The Lady in Residence

by Allison Pittman

  I lowered my voice. “Do you think it was Mr. Sylvan? I’ve never trusted him.”

  “Did you know this guy was putting down a false name? Because, you see, a transaction like this, conducted with a false identity, makes you both look bad. Do you know who gives a fake name to a pawn broker? A thief trying to unload stolen goods. And if the broker knows he’s dealing with a thief? Makes him a fence from one criminal to the next.”

  He reached out, the amethyst pinched between his fingers, but I kept my hands clasped in my lap. “Keep it. What use have I for one earring?”

  “You could sell it. Get yourself started someplace else.”

  “And who would buy a single earring?”

  “I think that fellow would buy just about anything that sparkles.”

  A new hopelessness washed over me, and tears came—unbidden and profuse. I covered my face, and when I heard him say, “Hedda,” I could feel his breath on the back of my hands. He was on his knees beside my chair, his face level to mine, and so close that I could see dots of tinier freckles interspersed within the larger ones. We did not touch each other, not in any physical way, but we each gave off an anticipatory tremor that bound us as strongly as any embrace. Slowly, I lowered my hands, resting them at the edge of my knees. Had I unfurled a finger, it would have touched the button on his coat.

  “I am not a thief,” I said, keeping my words barely above a whisper, making no more noise than the hiss of our dying fire. “I have been many things in my life, but I’ve stolen nothing.”

  “What have you been, Hedda?”

  “I have no doubt you’ll know soon enough, Mr. Carmichael. You needn’t hear it from me.”

  He stood, a small click emitting from his knee, though he didn’t acknowledge it. Notebook once again nestled in his pocket, he donned his hat and turned halfway to leave before looking back, as if suddenly remembering something. “One more thing. That photographer you mentioned? With the studio?”

  I cleared my throat. “Yes. J. P. Haley. What did he have to say for himself?”

  “Nothing. Turns out he doesn’t exist.”

  Chapter 15

  Dini woke Wednesday morning moments before the chorus of Barry Manilow’s “Daybreak” served its programmed purpose of being her alarm. She unplugged her phone and rolled back into her pillows, scrolling through the stream of messages that flowed between her fingers and Quin’s throughout the previous day and long into the night. Bits of his day, his purpose—funny details about the sincere hearts of Community College academia, questions about the ever-present streamers and eggs and paper flags.

  D: IT’S FIESTA. You WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND.

  He sent her a picture of two ducks flapping happily in a campus fountain, then a second with his mock-frightened face in the corner—a selfie with the ducks banished to the background.

  D: DON’T TELL ME YOU’RE AFRAID OF DUCKS.

  Q: DUCKS IN THE PICTURE APPEAR SMALLER THAN THEY ARE IN REAL LIFE.

  They made plans for lunch (burgers), and she coached him through the menu at Alamo Café (green chile chicken enchiladas), and sometime around eight in the evening he texted that he was in his room, and he’d ordered up chocolate cake and tea in Hedda’s honor and was reading.

  Q: DETECTIVE CARMICHAEL JUST CAME ON THE PAGE.

  D: HANDSOME GUY, ISN’T HE?

  Q: HEDDA SEEMS TO THINK SO.

  D: KEEP READING.

  He interspersed their conversation with reaction GIFs that she perfectly placed to moments in the book, along with a screen shot of the exact location of Carmichael’s notebook en route at that moment.

  D: CANNOT WAIT!!!!!

  Q: WHY DO I FEEL YOU ONLY WANT ME FOR MY MEMORABILIA?

  D: BECAUSE YOU ARE A VERY SMART GUY. LOL.

  Flirting was so much easier in text messages, though she found she had just as little control over her fingers as she did her tongue, with quippy responses flying out so fast she imagined tiny jolts of lightning beneath her fingers. Still, she appreciated the invisible communication, given that she had a semipermanent color cream on her hair and a charcoal mask to get rid of what she lovingly called the famous Blackstone blackheads. She’d set Quin’s number to notify with the first warbling notes of Bread’s “If” and was rinsing her face when the song summoned her.

  Q: THE END.

  D: OF THE BOOK, NOT HEDDA.

  Q: YOU DIDN’T TELL ME IT WAS A ROMANCE.

  D: EVERY STORY IS A ROMANCE.

  That was the last text of the night, and as she read it in the pale morning, she found herself smiling through the entire chain. Laughing just where she’d laughed yesterday.

  When they set eleven as the time she’d pick Quin up at the hotel, it seemed perfectly reasonable. Now, after lazing in bed reading text messages, the hours had been swallowed up. She’d done some reconsideration on her outfit for this show, now wanting something that Quin would appreciate as well as her audience. This was new, this idea of dressing for a man. Audiences, yes. Slinky black for the magician’s theater, kooky cool for children’s parties, jeans and T-shirts for school functions, silk jacket and slacks for private parties. She chose a black, sleeveless turtleneck sheath dress. Its modest length came to her knees, but the fabric hugged her figure. Arya had been with her when she tried it on, declaring Dini looked like a hot cartoon character bad girl. With a nod to spring, she added a wide belt embossed with floral stitching and slipped her feet into a pair of pale yellow stilettos. She didn’t wear heels often, but she wore them well. A twisting look in the mirror revealed tattoos he hadn’t seen yet—a trail of tiny card suits—hearts, clubs, diamonds, spades—which, from a distance, mimicked the look of old-fashioned seams on a stocking stretching from just above her ankle to a midpoint on her thigh. Were the dress any shorter, it would also reveal the deep, ragged scar from her surgery following the accident that killed her parents. That she wasn’t quite ready to reveal.

  She took special time with her makeup too, creating a perfect wing tip with her black eyeliner, a pale shadow behind it. She’d darken her lips after lunch; now she dabbed on a concoction to plump them up a bit and enhance their natural color. She stepped back, looking at herself in the freestanding vintage gilded mirror, overall pleased with every angle. The only lingering question: her hair.

  Yesterday she had decided to ditch the confetti for something…pretty. She’d come out with something…lavender, though not solidly so, just hints, like sprigs of lilac. Wide rollers softened her curls, and she knew without a doubt someone today would tell her she looked like Marilyn Monroe.

  She wore a single pair of simple silver hoops in her ears, leaving the other piercings empty, save for the ever-present chip in her cartilage. For her first-finger, right-hand ring—the one she’d wear as a distraction from her trickster hands—she chose the one handed down to her by her mother, from her grandfather: a collection of seed pearls encrusted around a citrine stone, shaped into a heart, with a crown of tiny diamonds sitting atop. It was her favorite piece, and her most valuable—sentimentally anyway. When she’d taken it to a jeweler to have it fashioned from a brooch to a ring, she learned that its monetary value had been greatly exaggerated through the years.

  Quin was waiting for her at the Menger valet parking, as they’d agreed, wearing a light sport coat with his jeans and T-shirt. He was studying his phone, and rather than honking for his attention, she opened the passenger window and called, “Hey, Professor!”

  He grinned even before he looked up and closed out his phone while making an easy lope to her car. He filled the space with presence and scent, bringing an anxious frisson along her skin. The only other person ever to occupy that seat was Arya, and then only on the rare circumstance that she couldn’t drive them to their girls’ day escape.

  “I’m warning you now,” she said once he’d clicked himself in, “I am an unconfident driver. I did online training and all my practice driving with Arya. So I’m going to have to ask you not to talk to me while I’m driving us to
Burger Boy.”

  “Burger Boy?”

  She eased onto the street, holding a hand up to hush him. “Yes. A San Antonio icon. I hope you skipped breakfast.”

  “Can I at least say that your hair looks cool?”

  “Yes.” She popped on her blinker and held her breath as she eased into the next lane. “But nothing else starting now.”

  As always after maneuvering through city traffic, Dini felt an adrenaline drop as soon as she put the car safely in PARK. She turned to give a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Driving is a necessary evil, but I hate it.”

  “I’m too hungry to talk anyway.”

  “Good.” She punched the ignition switch and spoke as they were exiting the car. “I know it’s an awkward time—too late for breakfast, too early for lunch, but I don’t want to eat at the event.”

  Quin didn’t reply. Instead, he stood, fingers raked in his hair, staring. “You look amazing.”

  She ran a hand over her hip, smoothing the skirt, adjusting the belt, and said, “Thank you,” before donning a light denim jacket. The dining room was tiny, so they’d be eating outside.

  “Like a space-age Marilyn Monroe.”

  “Exactly what I was going for.”

  He held the glass door open and touched the small of her back as she walked in, a gesture now almost familiar. Still, the imprint of it stayed while she ordered for them at the counter, insisting on paying despite his protest. Then the same process as they walked outside to wait for their food. His glasses transitioned to dark lenses, and she fished her sunglasses out of her bag.

  “Now,” he said, taking a seat on the bench opposite, “can you tell me exactly where we’re going?”

  “It’s a Red Hat club. Literally a group of older women who get together as a social club. They wear purple shirts and red hats. I visited their group about a year ago to give a talk about Hedda. They liked me. Asked me back.”

  “And they won’t mind me crashing?”

  “I called and asked. It’s fine.” It hadn’t, in fact, been fine at first, but Dini had insisted. “So, is your business all wrapped up?”

  “It is.”

  “No distractions?”

  “You. You are a distraction.”

  Right then, their number was called and Quin got up to bring their food: burgers and fries, a tall glass of water for him, and for Dini, Burger Boy’s proprietary orange drink.

  “You know, you don’t really look like a burger girl right now.”

  She dabbed a corner of her mouth with a napkin. “There’s no such thing as a dress code for burgers.”

  “You just look fancy.” He touched her ring.

  She picked up a fry and extended her hand, admiring both. “It’s an heirloom, handed down. See how the stone is cut? Like a heart? Kind of drifted off to the side? The design is called witch’s heart. In ancient times, it was the ubiquitous protection against the evil eye. But later a woman would wear it to summon a lover. Kind of like the gemstone equivalent of drawing a guy’s name in a heart in your notebook.”

  She regaled him with neighborhood lore while they ate, and as their food dwindled, the thought of getting back behind the wheel churned in her stomach.

  “We’re going to hit lunchtime traffic,” she said, folding up their empty food wrappers.

  Quin took their tray inside, and when he came out he said, “Why don’t you let me drive? Really, I’m a good driver, and I hate the idea of a long ride not talking to you.”

  “You don’t know where we’re going.”

  “You do.”

  “To be honest, I’m almost as bad at navigating as I am at driving.”

  Quin took his phone out of his back pocket and steered her to the passenger side. “Then I shall take care of both.”

  Dini wallowed in her passenger status as Quin drove expertly, guided by the chipper voice speaking directions from his phone, as if he’d been driving in this city all his life. She offered a few tidbits of trivia about their surroundings as they passed, but for the most part they stayed quiet until the Waze app proclaimed, “Thirty-five miles then exit right.”

  “So,” Quin said, relaxing his posture and dropping one hand into his lap, “let’s talk about that ghost.”

  Dini laughed. “Did you become a believer since last night?”

  “No, but it was creepy.”

  “I didn’t want to say anything before you read her account, but there’s an old theater trick called Pepper’s Ghost. Pretty simple, really. It’s been around since the late nineteenth century. You just need a camera, darkness, a plate of glass—”

  “And susceptibility?”

  “I suppose. I figured out ages ago how it would work. Of course, I don’t know exactly which room was Hedda’s …”

  “She never says, does she?”

  “No. But I can imagine why. I can show you when we get back, if you want. Walk you through it.”

  “Tell me now.” He made a smooth move into the left lane. The fast late. The lane she never used. He’d taken his jacket off before getting into the car, and she noticed how the sunlight brought out not only the red in the hair on his arms, but the underlying carpet of faint freckles as well. He didn’t grip the steering wheel, despite the hundreds of cars hurtling down the highway at seventy miles per hour, but rested one hand on the bottom of the wheel, moving it in infinitesimal increments to keep her little Soul from colliding into the semi on the right.

  “It’s not distracting?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Okay, then. A bit of trivia on Pepper’s Ghost. It’s how they project the dancers in the Haunted Mansion. People think it’s some sort of great big green screen special effect? But on the other side, it’s just a bunch of mannequins on a spinning platform projected on the glass.”

  He made an appreciative sound and checked the mirror.

  “I should have said, the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland. Have you ever been?”

  “Not the one in California. But the one in Florida? Yes. I, uh”—he drummed his fingers on his leg, then brought them up to take the wheel in a perfect 10 and 2 position—“I went there on my honeymoon.”

  For a long moment, Dini heard nothing but the hum of all the cars around her and wondered, without merit, if she’d simply heard him wrong. Or if “honeymoon” had some other meaning in an alternate universe. The only way to know for sure was for him to repeat it, but he suddenly seemed engrossed in the road, staring straight ahead, lips set thin.

  She would have to pursue clarification. “Your honeymoon?”

  “Yeah.” His eyes were hidden behind dark lenses, but from his profile, she could see the tensing at his temple.

  “You’re—” How was she going to ask this question without sounding like some kind of shrill, soap opera victim? “You’re married?”

  “Was. A long time ago.”

  “A long time ago?” Was he ten? Or was he now somehow sixty years old? “Is she …” Dini braced herself. “Did she pass away?”

  Quin laughed, taking her completely off guard, bringing her into a joke she couldn’t yet understand. “No. She didn’t die. We were kids when we got married—literally. I was nineteen, and she’d just turned eighteen.”

  “So, high school sweethearts.”

  He slowed for traffic. “More than that. Youth group sweethearts. Not only did we go to school together and see each other every day, but we went to church together and saw each other every weekend. And everyone assumed we would get married, so we assumed we would get married.” He dropped his hand again. “So, summer after high school graduation, we did.”

  “But you loved each other?”

  He shrugged his nondriving shoulder. “I suppose. As much as teenagers do. I was this chubby kid, she was a beautiful girl, we were super familiar with each other, so …”

  Dini didn’t finish his thought.

  “It’s a reason that works for a lot of people,” he continued. “But once we didn’t have mission trips and Ping-Pong tables and Wed
nesday game nights, we found out we had absolutely nothing. We’d always been together, but never alone. Not for any significant time. And we ended up not really even liking each other.”

  “Doesn’t every couple go through that?” She thought about all the times she had to “rescue” Arya from another Saturday afternoon with Bill.

  “Yeah, but Pam and I didn’t devolve. Our first fight was on the Small World ride. It only took a few months for us to figure out that we didn’t love each other the way we needed to make a marriage work.”

  They’d come to the source of the slowed traffic: two cars crunched against the guardrail. Quin slowed and held up a hand, saying a prayer for those involved—the drivers, the passengers, and the responders. By some instinct, Dini closed her eyes and listened, not opening them until he’d spoken Jesus’ name. It didn’t seem the time to resume the conversation, especially not with any of the million questions zooming through her mind, so they drove in silence until he was once again in the right lane, zipping along in confidence.

  “Anyway, so one night we were at dinner—Arby’s, go figure—and we hadn’t been speaking the whole time, and she just looks up and says, ‘I think we need to release ourselves from this marriage.’ And, I tell you, it was the first real breath I took probably since the day I proposed.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “Seven months. I moved out that week, and it was awful at first because I’d never gone more than a few days without seeing her. But then, I’d never seen myself without her, so it was exciting too. Like getting a second chance at growing up.”

  “And since?”

  “Nothing serious. I dated a lot in college.” He turned to her and waggled his eyebrows above his glasses. “A. Lot. But I lost my way a bit too. Drinking. Parties. Put on another fifty pounds. I came back to God a few years ago, stripped away everything in my life that worked against me. Focused on my body and my mind. Brought everything together.”

  “And your—Pam?”

  “Oh, she’s good. Married a doctor and just had her second kid. They live in Dallas. I’m friends with her mom on Facebook.”