SHADOW DANCING

by Julie Mulhern

  “Around forty.”

  Forty? I was almost forty. My hands clutching the counter were the only thing keeping me upright.

  “Ellison, you need to sit down.” Anarchy slid an arm around my waist.

  I leaned into him and let him lead me into the family room—to the couch where the blankets and sheets he’d used last night were neatly folded.

  “Here, Mom.” Grace, God love her, handed me a fresh cup of coffee.

  I stared up at Mother. “How long have you known?”

  “Since she was born.”

  “And you’re just telling me now?”

  Mother donned her sour-pickles expression. Children were not supposed to question their parent’s decisions. Not even when the children were staring down forty. “It’s complicated.”

  Complicated? I put my coffee cup down on the coffee table and lowered my head to my hands. I needed to think.

  The couch shifted with the weight of someone sitting next to me. An arm circled my shoulders. “Are you all right?” Anarchy’s voice was gentle.

  “No.” I kept my head down and reviewed my morning. One missing girl, one stolen car, and one long-lost half-sister. Not long lost. She hadn’t been lost. She’d been there all the time, but no one had seen fit to tell me about her.

  I lifted my head and glared at Mother.

  “Don’t you scowl at me. She’s not my mistake.” Mother clasped her hands and looked regal.

  “Granna—” where had had the steel in Grace’s voice come from? “—I think Mom needs a break.”

  “Hmph.”

  “Grace is right. I’ve had enough chaos for one morning. You and Daddy need to work this out.” I’d worry about this mysterious half-sister later.

  Mother stood straighter. “Your father—”

  “You wouldn’t enjoy life as a divorcee, Mother. You wouldn’t. If Daddy says the ashes don’t belong to Sylvia, believe him.”

  “Well.” She infused that one word with forty years’ worth of outrage. Outrage with Daddy. Outrage with Marjorie. Outrage with me. And outrage with Sylvia and Karma. Mother outraged was a force of nature.

  “Hop on a plane and go to Palm Springs for a week. Drink a few martinis. Play golf. Enjoy the weather. Calm down. But then, come back and talk to Daddy. Work things out.”

  She stared down her nose at me.

  “Do you love him?”

  Her eyes widened as if I’d surprised her with my question. “Of course.”

  “Then take my advice.”

  She sniffed. A good sign. “Palm Springs is lovely this time of year.”

  “It is,” I agreed.

  “So many of my friends are out there now.”

  “Go.” I made a shooing gesture with my hands.

  “I believe I will.” She looked only slightly mollified. “You may tell your father where I’ve gone. Tell him I’ll be back in a week.” She turned to Grace, who’d been swiveling her head, watching our exchange as if we were Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs trading volleys. “Call me a cab, dear. I’m going to California.”

  Fourteen

  With what felt like fifty million problems circling my head, I spent the afternoon in my studio painting. The application of paint to canvas calmed me.

  Missing girl? Pthalo blue.

  Stolen car? Cadmium orange deep.

  My parents’ marriage? Payne’s gray.

  Karma? Dioxazine purple.

  The whole damned mess? Napthol scarlet.

  I spent hours transforming blank white into something resembling the enormous floral arrangement in my living room.

  Tap, tap.

  “Come in.”

  Grace tip-toed into my studio, concern writ large across her face. “You okay?”

  I nodded. Not one of my problems had gone away but I felt better able to deal with them.

  “Earlier this week, I made plans to sleep over at Donna’s. Is that still okay?”

  Even with the promised patrol car cruising our neighborhood, I’d feel better with her safely away. “Of course.”

  She gave me that look unique to teenage girls who are about to ask for something big. A combination of their five-year-old selves (and all the cuteness that went with that age) and the women they’ll become (women who don’t much like asking their mothers for favors). “May I take your car?”

  Her car was gone. My fault. “Yes.”

  She shuffled her feet and shifted her gaze to the view outside the window. She wasn’t done. “Libba called.”

  Oh, sugar. I’d forgotten about Libba. I should have definitively cancelled going to the club party before I stuck my head in the sand. “And?”

  “She wants you to pick her up at seven.”

  I glanced at my watch. Five forty-five. Too late to cancel now.

  “You’re sure you don’t mind driving the Mercedes?”

  The Mercedes. I stretched my fingers then tightened them into fists. “No, of course not.”

  “This will be your first time driving the new car.” Her voice was bright, as if driving a new Mercedes should be a treat.

  Mother didn’t approve of my Triumph and was of the opinion that I needed a sedan. When my late-husband’s Cadillac was totaled, she began a campaign. I needed a four-door car. Especially if I was going to drive her around. I needed a trunk that held more than a weekend bag. I needed a car that was solid, dependable, and reflected my position in society.

  For Christmas, she and Daddy gave me a 280 sedan.

  I’d stared speechless at the keys in the gift box.

  “Since there’s no man in your life who can give you a new car, your father and I decided to splurge.”

  She’d expected effusive gratitude.

  I tried. I did. And maybe she mistook the tears in my eyes for tears of thanks. But, the drops that wetted my cheeks were born of frustration. Mother and I would never see eye-to-eye.

  Aggie drove the car to the store once a week. Other than those brief trips to the market, the sedan sat in the garage. Until tonight.

  I cleaned brushes and put away paints, then went downstairs for a shower.

  An hour later, I walked out the back door, opened the garage door, climbed behind the wheel of Mother’s idea of what my life should be, and drove to Libba’s.

  “You’re driving this?” she asked as she settled into the passenger seat.

  “Grace has my car.”

  “Where’s her car?”

  I readied myself for an I told you so and mumbled, “Starry stole it.”

  “Is that all she took? Did you check the silver?”

  “Very funny.” I didn’t mention the cash missing from my billfold—I hadn’t mentioned it to Anarchy either.

  “Well, your mother will be pleased you’re finally driving her gift.”

  Mother wouldn’t know. She was on a plane to Palm Springs.

  Libba leaned forward and fiddled with the radio.

  Don Henley sang “The Best of My Love.”

  Libba sang with him.

  And for a few seconds, we were teenagers again—out in Mother’s car, on our way to a party where any number of fabulous things might happen.

  The song ended and was replaced by a Mennen Speed Stick commercial.

  We pulled onto the long drive to the clubhouse.

  “Bill and Wright might stop by.”

  Oh, goodie. I made an oh, really noise in my throat.

  “Bill says Wright sent flowers. Did you get them?”

  “Mixed bouquet. Very nice.” I parked the car in the farthest corner of the parking lot.

  Libba sighed. “Why did we bother driving?”

  “Very funny. It’s not that far.”

  “It’s a country mile.”

  “I can drop you off at the door and you can go i
n by yourself.”

  I couldn’t see Libba in the dark but I knew she rolled her eyes. “Ha ha.”

  “Bad things happen in this parking lot.” People—bad people—lurked between parked cars. Approaching a car I couldn’t see clearly was dangerous. I’d learned my lesson well. “There’s nothing wrong with this spot.”

  We walked to the clubhouse (Libba would say we hiked), surrendered our minks to the coat check, and paused in the entrance to the ballroom.

  The room was already half full.

  “Who’s that talking to Jinx?” I nodded my chin toward a woman in a black wrap dress similar to the one I’d worn last night. Hers was floor length.

  “Joan Conover.”

  “Who?” The name sounded familiar

  “Joan Conover. She’s a widow. Recently I think.” And just like that, I remembered. Patrick Conover shot in a downtown alley.

  Libba scanned the room. “Do you want a drink? I want a drink.”

  “Not right now, thank you.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you later.” Now that we’d walked in together, Libba was fine being on her own. She left me.

  I approached Jinx.

  “Ellison,” she cried. “What a treat to see you!” She leaned forward, kissed the air near my cheek, and whispered, “Save me.”

  We stepped away from each other and I extended my hand to Joan. “Ellison Russell.”

  Joan’s lips had thinned and her hand was limp within my clasp. Apparently she didn’t appreciate being interrupted. “Joan Conover.”

  “A pleasure.”

  “Ellison and I are old friends and she’s been holding out on me.” Jinx’s smile was Christmas lights bright—it even twinkled. “Where did you find that skirt?”

  I wore a long midnight blue skirt embellished with tiny crystal stars. I’d paired it with a white silk blouse and rope of pearls. Every woman in the room wore something similar—long skirt, silk blouse—it was our uniform. “Swanson’s.”

  “Well, it’s fabulous.”

  “Yours is too.” Jinx’s long skirt was red and black striped—the black enlivened by bugle beads. Her blouse’s red matched the red in her skirt. “Libba is looking for you.” I scanned the quickly filling room. “She was on her way to the bar.”

  “Libba and I have that—that thing to talk about.” That wasn’t awkward. Not at all. Jinx might as well have said I’m tired of talking to you. “Joan, nice to see you. Ellison, I’ll talk to you later.” And she was gone.

  Joan and I stared at each other.

  She took a sip of what looked like straight scotch.

  “How do you know Jinx?” The only question that came to mind.

  “Our husbands. When my husband was alive he represented George in buying some commercial property.”

  “Oh?” I was impressing Joan with my scintillating conversation. No doubt about it.

  “My husband was a real estate attorney.”

  My turn. “Mine was a banker.”

  “Was a banker? You’re a widow?”

  “I am.”

  She smiled. We’d found common ground. “For how long?”

  “Henry died last June.”

  “I lost Patrick just a few months ago.” She rubbed her wedding ring as if the gold band was a talisman. “I still miss him.”

  “If I might ask, how did your husband die?” I knew the answer but it was my turn to say something and I wasn’t about to lie and say I missed Henry.

  “He was murdered. Shot.” Joan patted the skin beneath her eyes with the pads of her fingers.

  “How awful.” I meant it.

  “It was. It is.” She patted harder. “And your husband?”

  “Also murdered.”

  She stopped patting and stared at me. “Why was he killed?” Why? Not how?

  “He got involved in some rather unsavory things.” To put it mildly.

  Joan looked up at the ceiling. Her chin trembled and she waved her fingers at her eyes. “Patrick, too.”

  Really? That hadn’t made the obit.

  “You wouldn’t think real estate would be unsavory but—” she covered her mouth with her hand and shook her head. Tears spilled over the rims of her eyes and coursed, unchecked, down her cheeks.

  “How awful for you.” What else could I say?

  “Ellison!”

  I shifted my gaze from Joan. Kay Starnes stood next to me looking supremely put out.

  “Mrs. Starnes, good evening.”

  “Where is your mother?” Kay Starnes and mother had been friends for years. Not close friends. Not close enough for Mother to share travel plans. But friends nonetheless. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of her all day.”

  “Palm Springs.”

  Kay shifted her gaze to Joan who was clearly in distress, wiping her eyes with a lace-edged hanky. “May I steal Ellison for a few minutes? It’s terribly important.”

  “Of course,” Joan murmured, her voice thick. “It’s been a pleasure.” So pleasant I’d left her in tears.

  Kay practically dragged me to the ladies’ lounge where she ducked her head into the bathroom. “We’re alone. I have a confession. I’ve done a terrible thing—a terrible, terrible thing.”

  Oh dear. Had she too had an affair with my father?

  “Your mother, who is such a wonderful friend, did me a tremendous favor.”

  “Oh?”

  “She went with me to pick up Mary.”

  “Who is Mary?”

  “My sister.”

  Kay sank onto the chaise and looked at her hands—well moisturized and well manicured. “We had drinks afterwards.” She looked up. “I needed one.”

  I made a sympathetic noise. So far this wasn’t much of a confession.

  “They were so delicious—Frances mixes a mean martini.” She did. She had to living with Daddy. “I had three and Frances matched me drink for drink.” Kay bit her lip. “I left her.”

  “Left who?”

  “Mary.”

  “Where?”

  “At Frances’s.”

  Kay shifted her gaze away from me. She also pursed her lips, clasped her hands, and straightened her shoulders. “I put her in the hall closet and forgot her.”

  The desire to throttle Kay was so strong my fingers curled into claws. “You what?” My voice was too loud for the ladies’ lounge.

  “I know it’s the worst thing anyone could ever do. Unforgivable.”

  Oh dear Lord. I sank onto one of the lounge’s uncomfortable wicker chairs. “Mother didn’t know you put Mary in the closet?”

  “No, she didn’t. I was going to leave Mary in the car but I just couldn’t. Leaving her on the floorboards of the backseat seemed so horribly callous.” Abandoning her in Mother’s front hall closet said I care? “I followed Frances into the house, hung up my coat, and put Mary on the shelf.”

  And then she got drunk.

  “How long was she there?” Why in the name of all things holy hadn’t Kay gone back the next day and fetched Mary’s ashes?

  “Months. I would have picked her up the next day but your parents went out of town.” Kay studied the carpet. “We buried an empty box. I felt absolutely awful but what else was I going to do? Tell everyone I’d left my sister at a friend’s as if she were a spare umbrella? By the time Frances and Harrington got back from their trip I was out of town. And when I got back—” her cheeks flushed and her forehead wrinkled. She covered her eyes with spread fingers “—I forgot. I simply forgot. Mary’s been in that closet for months. I woke up this morning with the most sinking feeling in my stomach. You know that feeling, the one where you know you’ve forgotten something terribly important and you can’t remember what.”

  I did know that feeling. I said nothing.

  “And then I knew. I just knew. I’m the worst si
ster ever. And Frances—” Kay shook her head “—what will she think of me?”

  “Mother will be relieved to know who the ashes belong to.” I spoke through gritted teeth. Kay and Mary had caused so much trouble.

  “She found them?” Kay pressed her palms flat against her cheeks. “Oh, dear.”

  Oh, dear was right. Finding Mary’s forgotten ashes had nearly destroyed my parent’s marriage. Any number of cutting remarks scrolled through my brain. “Those ashes have been a problem.”

  “They have?”

  I made no mention of the hours Aggie spent in the library nor the secrets brought forth by that accursed box. “Mother has been going out of her mind trying to figure out where they came from.”

  Kay paled. The ripples across her forehead spoke of contrition but the hand pressed against her mouth and the wideness of her eyes revealed raw fear. “She has?”

  “Ellison, there you are.” Libba sounded accusatory as if I’d been hiding or avoiding her. “Wright and Bill are here.”

  I stood. “Kay, if you’ll excuse me.” If I stayed much longer, the tirade scrolling through my brain might reach my lips. You’re thoughtless and selfish. How could you?

  “Wait!” Kay leapt to her feet. She was incredibly spry for a woman approaching seventy. “Will you fetch the ashes for me? Please? I’d be incredibly grateful.”

  I bet she would. “I think you’d better talk to Mother.”

  I left Kay sinking back onto the chaise with her hands pressed against her heart and tears in her eyes.

  Libba paused in the hallway outside the lounge. “What was that all about?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  She looked as if she did want to know. She had an avid, gossip-hound look on her face. She might have pushed for more information, but she spotted Bill and called, “Here she is!”

  I offered up my cheek to Bill. He kissed it then wrapped an arm around Libba’s waist.

  Wright stepped forward and brushed his lips across my skin. “You get prettier every time I see you.”

  “And you get more charming. Thank you for the flowers they’re—” over-the-top, too much, ostentatious “—lovely.”

  “You’re welcome. Say, you don’t have a drink.” He said this as if someone had snubbed me.

  “I’m not drinking tonight.”