by Ann B. Ross
She looked at me with those pitiful tear-filled eyes and, against all common sense, I said, “Well, okay. But no getting out, and no confronting anybody. Promise?”
“Of course. I don’t want a public spectacle any more than you do. I just want to see who it is. Come on, let’s go.”
“Now? LuAnne, it’s the middle of the night. Let’s get a couple more hours of sleep, then go.”
“You don’t understand these things, Julia,” LuAnne said, as if she did. “She’ll come out and be gone long before daylight. She’s been carrying on under the radar for who knows how long, so she knows how it’s done. She won’t risk being seen in the daylight.”
“Wel-l-l,” I said, wondering how we’d see who she was in the dead of night. “Then I guess we’d better get some clothes on.”
“Oh, come on. Nobody’s going to see us. And think of this: you can jump right back into bed when we get back. Or,” she went on, “you can nap while I watch.”
So, against my better judgment—which isn’t better if you don’t use it—both of us, in washed-thin gowns and cotton robes, slipped out of the house and into LuAnne’s car. I’d had the presence of mind to leave a quick note for Sam on the kitchen table—no details, just With LuAnne, back soon.
And off we went with a screech of the tires, which should’ve warned me of LuAnne’s state of mind. It was the fastest trip up the mountain I’d ever made, but at that time of night there was no traffic. As we approached the top of the mountain, LuAnne dimmed the headlights to low beam, murmuring that she didn’t want to be conspicuous.
She guided the car through the open gates into the small group of condos clinging to the side of the mountain; then, scaring me half to death, she turned off the headlights and crept around a curve. The condos were all close to the street. Only a few feet of walkway led to the front doors, which is what you get when you build so near the edge.
Easing off the street onto a narrow strip of grass, LuAnne scraped the side—my side—of the car against a high, thick hedge that ran along the front of a line of cookie-cutter condos. Every ten or so feet, the hedge opened for a short walkway to a front door. LuAnne nosed the car to the edge of the third opening and came to a stop with the headlights still off and the engine still running.
“Here we are,” LuAnne said. “She’ll have to come out right in front of us. We’ll see her, no doubt about that.”
We sat for a few minutes as the night settled around us, while I hoped there were no security guards.
“The idea!” LuAnne suddenly fumed. “Here I am outside my own house. I’ve a good mind to go in there and pull her hair out! And his, too. If he had any.” Then before I could issue a word of caution, she said, “Put your window down, Julia. It’s getting hot in here.”
I did, and got smacked with branches from the hedge springing inside the open window. Holly bushes, I realized, and rolled my window up. Getting hot was better than getting scratched.
LuAnne turned off the engine, and the night got even quieter as the sultry air wafted in from LuAnne’s open window. Unlike most condo communities, this mountainside street had no streetlights or security lights that would diminish the spectacular views of the town lights below. All I could see were darker shapes of hedge, tree, mailbox, and a few parked cars against the darkness of the night. There might’ve been a moon and stars somewhere, but not where we could see them nor where we could see anything by them.
Hoping that LuAnne would muster the wisdom to remain unseen and unheard, I scrunched down in the seat and put my head back. I was convinced that our vigil would be a long, boring exercise in futility. Only a fool would bring in another woman on the first night his wife was gone.
But then I thought again of whom we were dealing with—Leonard Conover—and tried to keep my eyes open.
Chapter 8
“Julia! Wake up!” LuAnne whispered as she leaned over the steering wheel, peering into the dark in front of the car.
“What is it?” I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and tried to see what she was seeing.
LuAnne whispered, “I heard something. The front door just opened—I’ve told Leonard a hundred times to fix that squeak. And somebody’s mumbling. I think she’s coming out.”
We both leaned forward, straining to see out the windshield, listening as hard as we could. Then I distinctly heard a door close and the scrape of a shoe on concrete.
LuAnne grabbed my arm. “She’s coming!”
And somebody was. I saw a dark shadow emerge from behind the hedge and step onto the street directly in front of our car.
“It’s her!” LuAnne screeched as she switched on the headlights. The whole world lit up.
LuAnne flung open her door just as the figure in front of us threw up her arm, shielding her eyes—and her face—from the glare of the headlights. I reached for LuAnne to hold her back, but missed—she was already out the door, losing a bedroom shoe in the process. The figure turned on a dime and sprinted down the street, quickly outrunning our low beams. LuAnne, panting and crying, but unwilling to wake the neighborhood, skipped and hobbled down the street, her untied bathrobe flying out behind her.
“Wait!” I called, but not very loud. “Wait, LuAnne!” Pushing to open my door, I was blocked by the thick hedge. Giving that up, but anxious to stop LuAnne, I scrambled for her open door. And would’ve made it except for the console. I ended up half in and half out of the car, my paper-thin gown snagged and tangled on the gearshift.
Grabbing the steering wheel to straighten up, I caught sight of LuAnne stumbling and hopping into the dark beyond the range of our lights. Then the interior lights of a car some yards ahead came on, and I heard the slam of a door. And watched as it sped off.
Finally untangling myself, I saw LuAnne stand for a minute looking forlornly after the car. Then she slowly turned and hobbled back, stopping to pick up her lost shoe, then sliding into the car with the glint of frustrated tears on her face.
“Did you get the license number?” she asked.
“Uh, no. I didn’t think to. I was too busy trying to get out. Who was it, LuAnne? Did you recognize her?”
“No, she covered her face, the shameful hussy! And she was fast, Julia. She was in that car and gone before I could get to her.” LuAnne took a deep breath, then said, “Well, one thing’s for sure. I’m signing up for a fitness class after this.”
She leaned her forehead against the steering wheel for a minute, then asked, “Leonard didn’t come out, did he?”
“No, not that I saw. But if we sit here much longer with the headlights on, he might. Let’s get out of here, LuAnne.”
She nodded, turned the ignition, put the car in gear, and, with a great deal of scraping and scratching against the hedge, eased the car onto the street. I hated to think of what a new paint job was going to cost.
Contrary to what I’d feared, LuAnne drove slowly and sedately back down the mountain toward my house. After all, what was the hurry now? The woman was obviously long gone, and LuAnne had missed an opportunity to identify her.
“Julia,” LuAnne said tightly, as if she’d been holding it in for some time, “Leonard is not a gentleman. I hope you noticed. He didn’t even walk her to the car.”
Well, horrors, as Sam would say. Certainly, a man who is not a gentleman is a poor bargain, especially if you’re married to him, but I would’ve expected LuAnne to have been exercised by Leonard’s more pressing deficiency. Like, for instance, the lack of common sense.
Because, if you want to know the truth, no one with any sense would want to get crosswise of LuAnne Conover. She was the best of friends, willing to go the extra mile for anyone, but if you ever crossed her, she’d never forget it. Nor would anyone else because she’d talk about you till the end of time.
The sky had turned gray by the time we pulled to the curb at my house. The sun had yet to come up, but it was well on its way, an
d I was feeling the lack of sleep.
As we entered the kitchen through the back door, LuAnne said, “Put the coffee on, Julia. I’m too wound up to go back to bed.”
I wasn’t, but I plugged in the coffeepot, which Lillian always left ready to perk, and soon LuAnne and I were sitting at the table with cups of the hot brew. I wadded up my note to Sam, somewhat relieved that he hadn’t seen it. I would tell him about our night’s work, but the fact that he was still in bed and hadn’t seen my note saved him from hours of worry.
After a few sips of coffee, LuAnne started airing all her grievances again. She went over everything that had happened the day before and during the night, righteous indignation building in every word. I sat and nodded, injecting an “uh-huh” every now and then, but she needed no input from me.
Then, hearing Sam stirring upstairs, she quickly stood up and said, “I’m so tired I can’t see straight. I’m going to bed, Julia, if you don’t mind. I may just stay there all day.”
“Do that. It’s just what you need,” I agreed. “I have to check on Lillian, then I’m going shopping with Hazel Marie. You’re welcome to go with us if you’d like.”
“Shopping?” she said. “How could I go shopping with my head about to explode? You don’t understand what I’m going through. Shopping is the last thing on my mind.” She looked up as we heard Sam start down the stairs. “I’ll hide in the library till he comes in here, then I’ll sneak upstairs. I can’t face him or anybody else until I can hold my head up again.”
—
I sat at the table, holding a now empty coffee cup, wondering if LuAnne was going to spend the next two weeks lurking behind doors, slipping in and out of rooms, and hiding from everybody. I could understand wanting to avoid explanations and overly sympathetic eyes, but this could get ridiculous. LuAnne would be living with three families plus Latisha in one house, so how she expected to steer clear of all of us all the time, I didn’t know.
“Good morning,” Sam said as he entered the kitchen from the dining room. “You’re up early this morning, sweetheart. Didn’t you sleep well?”
“More like, did I sleep at all.” I gave a quick laugh, then hurried to the back door to let Lillian in. Which was just as well, because one telling of the night’s work would suffice.
“What y’all doin’ up so early?” she said on her way to the pantry to put up her pocketbook—the one that was the size of a duffel. “You not goin’ to the beach today, are you? An’ I hope you know what you doin’ ’cause Latisha ’bout to go crazy. That chile beside herself, she so excited.”
“No, no change of plans. We won’t be leaving until Sunday. Now, Lillian, I want to know what the doctor said. You saw him yesterday, didn’t you?”
“Yes’m, but I got to get breakfast on.”
“Breakfast can wait,” Sam said. “Tell us what he said.”
“Well,” Lillian said, leaning against the counter of the peninsula, “he say he fin’lly gonna get to take that ole bunion off, an’ he gonna do it first thing come Monday morning.”
“Monday!” I cried. “But I won’t be here.” Abruptly sitting back down, I looked at Sam and said, “Well, that decides it. I’m not going. I’m staying right here so I can look after Lillian. She needs me.”
Before Sam could respond, Lillian walked over to the table, looked down at me, and said, “Miss Julia, you know I love you to death, but you don’t know too much ’bout nursin’ an’, I tell you the truth, I jus’ as soon you go on to the beach. Miss Bessie an’ me plan to watch ev’ry show on the teevee, an’ we might play us some gin rummy, an’ sleep late in the mornin’ an’ go to bed late at night, an’ who knows what else we get up to. You jus’ go right on to that beach. Takin’ Latisha with you an’ watchin’ her be the best help I can get.”
“She’s right, Julia,” Sam said. “Having Latisha taken care of will help Lillian more than anything else you could do.”
It took me a few minutes to put aside the image of myself as Florence Nightingale ministering to the sick and ailing, but I knew that Latisha was always Lillian’s chief concern, and if I could relieve her of that, then I would indeed be helping her. I will admit, however, to feeling a tiny bit hurt that she preferred Miss Bessie’s nursing skills to mine.
Chapter 9
“I just love to shop,” Hazel Marie said as we left Abbotsville fairly early Thursday morning. We were on our way to that perfect shop in south Asheville even though I’d much rather have been in bed. “It’s my favorite thing to do.”
She’d come by for me driving that huge vehicle that looked more like a bus than a car—the very thing for a large family except there was no trunk. Long and wide and high off the ground, it had taken extreme exertions on my part to climb up into it. A step stool would’ve helped. Sitting up behind the steering wheel, Hazel Marie looked like a Barbie doll driving a long-haul truck, but I’d seen her zip that vehicle into a parallel parking space like nobody’s business.
“Well, it’s not my favorite thing,” I said, stifling a yawn and recalling with envy the sound of LuAnne’s snoring as I’d passed Lloyd’s room on my way downstairs. “But I appreciate your going with me. I just hope I can find something that’s not only decent but something that I’ll like.”
“Oh, you will. This shop has lovely things, but, Miss Julia, you have to be willing to try them on. They look a whole lot better on than they do on a hanger.”
“Whatever you say, Hazel Marie. I’m entirely in your hands, but I reserve for myself the final decision of what to buy.” Then I yawned again.
She laughed, then said, “You must not’ve gotten your nap out last night. Didn’t you sleep well?”
I took my time answering, because I could hardly contain what I’d learned about Leonard Conover—still remarkably unbelievable to me. LuAnne had made me promise not to tell anyone, while at the same time loudly bemoaning the fact that everybody already knew.
So I pondered what I should do and finally came down on the side of telling it. I reasoned that we would all be living together for some time, and with the way LuAnne was acting, questions were going to arise. And also, I will concede, I was dying to tell it.
“Hazel Marie,” I began, “have you heard anything, well . . . unsavory about Leonard Conover?”
She glanced at me then quickly back at the interstate on which we were risking our lives. “Mr. Conover? No, I don’t think I’ve heard anything savory or unsavory. Not lately, anyway. Why?”
“Well,” I said, then stopped to enjoy the thrill of telling something so incredible. “It seems that he’s been engaged in a long-running affair.”
“Oh, that. I heard that years ago.”
“You did? And didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t tell anybody,” she said, smiling. “Except J.D., of course. I tell him everything. But I didn’t believe it then, and I don’t believe it now. I mean, I just can’t imagine Leonard Conover doing such a thing.”
“Well, imagine it, because I saw it with my own eyes.”
“You did?”
I should’ve known better than to tell it while she was driving. I grabbed hold of the door handle as the car veered off the lane onto the wide shoulder. Hazel Marie quickly corrected our trajectory, and I started breathing again.
“You mean to tell me,” Hazel Marie demanded, gripping the steering wheel, “that you actually witnessed the . . . the act? Who with? I mean, who was he with?”
“That’s the big question.” And I went on to tell how LuAnne had been determined to find out, and how we’d huddled in a dark car for half the night just to get a glimpse of her, and how that hadn’t worked out even though the woman had walked right in front of us in full glare of the headlights.
Hazel Marie reacted to my tale pretty much as Sam and Lillian had. That is to say, she was more concerned about my part in LuAnne’s escapade than about our catching Leonard
in the act. Or, more specifically, in the afterglow of the act.
“Don’t worry,” I said, waving off her concern, “I didn’t even get out of the car. I just went to keep LuAnne company. But the reason I’m telling you about it is that I’ve invited her to go to the beach with us—you know, so she can get away and clear her head. So don’t say anything to her.”
“Oh, goodness, no,” Hazel Marie said. “I wouldn’t bring it up for the world. And you know J.D. won’t. He forgets everything I tell him, anyway.”
She came off the interstate and after a few turns pulled into a shopping center, found a parking place, and stopped. “The shop’s right down there,” she said, pointing to the right.
—
After two hours of trying on, frowning at my image in a mirror, and discarding the very thought of wearing such things, Hazel Marie took over. She selected five outfits from the discard pile, told the clerk that we’d take them, then ignored my complaints. We left the shop with two shopping bags full, so that, like it or not, I had a beachwear wardrobe.
Then we went to a shoe store, and she’d been right—sandals came in every color and style you could imagine. The first pair she picked out had wedge heels higher than any dress shoes I owned. I could barely stand in them, much less walk. It took a while, but I finally agreed to two pairs, neither of which had any heels to speak of nor did they have straps that wound around my ankles. I was relieved to make the choices and be through with shopping.
“You’ll be better dressed than most of the people you see,” Hazel Marie assured me as we got in the car and started for home.
“I’m more concerned with being fuller dressed,” I said, with a tinge of sharpness. “Anyway,” I went on, “I do thank you for taking the time to come with me. You must have a dozen things to do to get ready.”
She laughed. “You wouldn’t believe what it takes to get ready to go anywhere with twins. Thank goodness we have the SUV, but even so we may have to put some things in your trunk.”
