After a moment he said, “I wish you’d say something.”
Leigh said, “Some day that baby will be a teenager. A questioning, unforgiving teenager. I need to go home to mine. I wonder if she’ll smell the sex on her mother.”
Phil sat on the bed. “That’s all you’re going to say?”
All she’d wanted to do tonight was escape. To avoid the Little Girls and her daughter’s perfidy, avoid greeting Roberta, avoid an evening of Terry’s meandering daydreams. She’d wanted to look at a handsome man and listen to music. She’d wanted to get laid.
All that, accomplished. But at what point in the night had things pivoted from simple to complicated?
“Have you ever noticed, Phil, how it just takes a few steps and suddenly you’re in deep water? I called, you answered, we went to the bar, picked songs, danced, came here, had sex. Now you’re worrying about my opinion on your decision to have a child you want. Now you say this is a relationship.”
“Chiaroscuro,” he said. “Form emerging from gradations.” He rubbed his palm on her arm. “My mother was a painter, and that’s all I’ll say about her on a first date. If this isn’t a relationship, what is it?”
“Reaching out. We both reached out and it’s been lovely tonight and I hope it’s not our last night together. But even if my lie doesn’t blow up, even if I don’t confess to Terry, I’ll be finished with the book in a few weeks. Then I’m gone. Your decision about fatherhood doesn’t involve me.”
His hand touched hers. “We’ll leave that alone for now. But do you have to be in a hurry to leave tonight?” She held still a moment, then rocked her head slightly. He tugged her back down onto the bed.
Maybe it was still simple.
5.
In the hours since Leigh had last left the cottage, several floral bouquets had been delivered. Either Phil worked fast or her houseguest was getting a very warm welcome. She moved from one arrangement to the other, reading cards. Peach Wickham, Ida May Turnbull Society, Little Girls of North America, Pepin Chamber of Commerce, the Good Thyme Book and Gift Shoppe.
Someone was in the shower. She glanced to the spot on the desk where Emily always tossed her cell phone and purse when she walked into the cottage. They were gone.
Water clanked off in the bathroom, and Leigh heard the scraping of rings on the metal shower curtain rod. In the kitchen, the coffee maker gurgled twice before a final hiccup.
She poured herself a cup and waited in the living room. Two bottles of wine poked out of the top of a gift bag. She fingered the card: To Leigh Burton, with many thanks from your thrilled houseguest.
Several books lay in the bottom of the bag. She took out the wine bottles, picked up the bag, and set it on the table. She pulled out the books: novels by Roberta Garibaldi.
Signed? She flipped to a title page…your grateful houseguest…
“Good morning!”
Leigh set the book down, but didn’t turn toward the voice. How long would it take? Would there be instant recognition?
She turned to greet Roberta Garibaldi.
The writer was a good ten pounds heavier than Leigh remembered from the hot tub. The woman’s hair was very short and had turned a light gray—the color and cut most likely a no-nonsense concession to late middle age. She wore blue-framed trifocals. Leigh smiled. If she had changed half as much as Roberta, she might be safe.
Roberta returned the smile with an even brighter one. “Either you sneaked past the guard and I should scream, or you’re Leigh Burton. But you look so much like Emily, I’d say I’m safe.”
“I am Leigh. Welcome to Pepin. Thank you for the wine and the copies of your books.”
“No—thank you. This is an invasion.” Roberta sat in the brown chair. She gestured toward the drawing. “This place is heaven. I nearly lost it last night: to sit in this chair, and with an original Seville drawing for company.”
Leigh said, “To say nothing of the Red Lady.”
Roberta laughed. “What a fun revelation she was! Though I realize not one you probably appreciate as I understand you’re not a fan of the Little Girl books.”
Leigh resisted looking away. “Marti’s been talking.”
“And your daughter too. What a lovely girl.”
“It’s not entirely fair of either of them to say I’m not a fan of the books as I’ve only just been introduced. I’ve read a few chapters and found them charming.”
“Charming!”
Leigh shook her head. She rose and headed down the hallway. “I need to shower and get back to work. Please make yourself at home, Roberta.”
“Leigh,” Roberta called, “you seem awfully familiar. Have we met? You haven’t come to one of my book signings, have you? Taken one of my workshops?”
Leigh sighed and returned to the living room. “As a matter of fact, Roberta, we have met. Years ago. Not a book signing.”
“Where?”
Leigh headed toward her bedroom. “It will come to you.”
*
Leigh walked into the living room, her hair still wet from the shower. Roberta was settled into the big brown chair with a fresh cup of coffee. She said, “Nancy Taylor Lee.”
Leigh nodded and went into the kitchen. Flowers weren’t the only delivery that had been made. The fridge and counters overflowed with an array of expensive food Marti must have bought in the Twin Cities. She found a bagel, nicked a finger when slicing it open, dropped the cream cheese container on the floor, sloshed juice over the side of the glass as she poured. When she’d finally managed to eat enough to quell her roiling stomach, she returned to the living room.
“It’s nice to see you again,” said Roberta. “It’s been years.”
“A lifetime, Roberta.”
“Your daughter said you were assisting the vice president with papers and things.”
And things. “Yes. That’s the sort of work available to me. I’m an itinerant…researcher and secretary. I do some freelance writing under various names. Online newsletters, mostly; some short pieces for regional magazines, work-for-hire children’s books.”
“I’m sorry,” Roberta said.
“This is the difference between a lying journalist and a truthful one, Roberta. You left the business standing up, and I crawled out, deservedly flogged, and licking my wounds. And what do you know: Here we both are in Pepin. You’re here to speak to a crowd of fans. I’m a forgotten old man’s temporary secretary.” She tapped the books. “You’ve done very well indeed. I’m sorry to say I’ve not read them. Emily’s a fan.”
“I wish now…” Roberta said. “If I’d known, I’d never have brought them for you.”
Leigh raised a hand. “Don’t be sorry. I’m happy to have them. You must be very proud of what you’ve done since leaving the Courant. Was it difficult going from reporting to fiction?”
“Easiest thing in the world. Have you ever thought about it?”
“No.”
“I’ll confess it was a bit tricky at first. The ideas…the right ideas aren’t always right at hand. People always ask about that: ‘Where do you get your ideas?’”
“How do you answer?”
“I get them the same way I got ideas for reporting: I keep my eyes open. And I never underestimate the value of daydreaming.”
“Paying attention and being inattentive.”
Roberta nodded. “Exactly. The combination creates a mysterious ether, and out of that there usually emerges one single image that’s clearer than the others. I start there. It’s quite fun, Leigh. Very liberating, really, to be able to go where you want to and make—” She looked away.
“Make things up, you mean.”
Roberta’s head moved slightly. A nod. “The vice president,” she said softly. “He’s written a memoir, hasn’t he? Wasn’t it a best-seller?”
Leigh said nothing as they faced each other. Roberta said, “Is he writing another?”
Leigh held still.
“And he’s hired you to help.”
&nb
sp; Leigh sank against the cushion of the chair. So she’d figured out the plot, almost as quickly as she’d recognized Nancy Taylor Lee. “I’d appreciate it very much if you didn’t mention Nancy Taylor Lee to anyone other than Marti and my daughter. Hardly anyone else knows, you see, including the man who has hired me.”
“You’re helping a vice president write a memoir, and he doesn’t know who you are?”
“I’m assisting with his research, Roberta.”
Roberta ran a finger along the bottom of the Seville’s frame. “Lisa MacNally is a good friend of mine. We worked together at the Courant.”
“I don’t know the name.”
“She’s been the executive editor for five years now at the Observer.”
Leigh turned toward the window. Marti was coming down the path. “New since my time.”
“She likes working for the Putnams. There aren’t many family-run newspapers anymore, and hardly any turning a profit. She loves it there because she says they’re still making money and still interested in good journalism.”
“Then their goals haven’t changed since I was part of the paper. Roberta, I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”
“Does Emily’s father know you’re writing something for the vice-president?”
“As far as they know, I’m a secretary, which fits their idea of my downfall and banishment.”
Marti burst in through the door. “Good morning, ladies! What a beautiful day!”
As Roberta gave a limp wave, Leigh said, “Once again, Roberta, I’ve been caught in a lie. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson ten years ago.”
Marti looked from one writer to the other. She said, “Oh, damn.”
*
Leigh declined an invitation to join them for lunch with the convention committee.
The phone rang twice. She didn’t budge from the chair. Why bother? Phil was out on the river all day, and the only other likely caller would be either Terry needing company or his newest home aide needing instructions for his dinner.
Perhaps she should go to the convention’s afternoon opening session and ask to speak. She could announce that Jasper Bancroft’s grandson was in the market for a good housekeeper. Cottage privileges possible. Must be past child-bearing age.
She’d bet there were plenty of women who’d raise a hand, and nearly as many who’d trample the others to be first in line.
The phone rang again. She took one of the bottles of wine into the kitchen. Drinking alone and not even noon.
But it was close. She popped the cork, filled a small tumbler, and counted to thirty as the long hand on the white wall clock slid under the short hand, both of them now straight-up and covering the number twelve.
She took possession of the big brown chair. She raised her glass to the Red Lady, and then to little Maud. It was a sweet drawing, no doubt about it. Of course, any fifteen-thousand dollar drawing was sweet.
What would the missing naughty one fetch?
She set the wine down, retrieved her backpack from under the desk, pulled out the blue envelopes, and returned to the chair.
She opened them all and spread them across the coffee table. She tapped the one she’d been looking for.
As you can see, it’s rather naughty. I trust you to keep it to yourself. At least until it can do no harm to my wonderfully lucrative fairy tales.
Damn you Jasper Bancroft. Where was it? He’d kept it hidden, just as his dead lover’s daughter had asked. The old adulterer had some scruples. “Not me,” Leigh said. “As the world now knows.” And she’d be more than happy to prove it again, if she had the picture. How she’d love to do some harm to those lucrative fairy tales. Get even. Throw something in the face of these stupid, sentimental women who were swarming over Pepin, crashing into her car, making demands, stealing her daughter. Of course, if she did anything she’d lose her chance to write for Peach, lose the chance to see her name on books about boys and their puppies, lose a guaranteed sixty-thou a year.
She went to the kitchen and refilled the tumbler.
She’d shoved Roberta’s novels to the edge of the coffee table when she’d spread out the letters. They made a crooked, precarious pile, and when she flopped into the chair, the top one smacked onto the floor.
Paris Nocturne. “May as well know the worst,” she muttered. She picked it up, cracked it open, and began reading the flap copy.
In her debut novel, Pulitzer winning writer Roberta…
Leigh swore. Her eyes dropped down…three sisters and a brother and their personal upheavals during a global upheaval, the first World War.
At the heart of this poignant and moving story are Louise, the second oldest daughter, a social worker with the Red Cross, and her brother James, an Army officer in France…
Leigh dropped the book against her chest as she sipped wine. That plot sounded vaguely familiar. Had Emily mentioned it? She riffled pages and then pressed the book open at a random page. The fire reached Cloquet by evening.
A fire in Cloquet? Leigh scanned Ida May’s letters on the table. She picked one.
And what stories!…. A Red Cross home services worker…the great 1918 forest fire near Cloquet…
What the hell?
She opened the book at the beginning and began skimming. “Holy shit,” she murmured over and over. Another social worker sister, and one who wrote confession stories. Disapproving parents in, well, okay, Indianapolis and not Minneapolis.
She flipped through to the end. Yes, the brother was dying of syphilis.
A brief bio of the author was printed on the back flap copy. “…lives with her husband in Maine.”
Maine. Where Dara and Julia had attended the Sapphic bacchanal.
What’s the story? Leigh wondered. She couldn’t quite connect the dots, but she knew they led somewhere—from Julia-the-lover in Maine, to Roberta Garibaldi in Maine.
An innocent coincidence?
Like hell.
Leigh took another drink of wine. It wasn’t quite as smooth as her Scotch, but it was certainly no three buck chuck from Trader Joe’s. Best of all, like the Glenlivet, it was a gift.
Her fingers tapped the cover of Paris Nocturne. As was this, a liberating gift. She didn’t know the story, but she’d bet Roberta could explain. And once she did, maybe that Pulitzer winning writer would be ready to make a deal.
6.
The young models paraded across the stage of the high school auditorium in groups of threes. When a trio reached center stage each girl took a turn in the spotlight, making a small circle and then curtseying while Peach narrated, giving the model and dressmaker’s names and the book and chapter or season and episode provenance of the dress’s inspiration. Then the girls walked to the side of the platform, where each was given a pink rose from Peach’s son and had a tiara placed on her head by Petra Sinclair, who then escorted each trio to a place on the risers at the back of the stage.
The dresses from the Little Girl high school years were paraded one at a time. There were few teenagers willing or available to model, and so most of those creations were worn by the dressmakers themselves.
Leigh watched from an aisle seat on the left. She hardly noticed the parade of dresses because she couldn’t take her eyes off Emily, who stood guard over the models waiting their turn—holding back the eager ones, soothing the nervous ones, and releasing each to cheers and applause as soon as Peach gave the signal.
“Beautiful girl,” Leigh whispered. “My beautiful girl.”
After a long curtain call for all the models and seamstresses, Peach started thanking a long list of aides. Turnbull—Joe—bowed very nicely when his mother said his name. Poor kid, she thought. Stuck on stage in the midst of all this estrogen, practically the only male present.
As soon as Peach finished reading her list, she turned, waved an arm, and then a short, overweight and florid man with a ring of gray hair on his pink scalp entered from the wings to much applause. He blew kisses to the audience and it went wil
d. Ida May’s heir. Peach’s husband. Joe’s father.
Her own future boss?
“Oh dear,” she whispered, watching Joe watch his parents hug and kiss and coo. Clearly, the boy wanted to die.
“Oh dear,” she said again. Was that some sort of signal he was giving Emily?
Donnie Wickham shared a brief reminiscence of first meeting Ida May. When he finished, there was a moment of deathly silence, then a deafening swell of applause that increased in volume as the audience rose. Leigh rose with the others, all the while watching Emily and Joe laugh as they disappeared offstage.
Down front, Roberta and Marti rose at the same time, chatting happily. They saw her and waved. Leigh blew them both a kiss. Later, she thought. She’d confront Roberta about the origins of her story later. She’d let her enjoy at least one night in Little Girl Land.
*
The muggy evening air was almost welcome after an hour in air conditioning. Leigh paused outside the school to take off her jacket and stuff it into her backpack. As she proceeded down the steps a shadow bulged out from a large tree on the school lawn, then separated into two pieces. One came forward, the other jogged away toward the street.
“Hi, Mom. Running from the Little Girls again?”
Leigh glanced at the disappearing shadow. Joe was certainly taller and leaner than his father. “I didn’t want to risk another horde of them asking about the cottage.”
Emily kissed her mother lightly on the cheek. She stepped back and crossed her arms. “Long time no see. I’m sorry about the other night.”
“I am too.”
“What are you doing here, anyway? I wouldn’t have thought this sort of thing would interest you.”
Leigh said, “Terry’s daughter was supposed to get in this evening, and I didn’t really want to be there when she arrived. I’ll stop in on my way home.”
“Phil’s ex-wife?”
“The other one. I’m not looking forward to it; Geneva called her a gorgon.”
“So I don’t suppose you’ll be sleeping there tonight.”
Venom and the River Page 16
