled her eyes. “Shali, what am I going to do with you?”

Shali grinned and checked her makeup in the mirror. “Same thing as always. Keep an eye on me.”

Jenna hugged her best friend and disappeared into the airport with a smile on her face and the feeling that despite her faults, her inappropriateness, her over-the-top behavior, Shali Patterson was a pretty good friend.

Jenna Kenyon had checked out the Dixon campus online and surfed a little on the Web about the region. Of course, all the images were of summer festivals, baskets of flowers, green lawns, and rose-covered fences. Even in the dead of winter, she could see that the rolling hillsides and massive oaks were the bones of a scenic region. Dixon, a town of 30,000, was halfway between Nashville and Knoxville on Interstate 40.

Jenna was more indie rock than Carrie Underwood, but she let the radio feed her the local flavor as she drove east. It wasn’t a hard job that she had to do, and it wasn’t the end of all of her career aspirations.

The flight from Spokane to Seattle to Nashville took forever and by the time she’d picked up her car from the Alamo lot and drove to the campus, she was beat. Although it was dark, a fresh layer of snow brightened the somewhat familiar drive. Last time she’d been to the house there, it had been summertime. It was actually easier to make out where she was with the canopy of leafy trees that were now dormant. Giant red oak trees defiantly clung to their shriveled, leathery leaves. She turned off the highway and drove toward campus.

She saw a couple of girls in short skirts walking without coats up toward the library, cell phones pressed to their ears and puffs of warm air coming from their mouths.

Don’t they know it’s cold outside? she thought, which made her feel like she was her mother. It was funny how much sense her mother made now when she observed the behavior of the kids younger than her.

Parking was always a disaster on campus, and she was glad when she got the message that she’d have a spot in the lot next to the steps to the front door.

With its half-timbered gables, narrow windows, and mix of light and dark masonry, Beta Zeta House was one of those faux Tudors that were inexplicably fashionable in 1930s America—even in a place like the South where they had no connection to anything. It had such a steeply pitched roof that workers who cleaned the gutters lashed themselves to the massive chimney because slipping on a slate roof almost guaranteed death or lifetime in a wheelchair. Unlike some of the other houses along the fringes of Greek Row, the BZ house had been built specifically for its purpose as a sorority. That meant on the main level it had a large living/meeting room, a cafeteria/dining room, and a lounge (originally it had been used for music, but playing piano and violin had been supplanted by watching Oprah and reality shows that would have made the sisters of the past cringe).

The basement level was outfitted with three dozen study carrels, and three refrigerators with diet soda in the front and a not-so-secret cache of beer in the very back.

The upper level was dominated by a sleeping porch which was nothing more than a darkened formation of bunk beds, like some kind of hospital ward with Hello Kitty sheets.

Two large dormitory-style bathrooms commanded the end of each hallway with a stash of pink and blue flip-flops in rambling rows stationed just inside each doorway. One pair was high-heeled because its owner said her feet hurt “even in the shower” if she was not in heels.

“It’s what I’m used to!” she said as if high heels were a mark of fortitude and not fashion.

Adjacent to the sweeping staircase were four bedrooms, two to the right and two to the left. The largest belonged to the housemother; the other two were small and used by the highest-ranking women of the house caste system—the president, Sheraton Wilkes, and the social director, Midori Cassidy, who was the only Asian in the house. The fourth was the guest room, reserved for visiting moms, sorority alumnae, and representatives from the regional or national offices.

Midori, who never missed the opportunity for a social event, put up a sign shaped like a big pink heart on the front door.

WELCOME BIG SIS, JENNA!

“LET’S GET BEEZEE!”

She parked and noticed that she had a message on her phone.

It was her mom, of course.

“Hope you had a good flight. Call me when you get in. Chris got on a website called ‘flight tracker’ and says your plane was on time. Call me. Love you.”

There wasn’t time to call her mother back just then. She closed the phone, grabbed her bags, pulled her coat tightly around her, and started up the steps. The sign on the door made her smile as she turned the brass knob and breathed in the smells of a meal about to be served.

She didn’t see the man in the lot, four cars down from where she’d parked.

Of all the BZ cooks, Glenna Tyler was probably the worst. It wasn’t that there was a whole lot of competition, either. Most of the women who served as cooks for the sorority houses did so to make ends meet. They had children of their own to feed, but the job serving the more privileged set was a means to an end. If the housemothers or directors actually cared about their charges—and most did—the cooks just wanted to heat and serve.

Glenna was fixing her infamous “Tot Bar” meal that night. Tot Bar was five large bags of frozen tater tots paired with a variety of condiments—ketchup, cheese, chili, and sour cream.

That was it.

“The least she could do is deep-fry them,” said the token plus-size sister, Jasmine Rhoades, a recent pledge who hadn’t yet tired of the meal.

In time she would, for sure.

“Wait until you try her minipizzas,” said Sheraton Wilkes, a pretty blonde with flawless skin and the kind of long legs that looked good even in capris—even in winter. Sheraton introduced herself as she found a seat next to Jenna. “Glenna toasts English muffins and we top them with, you know, basically the same stuff we have here.”

The familiar content of the conversation made Jenna smile. She’d been there. Done that. She smiled at a probable anorexic named Julie Lynn and took a seat.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Jenna Kenyon. I’m here from Nationals. I’m going to help out with the community involvement plans for the chapter.”

“Won’t be much to do,” Julie Lynn said, moving a tater tot from one side of her plate to the other, like it was a hockey puck. She picked it up with her fingers and dabbed it into the ketchup. It never found its way into her mouth. Just back and forth, in and out.

“Why’s that?” Jenna sat down.

“We do Relay for Life and Black History Month.”

Jenna wondered why it was these young women, these supposed “future leaders,” didn’t have a bit more imagination. In fact, any imagination whatsoever.

“Those are great causes,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “but Nationals would like us—all of us sisters—to try to do a little more.”

“You mean more than Date Dash and Love Cruise on the river?”

Jenna nodded. “Yes, more than that.”

Sheraton looked around the dining room and waited for everyone to stop their chatter and focus their attention up front, on her. Even a girl who had been measuring the number of tator tots that she could fit into a small plastic cup stopped.

“Sisters, our special guest has arrived from Nationals! Everyone, I want you all to welcome Jenna Kenyon.”

There was a round of polite applause and Jenna stood up.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m glad to be here. I look forward to working with you tomorrow when we look at solutions to make our pledge drive more effective next year. You are an amazing group of young women. We can make this house even better if we work together.”

Jenna hated the speech. But the women at Nationals wanted her to improve the quality of the sisters there, or the place would be shut down. It was that simple.

“We’ll be meeting at eight a.m. sharp. I expect you all to be there.”