Damsels in Distress (8 page)

I related the conversation, then added, “Yes, I know I’m being ridiculous. It’s his mother’s idea, not his. He’s just going along with it to appease her. I have absolutely no reason to be upset.” I finished the wine and got up to pour myself another glass. “See? Now that we’ve talked it over, I’m not upset. I’m as tranquil as a field of daisies on a sunny afternoon.”

“And I am Anastasia, daughter of Tsar Nicholas and Alexandria. I’m hiding in Farberville until the Russian Revolution ends, surviving as best I can on caviar, vodka, and Botox injections three times a week.”

I picked up a slice of pizza, inspected it, and put it back in the box. “There’s nothing I can do about it. If Peter feels that he should tell his ex-wife in person, so be it. I can hardly fly to Rhode Island and ring the doorbell, can I?”

“Can you? How much would it cost?”

“A bloody fortune,” I said, grimacing. “I called a couple of airlines this morning. And even if I could afford it, what would I do? Smile politely and say, ‘Peter, I love you so much that I want to marry you, but I don’t trust you’? That wouldn’t go over so well.”

“Do you trust him?” asked Luanne.

“Of course I do. I just don’t trust his mother and his ever so lovely ex-wife. They might be scheming to spike his food with tranquilizers, and when he’s too spaced out to realize what’s going on, stuff him into a tuxedo and drag him down the aisle. Before he comes to, he’ll be on a honeymoon cruise in the South Pacific, and his house here will be for sale.”

“Now I really am beginning to think I’m Anastasia. If I had coffee liqueur and vodka, we could drink a toast to the Romanov dynasty.”

I slumped back in the chair. “Or to self-pity and petty jealousy,” I said with a sigh. “Peter’s too intelligent to fall for his mother’s transparent trap. I suppose I ought to feel some sympathy for the ex-wife. Leslie was the wealthy, well-bred girl next door. His parents and hers were in favor of the match long before their offspring were potty-trained and taught to ride their wee polo ponies. They shared a limo on their way to their first day at some exclusive preschool. Peter said he never had a chance, that his destiny had been determined by the merging of stock portfolios. They went to different prep schools, naturally, and in theory dated other people, but he never dared bring a date home for a weekend, much less a holiday. It was a given that he would escort Leslie to all the fancy parties. They announced their engagement one Christmas while they were both in grad school, and married the month after graduation. The only thing they failed to do, according to their Emily Post world, was produce adorable little heirs.”

“And the reason they divorced?” Luanne asked, plying me with more wine.

“Peter said it was a mutual decision. Basically, they’d always bored each other. She wanted the glitzy, high-powered world of a penthouse in Manhattan and a summer place within a few minutes’ drive of the yacht club. He wanted to live in a small town, mow his own lawn, and grill steaks on the patio.”

“But now you’re afraid he’ll be seduced by all that?”

“No,” I said irritably as I put the wine glass in the sink. The last thing I wanted was to lapse into maudlin snuffling, or get stopped for driving while under the influence of the Gallo boys. “I’ve already admitted I’m being ridiculous, okay? Maybe it is prewed- ding jitters, or PMS, or the stress of dealing with these Renaissance weirdos. In case Sally hasn’t caught you, I’m having musicians and madrigal singers tomorrow afternoon. After that, who knows? It could be a full-scale production of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
with hot cross buns and lemonade available at intermission.”

Luanne refused to be distracted. “If Peter calls, are you going to talk to him?”

“Why wouldn’t I? We’re getting married in September.” I found my purse and took out my keys. “I need to go. Caron’s undoubtedly convinced by now that I did or said something so outrageous at the meeting that she’ll have no hope of passing AP history. This will, of course, ruin her chances of getting into college, so she’ll have to earn a living as a Welsh miner or an Australian bush pilot.”

“And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

I will admit I hesitated for a moment, envisioning the scenarios, then shook my head. “No, we wouldn’t want that.”

Chapter Four

I
took a circuitous route home to avoid the traffic on Thurber Street, which can be tedious even in the summer because of the bars, restaurants, pool halls, and performances at the art center. I was vaguely aware of some sort of annual biker gathering in progress, but their presence was minimal during the day. This meant the presence of police was maximal at night. I certainly didn’t want any citations with my name on them to find their way into the hands of Sergeant Jorgeson—or onto Lieutenant Rosen’s desk when he returned.

As I crossed one of the two bridges over the railroad tracks, I realized that I would be driving past Angle’s house. If I could spot it, it would be easier to drop off the basket before I arrived home. Blue with white shutters, Lanya had said. I slowed down to a crawl and began to watch for it. The streetlights were doing their best, but the neighborhood had been there for decades and large trees kept many of the houses in shadows. There were lights on in some of them; others were dark, possibly vacant for the summer. Two college girls came walking down the hill, too fascinated with their conversation to notice me. In one of the houses, a baby began to wail. In another, a TV set flickered.

I was almost to the alley when I spotted the blue house on the right side of the street. The front porch light was on, not only attracting moths and other winged insects, but also a visitor. His back was to me, and his arm propped against the frame, blocking the view of whoever was on the other side of the screened door. As my car went by, he turned and looked over his shoulder. I was pretty sure it was Edward Cobbinwood, dressed as he had been at the ARSE meeting two hours ago. I doubted he could see my face, and there was no reason to think he would recognize my car.

Even if Edward had identified me, it didn’t matter, I thought as I turned left into the alley and pulled into my garage. Although he’d looked a bit startled, it seemed perfectly reasonable for him to go by Angle’s to express concern for her ankle—and deliver the basket. It would have been helpful if he’d announced his intention before I fled the potluck.

Caron was not home. I found a note on the kitchen table that explained her whereabouts: Inez’s father had offered to take them out for ice cream after the lecture. She’d added a hasty scrawl that read, “Peter called, didn’t believe me.” I frowned at it, not at all sure what she’d told him that he’d failed to believe. That she was to be a damsel? That a young man in purple tights was haunting Thurber Street? That I’d taken to unplugging the telephone and quoting Shakespeare to a glass of scotch?

I made a cup of tea, found my novel, and crawled into bed. I was half awake when Caron came home, but I decided I could wait until the next day to determine the source of Peter’s skepticism.

Caron was asleep the next morning when I got up. After performing the mundane daily rituals, I went downstairs to the car, took out the basket, and walked down the side street to drop it off at Angle’s house. I knocked on the door and waited, but no one appeared. I was uneasy about leaving the basket on the porch, where it would be visible, but disinclined to take it to the bookstore and bring it by later. For all I knew, red clover honey and homemade bread were all that stood between starvation and salvation.

As I hesitated, an elderly woman came out of the house next door and sat down on a porch swing to read the newspaper. “Hello,” I called. “Have you seen Angie this morning?”

The woman stared at me. “Who?”

“Angie. I believe she’s a dance teacher.”

She pondered this for a moment, then shook her head. “No, but I don’t recollect that I’ve ever seen her. She’s been here two months, give or take, but she keeps her curtains drawn like she’s allergic to sunshine. Yesterday or maybe the day before, I saw some teenaged hussies go inside. Didn’t stay long, though. I could hear ‘em snickering and laughing when they left.”

I was annoyed that I’d allowed Lanya to burden me with her errand. I made a mental note to find a book on assertiveness in the self-help section when I got to the bookstore. “Do you think it’ll be okay if I leave this basket on the porch?”

“I don’t care if you climb onto the roof and drop it down the chimney.” The woman folded her newspaper, tucked it under her arm, and went inside.

After some further hesitation, I set the basket by the door and went down the steps to the sidewalk. Most people could make do for a day or two with what was in their refrigerator and cabinets. Or maybe Edward had come by with sustenance from a fast food place. Lanya might be on her way to the grocery store that very minute. Angie had a telephone, after all. If she didn’t want to order a pizza, she could call 911 and feast on hospital food.

Instead of scrambling down the path to the railroad tracks, I turned in front of the Azalea Inn and continued to Thurber Street. This required me to go past Sally Fromberger’s health food eatery, but I did so without being ambushed or coerced into sampling a hot cross bun. The Book Depot was not quite the haven it had been before the onslaught of Renaissance scholars, but it was cool and dim. I turned on lights, flipped the sign in the door to indicate I was willing to sell literature brimming with insights into the nature of good and evil, as well as pulp fiction, recipe books, travel guides, and anything else that would make the cash register chirp with pleasure. Peter and I had agreed that we would both continue in our present careers, although he’d mentioned that I would be able to hire a full-time clerk whenever we decided to take off for a long weekend or an extended trip. I couldn’t remember when I’d last kept the store closed for more than a few days, and even then I’d been aware of the loss of income. Now I could look forward to Caribbean resorts, spacious suites, and four-star restaurants. Hedonism, despite its negative connotations, has a certain charm.

I made a pot of coffee, filled a chipped mug, and was on my stool behind the counter, immersed in the newspaper, when Salvador Davis entered the store.

“Good morning,” he said as if greeting a colleague in an adjoining cubicle. “I’d love a cup of coffee if you have any to spare.”

“Sure,” I said warily. “Sugar? Powdered cream?”

“Black, thank you.” He held up a bag. “Fresh croissants. I made them myself from a secret recipe given to me by an octogenarian who owned a
boulangerie
in Normandy. Have you ever been in that region?”

“No, although it’s likely some of my ancestors lived there ten centuries ago, and immigrated across the English Channel only after William had exterminated the Cornish gentry. You’ll have to come in the office if you want to sit down.”

He did as instructed, and after we were settled on opposite sides of the desk, said, “Did you enjoy your first fief dom meeting?”

I hesitated, then said, “This croissant is delicious. I’d ask for the recipe, but I don’t even have measuring cups and mixing bowls. Well, I probably do, but I don’t know where they are.”

“Does that imply that you won’t be applying for membership in ARSE? I heard that you left before Lanya could persuade you to sample the goat cheese and barley quiche. It’s less authentic but more palatable than Anderson’s venison pot pie.”

I brushed flakes off my fingers. “I left right after you did.”

Salvador studied me over the rim of his coffee mug. “How observant you are. Are you equally discreet?”

“Absolutely not. I am the worst gossip on Thurber Street, and I cannot be trusted with anyone’s darkest secrets. No one should ever confide in me.” I took my coffee mug into the tiny bathroom and rinsed it out, turned off the coffeepot, and picked up a stack of invoices. “Thank you so much for the croissant, but I have some work to do. If you’re interested in a book, I’ll be happy to point you in the right direction.”

He remained seated, watching me with an amused look. “I don’t believe you.”

“I seem to have a poor credibility rating these days.” I flapped the invoices at him. “My credit rating’s not so hot, either. If I don’t reconcile these with my current stock and settle the accounts, then the distributors won’t send me any more books. If I don’t have books to sell, then I’ll go out of business. Some entrepreneur will buy the building and turn it into a quaint little bistro. My daughter will become a Welsh miner. So if you don’t mind-”

“A Welsh miner?”

“It’s an honest living.”

Salvador put down his mug and gestured for me to precede him into the front room, which I did. “Are you always so difficult to converse with?” he asked.

“Not always,” I said as I sat down on the stool and picked up a pen.

“Do I make you nervous?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He sighed, but not convincingly. “I see that I’ve offended you, Claire, and I apologize. My behavior last night was…well, boorish. As soon as I got there, I realized I should have stayed home. I’ve been working sixteen hours a day on a project, and finally got it packed off. I thought I would enjoy socializing, but I would have been better off to sit on my deck and drink champagne with the whippoorwills.”

“What is it that you do?” I asked.

“I’m a writer, and I also illustrate my work. I’m embarrassed that I’ve never been in your bookstore before, but I’m sure you don’t carry my particular genre.”

I puzzled over this for a moment. “I don’t know why you’re so sure, unless you write pornography. I refuse to sell it, and I don’t want the people who read it loitering around here.”

“Hardly,” he said. “I usually throw in some romance and passion, but nothing too lurid. Most of my readers are too young for that sort of thing. I have some older readers, but they have a pubescent mentality.” He put his elbows on the counter and leaned toward me. “You, on the other hand, are mature, candid, and self- confident, as well as alluring. Could I entice you to forget your misconceptions about me and come to my house so that I can impress you with my more commendable qualities?”