Читать книгу Moonrise - Cassandra King - Страница 12

ARS POETICA

Naturally, Noel parks as far away from the building as possible, and I cut my eyes his way. “Wish I’d known we’d be walking all the way from Cashiers. I would’ve worn my hiking boots instead of heels,” I say between clenched teeth. From the backseat, Kit giggles.

“Maybe Noel’s trying to tell us we need the exercise,” she suggests.

“Or maybe he’s just being a turd,” I retort.

Noel sighs heavily. “Tansy, Tansy, Tansy. Might I remind you that the last time we came here, you also wore those ridiculous shoes that make you look like an Amazon warrior—”

With a gasp, Kit leans forward to slap his shoulder. “Those are the best-looking Jimmy Choos she owns, Noel Clements! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Like that’s ever stopped him,” I mutter as I fumble with the latch of the door.

Noel continues as though neither of us has spoken. “—and I drove you up to the front door so you wouldn’t have to walk on the gravel. You flat-out refused to get out because—according to you—nobody but blue-haired ladies are driven to the front door.”

My cheeks flame, remembering. I’d totally forgotten. God, I hate it when Noel’s right. Trying to save face, I say haughtily, “Yeah, but that was different.”

I get out of the car quickly before he can ask me why, because I can’t think of a single reason. While I’m holding the seat up so Kit can get out, Noel slams out of the driver’s side with a huff. One of his pet peeves, when I don’t wait for him to open the door for me. His manners are so much a part of him that I feel a twinge of guilt, aggravating him like that. Then another twinge, witnessing Kit crawling awkwardly out of the backseat of Noel’s little hybrid. When we stopped by her place to pick her up, I hopped out and held the passenger seat up for her to get in the back. Noel shot me a look of amusement, which I ignored. Good manners dictate that I go in the backseat, but Kit’s half my size. Why should I fold myself up like a pretzel so she could have more room than needed in the front seat? By the time Kit has gotten herself out and smoothed down her knee-length skirt, Noel has come around the car to elbow me out of the way. Always the gentleman, he lends a helping hand as Kit adjusts the sheer shawl draped around her shoulders.

Kit tosses her head, and I note how pretty she looks tonight. A nearby streetlamp, as muted and understated as everything else at the art center, catches the glint of the exquisite diamonds in her earlobes. She could always sell those, I realize, if her situation gets any worse. Kit has never been good at finances, but she’s really gotten herself in a mess this time. Somehow she’s managed to blow every cent her last husband, whom we now refer to as Poor Old Al, left her. To be fair, a lot of it went to lawyers. Understandably, Poor Old Al’s kids weren’t exactly happy with the terms of their father’s will, and Kit had no choice but to fight them in court. She’s been in court more in the last few years than most judges have.

With a mock bow, Noel offers one arm to Kit and the other to me, but Kit freezes in place. Her eyes dart toward the entrance of the Bascom Visual Arts Center, then back to Noel and me. In a whisper, she says, “Don’t look now, but you’re not going to believe what she’s wearing.”

When Noel and I both turn our heads toward the entrance like spectators at a tennis match, Kit hisses, “I said don’t look!” Since I’d expected to see Myna in one of her artsy-fartsy outfits that we love making fun of, I’m surprised (and a tad disappointed) to see Emmet and the Bride instead. He, of course, caring much more for the Bride than Noel does for me, has parked close, which gives us the perfect opportunity to watch from a distance as they stroll arm in arm toward the entrance. It shakes me up, the way Emmet is looking at his new wife, and I feel an almost unbearable pang of grief for Rosalyn. As long as I’ve known Emmet, that besotted look has been reserved for Rosalyn alone.

I glance at Kit, and the look on her face breaks my heart. Noel’s gaze catches mine, and holds. He, too, has seen the grief in Kit’s expression, but there’s nothing either of us can say to comfort her. The cold, hard facts are simple: Rosalyn is gone, and another woman has taken her place. A flood of anger sweeps over me as I turn to stare at the newlyweds. Damn Emmet Justice to hell—how dare he flaunt his new love like this? It’s bad enough how he rubs it in our faces, those of us who still grieve for Rosalyn, but to appear like this in Highlands, where she and her family were so highly revered, is even worse. Everybody in town had plenty to say about him remarrying with his late wife dead less than a year; I can only imagine the talk about the young wife and the way Emmet can’t keep his hands off her. I reach over to pat Kit’s arm, and she smiles at me weakly. “Well,” she says in a small voice. “The show must go on, I suppose.”

My eyes return to Helen, wondering what Kit meant about the Bride’s choice of clothing. So far, it’s been the tropical look of her wardrobe that Kit and I dish about—the skimpy sundresses and short little skirts, the tank tops and garish floral prints. I’ve longed to ask her if she’s ever heard of Lilly Pulitzer, who does tropical with class. Think Palm Beach rather than the Daytona racetrack, I’ve wanted to suggest. But tonight, the Bride looks unusually presentable in a simple black sheath, a colorful but elegant shawl, and tasteful jewelry. When it hits me what Kit was referring to, I turn to her wide-eyed.

Kit nods grimly, her greenish eyes glittering. “She’s wearing Rosalyn’s necklace.”

We’ve begun to walk toward the front, with Noel between us, and he pauses to look down at Kit. Uncharacteristically, the three of us pay no attention to the other well-dressed patrons as they glide gaily by us, chattering among themselves.

“Helen is?” Noel asks, looking genuinely puzzled.

“Of course, nitwit,” I whisper. “Who the hell do you think she meant—Myna?”

Noel raises his head to study Emmet and Helen curiously, and his expression remains neutral. Because Kit’s with us, he won’t admonish me like he usually does for trash-talking Emmet’s new wife, but his expression tells me more than he knows. Even Noel, cool and unflappable as always, is taken aback. Rosalyn had several pieces of fine jewelry, mostly heirlooms, but none she loved as much as an unusual gold locket that Emmet got her in Cuba. He’d bought it on the sly from a Cuban aristocrat who had hidden it away since the fall of Batista. Although Rosalyn never wore it—its heavy, ornate design didn’t suit her—she adored both the necklace and the story behind it, especially the risks Emmet took smuggling it out of the country. That he would give Rosalyn’s most treasured piece of jewelry to someone other than Annie is appalling.

“And isn’t that Rosalyn’s shawl, too? The one he got her in Cuba to go with the necklace?” I ask Kit, but it’s Noel who answers me.

“Oh, come on, you two,” he groans. “The necklace is one thing, but Rosalyn would never begrudge the poor girl a shawl. I for one can’t stand to see her shivering every night. If Emmet hadn’t gotten her some kind of wrap, I would’ve done so myself.”

“At least the shawl’s covered up the cleavage,” I mutter, and Noel chuckles.

“That’s the only reason I haven’t gotten her a wrap,” he says, and Kit pokes him with her elbow, giggling.

The three of us watch as Emmet and Helen disappear into the crowd inside. The front of the Bascom is solid glass, so we can observe them for a moment as they mingle with the crowd, Emmet taking Helen around to introduce her. It occurs to me that this is their first public appearance at a social venue in Highlands. Everybody is curious to meet the woman who made Emmet Justice forget his grief, especially since most of them know how close that grief came to killing him.

“C’mon,” I say to Noel and Kit, motioning for them to hurry. “We can’t miss this.”

Dutifully, both pick up their pace, but Noel says, “What we cannot miss is poor Linc. We should’ve gotten here earlier to help him get settled, but I didn’t think there would be such a crowd. We’ve never had a turnout like this for a reading. Even for the poet laureate last year, remember?”

I shake my head at his naïveté, unusual for Noel. “Poor baby. Everyone came tonight because they knew Emmet would bring the new wife.” Another thought hits me, and I groan. “Oh, Jesus! Myna will think the crowd is for her, and she’ll be more insufferable than ever.”

“Not possible, my dear,” Noel says drily.

“She’s so transparent it makes me want to puke,” Kit chimes in. “Noel takes Linc everywhere we go, except tonight for her poetry reading. Oh, no—she insists on doing it herself. I can only imagine how she carried on bringing him in, can’t y’all? The long-suffering, devoted wife, taking care of her pitiful husband all by her lonesome! And where are those sorry friends of theirs, everyone will be asking? You’d think the least they could do is help the poor woman out with her burden.”

“Beverly Howell and Keturah Paulk are right inside the door,” I tell them breathlessly. “We can get the scoop from them if you two will just hurry your butts up.”

“One good thing about Myna,” Noel says with a sly grin. “She’s managed to get the two of you to shut up about Helen.”

“Not to worry,” I call out as I make a rush for the front door. “Beverly and Keturah will have plenty to tell us about her, too.”

Once inside the Bascom, Kit and I are surrounded by our women friends, eager to gossip about Emmet’s new bride now that she and Emmet are no longer in sight, having left for the lecture room right before we entered. Kissing cheeks and pumping hands like a politician up for reelection, Noel makes his way through the crowd toward the lecture room, where Linc is being held captive by his doting wife. It’s Myna’s big night, when she honors Highlands not only with her presence but also with a reading of her weird, obtuse poetry, and she’s in full-bitch mode. Kit’s right; Myna’s insistence on bringing Linc herself doesn’t fool anyone . . . except Linc, I guess. For the umpteenth time I wonder what happens to the brain of an otherwise über-intelligent man when a woman is involved. Say what you will about the dumb things women do for love, at least we don’t think with our peckers, and wouldn’t even if we had one, I hope.

As expected, the women, and even some of the men, are tsk-tsking about the Bride, now that they have Kit and me to commiserate. “My God, Tansy—how old is she?” Beverly Howell asks in a horrified whisper. “I heard she wasn’t much older than Annie.”

“Surely she’s not pregnant!” Keturah Paulk says, putting a hand to her mouth.

It’s tempting to let that rumor float, but I reluctantly tell the middle-aged crowd gathered around us that Helen is older than she looks, in her mid-forties, with a son about Annie’s age. It’s safe to say that she’s past childbearing age. “Guess it’s healthy eating that keeps her so youthful-looking,” I throw out casually. “She’s a dietician, you know.”

This brings about the reaction I’d aimed for, and I wish Noel were here to witness my vindication. John Jeffers, one of my closest—and gayest—buddies, guffaws in delight. “Emmet Justice married to a dietician? That’d be like me marrying a gay-bashing right-winger, wouldn’t it?”

Eyes round, Kathy Manning leans forward to whisper, “Does she allow Emmet to drink? He’s always been a heavy drinker, as all of us know.”

“One glass of red wine at dinnertime,” I tell her. It’s a bald-faced lie, but I cannot resist, especially since Noel’s not here to correct me, and Kit sure won’t.

“Maybe I could send her over to straighten out my husband,” Anne Sullivan says, and everyone laughs, including her husband, Claude. But Bootsie Woodruff, an influential dowager who’d been a close friend of Rosalyn’s mother, silences our laughter.

With her great dignity and full-throated drawl, Bootsie grabs the attention of the crowd when she proclaims in a loud voice, “Frankly, I find the whole thing appalling—just appalling! Rosalyn Harmon was the finest woman I’ve ever known, and this much-too-sudden marriage of Emmet’s is a disgrace to her precious memory. I refuse to speak to him or that girl, either one.”

Over Bootsie’s shoulder I see Noel motioning to me just outside the door of the lecture room, and I tug on Kit’s arm. We make our good-byes and the whispers follow us. Even though we’re out of earshot, I know the whispers are of sympathy and commiseration, unlike those that followed Emmet and Helen just moments before.

“Quit the gossiping and get your fannies in here,” Noel hisses when Kit and I reach the door. “They’re about to dim the lights.”

“I thought we had reserved seats,” Kit says with a frown as we make our way down the aisle, pausing only to wave at friends already seated.

“Oh, we do, darling.” Noel’s blue eyes twinkle with mischief. “The esteemed poet asked the ushers to reserve several for her dearest friends.”

“That would be us, then,” I mutter. “She sure as hell doesn’t have any others.”

Seeing Linc seated in the front row, his walker folded away next to him, I shut my trap. Emmet and Helen have already seated themselves on one side of him, Noel on the other. Naturally he hogged the end seat so Kit and I have to be next to Helen, and I signal Kit with my eyes that I’ll go first. That way, I’ll sit next to the lovebirds, and Kit won’t have to endure the sight of them pawing each other like teenagers. Their fingers are entwined, I note in disgust, and his leg is practically on top of hers. At least Noel will be pleased; the fringed Cuban shawl has slid down on the Bride’s tanned shoulders, exposing enough cleavage for the men seated near us to get an eyeful. Well, they’d better enjoy the view; there sure won’t be any once the poet appears.

Kit and I both stop to greet Linc before we take our seats, and I linger for a moment with my face pressed next to his, nuzzling his beard. He’s spruced up for the occasion, looking very professorial and distinguished. Those who don’t know about the stroke probably can’t see anything much different with him, especially with him seated. He’s made a really good recovery, considering the shape he was in, but I have to remind myself that I was in the waiting room after his surgery, when the doctor warned us to be cautiously optimistic. After you’ve had one episode like Linc had, he told us, the chances of having another quadruple . . . as do the chances of one being fatal.

I sit down to fan myself with the program, which is better than having to look at Myna’s picture on the front cover, grinning like a nun in a cucumber patch. Like everything else at the Bascom, the lecture room is top-notch, one of the classiest I’ve ever been in, and I’ve been in quite a few. A tuxedoed trio to the side of the stage area is playing Chopin’s Étude op. 10 no. 3, and the lectern’s decked with a spectacular arrangement of Casablanca lilies. After Kit and I take our seats, hypocrites that we are, both of us greet Emmet and the Bride with enough sweetness to gag a maggot. Up close, I’m shocked to see how tired Helen looks. If her exhaustion is from carrying out her wifely duties every night, she needs to plead a headache and get some rest. Otherwise, she’ll lose her looks before she reaches fifty. Her big brown eyes are dark-smudged and weary, and for the first time I notice a fine web of wrinkles in the corners, faint lines on either side of her mouth. There must be a God after all.

Emmet, on the other hand, looks better than I’ve ever seen him. Even though I’m downright disgusted with myself, I can’t help it—I like being seated near enough to watch him out of the corner of my eye. It’ll give me something to do instead of listening to Magpie’s reading. Besides, what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. I notice the men around us ogling Helen; it’s only fair that we women get to ogle Emmet. Emmet always attracts a crowd of admiring women. For a man who’s not even remotely good-looking, he has the most magnetism of anyone I’ve ever known. My God, I’ve known the man forever and still find him hot as a Fourth of July firecracker! It’s that intensity of his, I suppose, that draws women to him like bears to honey. Or maybe moths to flames would be a better analogy, for he’s a danger if there ever was one. He leans forward to wink at me, and damned if I don’t blush like a fool, fearing he read my mind.

The other chick magnet of our group, Noel the golden boy, is flitting around the room beside himself at the turnout. Naturally, goody two-shoes is helping the ushers (college kids who get paid to work here) set up extra chairs. You’d think the fool had never been on the board of an organization like the Bascom’s, instead of chairing some of the most illustrious charities and foundations in Atlanta, including the High Museum. Noel’s always been that way, so nice and humble it makes you want to throw up.

To my left, Helen lays a hand on my arm and bends over to whisper in my ear. While she asks me to identify some of the people around us, and I whisper my responses, my gaze is drawn to her neckline like a magnet. As bad as I hate to admit it, Rosalyn’s locket looks great on her, and I can see why Emmet wanted her to have it. I’ve always wondered if it hurt Emmet’s feelings, that Rosalyn never wore the necklace after all the trouble, and expense, it cost him to obtain it. His getting it made a good story, but the truth is, he could’ve been arrested for smuggling, and might still be locked away in a Cuban prison. I remember Rosalyn holding the necklace up to her throat and asking Kit and me what she should do. It wasn’t her, she said, but she adored it because Emmet thought so. Wear it, anyway, I’d advised her, even if only occasionally, but Kit talked her out of it. Make a point of telling Emmet how much you like it, was her suggestion, but for God’s sake, don’t wear the thing! It was heavy and gaudy and totally unsuitable for Rosalyn’s delicate frame. Since Kit always had more influence on Rosalyn than anyone else, that’s who she listened to.

Instead of being the chunky piece of jewelry I remember, the gold locket is actually rather exquisite, I see now, suitable for the grand Spanish contessa who once owned it. The ornate inlay on the heart, which Kit called garish, is bold and eye-catching. Mainly, the necklace suits Helen in a way it never did Rosalyn, probably because Helen’s warm coloring is more Mediterranean, while Rosalyn’s was pure Nordic. Dulcinea and Queen Gertrude, I think, rather enjoying my literary flight of fancy. Before I can take it any further, the lights dim, Noel takes his seat, and the audience settles in for an evening of high culture.

The ever-elegant George Landon, a close friend of Noel’s and one of my favorite escorts, takes the stage to introduce Myna Fielding-Varner, a poet of such renown (to hear George tell it) that Highlands should be genuflecting at the mere mention of her name. With a nod toward those of us in the front row, George tells the romantic story of how Dr. Fielding came to the University of Alabama as a lecturer several years ago, and how she was hosted by an equally renowned scholar, Dr. Linc Varner, chairperson of the visiting scholar program. In a story to equal the most romantic of Shakespeare’s sonnets, the poet and the lepidopterist fell in love, and the rest is history. When George says that New York’s loss was Alabama’s gain, I make a face at him. He knows what we think of Magpie. Kit pokes me with her elbow so often that I’m forced to scoot out of her reach.

After pointedly refusing to meet my eye, George reads a long, boring list of Myna’s many publications and awards, the most notable of which is the Pulitzer Prize. I groan inwardly hearing it, even though I knew it was coming. Getting the Pulitzer a few years ago made Myna more insufferable than ever, which I didn’t think possible. Noel, Emmet, and I often take bets on how long it will take Myna to “casually” drop it into a conversation: “I remember such-and-such because it was a few days after I was awarded the Pulitzer, wasn’t it, Poopsie?” Following a properly reverent silence for everyone to absorb the honor, George Landon brings the prize-winning poet forward to thunderous applause. Without turning my head his way, I can tell that Linc is applauding with great enthusiasm, despite a gimpy arm. Fortunately I didn’t eat anything before we came, or my stomach would be turning over like a turbine.

To my surprise Magpie looks almost pretty tonight, her face flushed at the sight of the large turnout and the welcoming applause. She’s wearing makeup for a change, and her kohl-lined eyes shine behind the granny glasses, which are perched on the tip of her sharp little nose. Taking the podium, she smiles and nods again and again, like a bobblehead doll. I assume she selects her wardrobe to conform to her image of the serious artiste; at least I hope she has a reason other than the most appalling taste imaginable. Tonight she’s draped in a gauzy black tunic with winglike sleeves, as if she’s just flown in from a witches’ coven. Her frizzy hair is piled chrysanthemum-like on top of her head, and elongated silver loops swing from her slightly protruding ears. I haven’t seen the necklace before ( just fortunate, I guess): an entwined black-and-silver cord that flaps against her flat chest. When she closes her eyes and raises both hands high over her head, I lean even farther away from Kit’s elbow. Poor Helen; she’s got Emmet practically in her lap on one side, and me on the other. It’s going to be a long night.

Myna achieved poetic fame by her innovative use of a single word or two to create an image, somewhat like haiku boiled down to even fewer syllables. She’s the darling of critics and the literary intelligentsia, but I don’t care for the stuff myself. I like my poetry more . . . poetic, I guess. She begins her recitation in a loud, dramatic voice: “An eagle! The sky! A cliff! An eye!” With her eyes closed and arms upright, she tilts her pointy chin toward the ceiling and takes on a look of pure ecstasy. Saint Teresa couldn’t have done it better. She proceeds to recite a much longer poem (also about eagles) with such intensity that when it reaches a crescendo, she shivers before slumping over the podium with arms outspread, spent. After a stunned silence, the audience bursts into startled applause. Emmet clears his throat, but I dare not glance his way. After enough time passes that I’m beginning to wonder if she’s fainted, Myna straightens herself up and bows solemnly. No more smiles and flushed cheeks now; she’s about the serious business of bestowing her poetic gifts on the masses.

I perk up when she launches into the next poem because it sounds suggestive, with tantalizing images of bees sucking dew from the shy petals of daisies. A few stanzas later, the bees are darting in and out of stamens, which seems to be giving the quivering daisies quite a buzz. About halfway through, however, she loses me, and I decide the poem is actually about bees, petals, and daisies instead of fornication. As expected, Myna moves on to the feminist poetry she’s known for, and I suppress another groan. If anyone’s ever been oppressed in a male-female relationship, it’s Linc, but Myna’s poems are so full of graphic images of female oppression, you’d think she’d gone through it. She goes from slavery, rape, and genital mutilation to the more common sins of job discrimination and housewifery drudgery. The idea of her being oppressed is ludicrous. I pity anyone, man or woman, who tries to hold that one down.

Big surprise: Myna’s reading goes on way too long, and the audience begins to get restless, eager to get out to the candlelit terrace where Noel and I, with a little help from Holly the caterer, are hosting a reception to honor the esteemed Magpie Poet. Finally, mercifully, I can make my exit on the pretext of helping get things ready. I slip out while Myna stands in front of the podium to bow over and over, her chrysanthemum head almost touching her knees, arms outspread as though she’s about to take off. The applause is as enthusiastic as it was when she entered, but this time it’s from gratitude that the ordeal’s finally over.

A couple of hours and several glasses of champagne later, I’m cornered by an old friend, Frank Grimes, who motions for me to follow him to a quieter area of the terrace. I noticed him trying to get my attention earlier, but every time I attempted my getaway, someone would detain me. The terrace is still full of folks, with Myna holding court in the center. Seated by her side and cradling the one glass of wine allowed him, Linc glows with pride at his wife’s success. I hope he can make it for the duration. Highlands is a party town, and the revelers will stay until the booze runs out.

Like the rest of us, Frank Grimes loves to dish, so I figure he’s looking for the lowdown on the Bride. To my surprise, his expression is solemn when he says to me, “Listen, Tansy, I need to ask you something. Do you remember last year, when you and Kit brought some things of Rosalyn’s to the shop?”

Of course I do. Frank and his partner, Bill, manage the charity thrift shop downtown, where Kit and I took a lot of the stuff from Rosalyn’s closets at Moonrise. Frank goes on to tell me that they always store their high-end donations away, then put out a few pieces at a time to sell. “The other day, I was going through the wardrobe where the remainder of Rosalyn’s things are stored,” Frank tells me in a low voice, “and I found something in one of her purses. Evidently you and Kit missed it when you cleaned out her things.”

I gasp in surprise, and Frank winces at my reaction. “Oh, dear,” he says ruefully. “I didn’t mean to get your hopes up, like we found a long-lost heirloom. It’s nothing, really, but it’s monogrammed, so I thought you’d want to have it, you or Kit. I’ve tried to corner Kit a couple of times tonight, but she’s been rather . . . ah, busy.”

Both of us turn our heads to where Kit stands leaning against the railing of the terrace, deep in conversation with one of our friends, Jim Lanier. They’ve been in that same spot for most of the reception, much to my delight. Jim is another of my former lovers, a handsome, sophisticated jet-setter who would be perfect for Kit. Until tonight, she’s resisted all efforts to be fixed up with him or anyone else. It’s a funny thing about relationships. It’s been almost four years since Poor Old Al’s death, and Kit, whom I never considered the ever-faithful type, has shown no interest in another man. Emmet, on the other hand, seems to have attached himself to the first woman that came along. Go figure.

As if echoing my thoughts, Frank says, “I figured a lovely woman like Kit would’ve remarried long before now.”

“Yeah, me, too,” I agree, then remind him of the item he found of Rosalyn’s. Can’t let the talkative Frank get sidetracked with gossip, the main thing besides tourists and bears that Highlands has in abundance.

I’m taken aback when Frank reaches into the pocket of his sports coat and pulls out a small book. “I brought it with me, figuring all of you would be here tonight.” He cuts his eyes toward another corner of the shadowy terrace, where Emmet and Helen huddle together with their plates of food. “As soon as I saw Emmet, though, I knew better than to approach him with this. It’s obvious that he has other things on his mind.” Frank wiggles his eyebrows meaningfully.

Poor Frank; he’s caught me at the end of the evening, after I’ve about talked myself out on everybody’s favorite topic, Emmet and the new wife. I’m suddenly tired, and don’t want to hear yet again how young Helen looks, or what a short time Emmet knew her before they married, or how different she is from Rosalyn. Not only that, a strange thing has happened over the course of the evening. The tide has turned, and somehow, the villain of the story is now Helen. Originally, the town was incensed that Emmet had dishonored his beloved late wife’s memory by remarrying so soon, and the new wife was mainly an object of curiosity. Now everyone has decided that Helen took advantage of a grieving widower and moved quickly to get her hooks into him. People are saying that Emmet was in no condition to make any kind of rational decision. They’ve got a point, but still. I turn my attention back to Frank and the book of Rosalyn’s he holds, which is about twice the length of a deck of cards. Monogrammed RHJ, it’s a brown leather pad with a gold pen attached to a loop on the side.

“Oh, it’s Rosalyn’s notepad!” I gasp when Frank hands it over. “Her Day-Timer was retrieved from the car, but not the notebook. So this really is a treasure.” Glancing at Frank, I explain rather breathlessly. “You see, she got a new one the first of every year. We teased her because she usually kept it in the car to scribble reminders to herself while driving. Not the safest of habits, especially in Atlanta.”

My voice catches in my throat, and Frank pats my arm awkwardly. After thanking him profusely, I excuse myself and make a dash for the ladies’ room. No doubt he’s disappointed that I didn’t hang around to talk trash with him, but I don’t want curious eyes on me when I open Rosalyn’s notepad. I pause for a moment to motion Kit to follow me. I hate to disturb her tête-à-tête with the delectable Mr. Lanier, which seems to be getting even cozier, but she’ll want to know about Frank’s discovery.

Waiting for Kit in the elegantly appointed ladies’ room, emptied now of its usual crowd of bejeweled and perfumed ladies, I thumb through the notepad curiously. It’s as painful to see Rosalyn’s large, looping handwriting as it is to read the jottings of her day-to-day life: reminders to order tickets for the symphony or theater, to call the florist or cancel a dental appointment. Since only a dozen or so pages are filled, I’m sure this was her last notebook. Her habit was to purchase a new one after Christmas, fresh for the new year. It hits me like a punch to the stomach that this little notepad chronicles the final months of her life. She bought it the end of December, then died of injuries suffered on a cold night the first week in March. My breath catches in my throat. Could this unassuming little book answer some of the unsettling questions I’ve harbored ever since?

Hearing the click of heels outside the ladies’ room and knowing it’s Kit, I do something that I can’t explain, even to myself. Without thinking it out, I quickly step inside the nearest stall. When the door swings open and Kit calls out my name, I flush the potty to cover the sound as I tear out the written-on pages of the notepad. After stuffing them in my little evening bag, I smooth down my dress and exit the stall, as though I hadn’t heard anyone enter. Arms crossed, Kit waits next to the lavatory looking peeved. “This better be good,” she says. “After all your scheming, I finally hook up with Mr. Lanier, and now you’re dragging me away.”

“Oh, trust me, he’ll wait,” I scoff. “It’s probably been as long since he’s gotten any as it’s been for you.”

“If that’s all he’s after with me, he’ll have an even longer wait,” Kit says piously, and I roll my eyes.

“Trust me again—” I begin, but Kit waves a hand to stop me.

“Oh, no, you don’t. I don’t want to hear the salacious details of your assignations, or I might change my mind about having dinner with him tomorrow night.”

Just to aggravate her, I say, “Huh! If I told you the details of my evenings with Mr. Lanier, you’d jump his bones right now.”

“Tansy—” she begins irritably, but I stop her by holding up the little notebook. Kit stares at it as if she’s seen a ghost, and I realize I should’ve warned her first. Quickly, I tell her how I came to have it, and she snatches it from my hand before I even finish my story. Her face falls in disappointment when she opens it to see nothing but empty pages.

“Oh, Tansy,” she murmurs. “She never got a chance to use it.”

Kit’s eyes fill, and she twirls toward the marble counter to grab a tissue from a tortoiseshell box. Despite an almost overwhelming pang of guilt, I don’t tell her what I’m keeping from her. And I have absolutely no idea why not.