by Rosina Lippi
Rivera squinted up at Angie and inclined her head toward the old women, who were admiring a baby with a great ruffle of chins and dimpled knees.
“It’s like a court session,” Rivera told Angie. “Everybody comes to pay their respects. Half the board of regents has been by already, and every preacher from every church.”
Angie took a long swallow, closed her eyes in appreciation, and took another. Her tank top was already soaked through with perspiration; her hair, bundled up under her sun visor, was just as wet at the scalp.
“You getting anything?”
Angie said, “Lots of good sound bites, seven interviews set up for next week, twice that many invitations to supper, and a couple dozen questions about the contents of my picnic basket.”
There were other numbers she could have recited for Rivera, but kept to herself. She had seen John five times, four times from a good distance away; once when Connie and Pearl had called her over to give her a glass of lemonade so cold it made her teeth ache. In that one meeting he had met her gaze three times. She had managed to keep her voice even and steady, and hoped that the flush that crawled up over her neck would be attributed to the heat, by the Rose girls, at least.
All morning she had been stalking him with her camera, though she did her best not to make it obvious. She caught him as he came over the finish line, at the pancake breakfast, in conversation with children and his brother and a dozen other people, leaning down to hand Miss Junie a plate, throwing a ball, laughing. At one point she went to the top of the slide in the playground with her camera, taking an occasional shot of the ring of disgruntled kids’ faces below her, but mostly looking for John.
She was acting like a horny sixteen-year-old, but couldn’t stop herself from shooting a few pictures of him stretched out on a lawn chair in a row set up, it seemed, specifically for the Rose sons-in-law, minus Tab, who had had bypass surgery two days earlier.
“Where to now?” Rivera asked.
“Some church ladies are judging jams and preserves in the food tent, and then there’s the tug-o’-war.” Angie took an ice cube and rubbed it on her throat. “Apparently the Lawsons and the Ogilvies will be going head to head. Any sign of Tony?”
Rivera shrugged. “I’d check down by the river. He’s staying away from Harriet, at least.” Her gaze flicked to Angie’s right. “Heads up,” she said. “Patty-Cake.”
Angie took a deep breath and pasted on a smile before she turned. Patty-Cake was leaning over Miss Maddie, teeth flashing, eyes rounded.
“Cue the Jaws music,” Rivera said, and started filming.
“Miss Zula,” Patty-Cake was saying, “maybe you can tell me what our Caroline was thinking, running off right before her wedding.” She crossed her hands on her chest. “Makes no sense to me, no matter what angle I look at it.”
“Is that so?” Under the broad brim of a straw hat Miss Zula’s eyes seemed especially dark and very large. “Best you leave such complicated problems to the folks who aren’t so easily confused.” There was nothing even remotely friendly about her smile, something that seemed, finally, to register with Patty-Cake. She bit her lip and looked to Miss Maddie for help, but got only a vaguely polite, distant look from that normally friendly face.
“Um,” Patty-Cake said. “Well, all righty, then.” She half turned, caught sight of Angie, and her expression shifted again, from embarrassment to annoyance.
“Busy today, I see.” Her mouth twitched convulsively.
“Yeah,” Angie said. “It’s a good opportunity.”
With a sticky-sweet smile Patty-Cake said, “You take care now, things can get a little rough around here once the games start.”
“Is that so?” Angie could feel Rivera hovering nearby, and hear the low hum of the camera. She counted to three and found that she couldn’t keep quiet. “And here I thought you were already playing.”
Before she turned away she caught Miss Maddie’s expression, bright and amused and not at all displeased, and Miss Zula’s more thoughtful one.
Angie saw Harriet Darling for the first time that morning in the food tent. There was a red ribbon attached to the placard on the table that introduced Mrs. Harriet Rose Darling’s brandy peaches.
“Those judges,” she told Angie, “have got no imagination.”
It was hot in the tent and not especially interesting, but Harriet looked so downtrodden that Angie couldn’t bring herself to rush out. She asked about Tab.
“Surgery went just fine,” Harriet told her. “He’s cranky as that wet hen folks are always talking about, making trouble for the nurses, generally being himself. Mama’s over there now, playing five-card stud with him. Which is a good thing, because all these rumors flying around would give her a heart attack of her own.”
She gave Angie a hard look. “You heard the nonsense people are talking?”
“Patty-Cake filled me in,” Angie said, looking longingly toward the exit.
Harriet snorted. “I’ll bet she did. She’s the worst offender. Blood or no blood, I’m going to have to clear the air with Patty-Cake.” She frowned elaborately. “If people ask you, just say Caroline will be home tomorrow or the day after, and the wedding will come off perfect.”
The smart thing to do was to agree and walk away, but Angie wasn’t feeling particularly smart, and so she said what was on her mind.
“I’m surprised you’re so eager to see your little sister married,” Angie said. “Seeing how your own situation has gone bad.”
Harriet’s mouth fell open in surprise and then snapped shut. “Well, I don’t think you can compare the two, not at all.” She lowered her voice and leaned toward Angie to whisper. Her breath was ripe with brandy and mint. “I never should have married Tab, but I was desperate. It was that, or break Mama’s heart.”
Angie took a deep breath and then the words came out, because they must. “But, Harriet, how do you know Caroline isn’t feeling exactly the same way?”
Harriet blew out a surprised breath that made her hair flutter around her face. “What would make you say such a thing?”
Angie shrugged. “She’s not here, is she?” And very calmly she hoisted her pack over one shoulder and walked away. There was sweat running down her neck and back that had nothing to do with the heat, and she shivered.
Once Angie had allowed herself to get involved in a discussion about Caroline the topic followed her around for the rest of the day.
“Now, everybody knows the Roses are the finest, most upstanding folks you’ll find anywhere,” Miss Annie told Angie. The librarian pressed a plump hand over her heart. “But you Catholics got your own ways of going about things. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, understand. But could you please explain to me what this retreat business really means?”
At lunch Angie found that she wasn’t the only one getting questions. The high school football coach had cornered Rivera, wanting to know if Caroline’s being sent off to a retreat was some kind of penalty phase.
Miss Maddie said, “What did you tell him, Rivera?”
“That I was raised by a Jew and a Quaker,” Rivera said. “And I sent him to ask Father Bruce. Actually, I’m curious what kind of answer he’ll get.”
“They could ask one of us directly,” Markus said. He had barbecue sauce on his chin and he was flushed with heat and irritation. “But that would take all the fun out of the gossip.”
Miss Zula said, “Son, if you can’t learn to ignore the talk, you’ll have to move away from here as soon as you’re old enough. It’s the price of admission.”
Markus tossed a bit of gristle to Louie, who caught it with a neat jerk of his head. “It’s a high price.”
“It is,” Miss Zula said. “You’ll have to figure out for yourself if it’s too high, because there’s no changing the way things work in a town like this.”
Tony caught Angie’s eye in a look she knew very well. Hours of film shot, and still they missed such crucial moments. In Miss Zula’s case, they seemed to mi
ss more than usual, because—Angie had figured this out quite quickly—she rarely talked when they were actually filming, unless she was asked a direct question. The one exception had been the afternoon they spent in Savannah.
She said, “Miss Zula, I thought maybe Miss Anabel would come down for the Jubilee?”
Miss Zula looked at her, her gaze even and sharp and calculating. Whatever she was looking for she didn’t find, because something softened in her face. She said, “Anabel doesn’t ever come to Ogilvie, for the same reason that Markus might someday find he has to move away.”
Angie was finishing up her tenth roll of film when the heat and lack of sleep caught up with her. The Stillwaters were just about to pull the Prestons over the line in front of a hugely appreciative crowd when the world began to sway in such an alarming way that she sat down, abruptly, just where she was. The forest of legs around her began to revolve like a carousel.
She was concentrating very hard on a pair of coffee-colored knobby knees below polka-dot shorts when a familiar face appeared beside her looking concerned.
“Come on,” said Rob, grasping her by the elbow to help her up. “Let’s get you out of this crowd, Angeline. Give me that camera bag before you drop it.”
“But I’ve got work to do,” Angie said.
“Later.” Rob grinned down at her. “Right now you need some shade and a lot of water.”
She would have protested if her head hadn’t been spinning; as it was, Angie let herself be propelled toward an open space, where Kai was standing with her arm raised, like a woman hailing a cab on Fifth Avenue. A golf cart came to a lurching stop right in front of her. There was a red cross painted on the side and a very thin man in medical whites at the wheel. His arms and face were burned a deep reddish brown and covered with a mat of curly blond hair, and above a shaggy beard bleached white by the sun his eyes looked almost colorless.
“Too hot for a Yankee,” he said, sizing up Angie quickly. “Help her in, Rob, and I’ll take her to the first-aid tent.”
Angie said, “I’m Italian. I can stand the heat.”
“We’ll take her to our place if you can swing by there,” Rob said, ignoring her. Kai was climbing into the rear seat and gesturing for Angie to follow her, and the world started to wobble again. She climbed in, and the cart took off with a jerk.
“Italians are a Mediterranean people,” Angie announced. “And I’m southern Italian on both sides. A hundred percent.” Her stomach lurched up into her throat and she burped.
“Yankees,” said the paramedic to Rob.
“Neapolitan on my father’s side,” Angie said. “Calabrese on my mother’s.”
Kai handed Angie a bottle of water. “Small sips,” she said. “Slowly.”
Angie gave in, mostly because her muscles didn’t seem willing to obey her beyond the energy it took to accept the water bottle. She sipped as the cart zipped through the park and wound around crowds. In the distance she saw Tony filming what looked like Miss Zula playing a game of horseshoes with a dozen other elderly women.
“I should . . .” she began, and Kai interrupted her. “We’ll come back and tell them.”
“Okay, then,” said Angie meekly, and folded her hands in her lap. She wondered briefly what the paramedic would say if she should vomit all over his neatly kept golf cart, and then realized, looking at the back of his head as he talked to Rob, that the round bald spot at the crown of his head framed a bright red tattoo, two scrolling words: Jesus Saves.
The golf cart came to a stop at the path that led to Rob and Kai’s garden gate. Angie got up to step out, bent over at the waist, and let her lunch go in a rush.
“Oh, yeah,” said Rob lightly. “Nothing wrong with you.”
“The heat doesn’t bother me,” Angie said. “I’m Italian.” And she leaned over again to spatter the rest of the seat.
“Yankees,” said Jesus Saves. “Y’all need to stay out of politics and the sun, too.”
Angie woke up in a wide bed in an otherwise empty room, unsure of much at all except that she was thirsty. She vaguely remembered Kai helping her strip down and get into the shower. She had put her underwear back on at some point. Angie stared at the ceiling fan for a while, hypnotized by the gentle whoop, whoop, whoop, letting questions drift through her mind without trying to sort out answers. She had no idea how long she had been here, what time it might be, how much of the Jubilee she had missed, whether Rivera and Tony were looking for her or coping fine without her, or—and this question seemed the most important of all—why she should ever want to move from such a cool, comfortable, quiet spot.
Finally she raised her head and saw that there was a note on the sheet near her left hand, the writing painfully neat: Your clothes are hanging in the bathroom. I’ve left fresh towels if you want to take another shower. Your camera bag and telephone are beside you on the table. We have gone back to the Jubilee. If you wake before we come back, drink water. Kai.
There was a carafe of water with shards of ice and lemon slices floating in it and a glass. The water was delicious. It ran in rivulets over Angie’s chin and throat and she shivered with pleasure, almost missing the fact that somebody was coming up the stairs. She pulled the sheet up to her chin as the bedroom door opened.
John stood there, looking sheepish.
All Angie’s nerves began to fire at once. “Harvey. How nice of you to drop by.” She was grinning like an idiot, but she couldn’t help it. And she didn’t need to, either, because he was grinning, too.
He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. “I don’t suppose you’re ever going to give up on this Harvey thing, are you.”
“Probably not.”
“Even though we are agreed that Harvey Carson was in no way based on me.”
“Who knows why one nickname sticks and another doesn’t?” Angie grinned at him. “A more important question: Who knows you’re here?”
“Rob told me what happened. I came by to check on you, see if you need anything.”
Angie slung her arms around her upraised knees and considered. “I just didn’t get enough sleep last night.”
He made a sound deep in his throat. “I hope that’s not a complaint.”
“It’s a compliment, and you know it.”
He reached behind himself to close the door. “Rob said you fainted.”
“Actually, the truth is much less romantic. I threw up. But I distinctly remember brushing my teeth, if that’s what’s keeping you all the way over there.”
He came over to sit on the edge of the bed. “Heatstroke?”
Angie threw back the sheet with a flick of her wrist. “Yes, please.”
He caught her head in one hand and pulled her to him. It was a light, curious kiss that involved mouths alone, and it wasn’t nearly enough. Amazing what a nap could do for a person’s energy.
“Hey,” she said. “I missed you.”
“I’ve been grinning like an idiot all day.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw, the soft spot behind her ear. “When Rob told me you were here—” He stopped and kissed her again.
What she wanted to do was pull him into bed, but Angie forced herself to break the kiss. “You know, I have to get back to work.”
He mumbled something against her neck.
“And you have to be more careful, John. I wouldn’t be surprised if Patty-Cake put a tail on you.”
“It’s your tail I’m concerned with just now,” John said, a finger running over her shoulder to catch the bra strap and slide it down. In spite of the cool air he was flushed, his blue eyes glassy and heavy-lidded, the muscles in his jaw clenching like a roll of nickels.
“Wait,” Angie said. “Wait.”
“We’ve wasted enough time,” John said. “No more waiting.”
And he was right. For years Angie had put the memory of him like this away from her, and now here he was again, John Grant, wanting her as much as she wanted him, and what idiots they had been. She wondered at the strangen
ess and rightness of it, and then she put her hands on his cheeks and smiled against his mouth.
“We’ll have to be quick.”
He took her down, rough and sweet. “Not a chance in hell.”
Some time later Angie said, “Do you think anybody saw you heading over this way?”
