Part 7 (1/2)

”I thought you might have a suggestion about my upcoming trip to the Lord Winslow,” Poppy said. Though Momma had married only Papa (”There could never be another”), she'd had her share of lovers after a mugger shot Papa as he left the 1964 World's Fair, the theme of which had been Peace through Understanding. Momma maintained that most of life was irony, anyway. ”I'm going to wear a wig,” Poppy continued. ”I've always wanted to be a blonde.”

Momma took another bite, chewed a little, then closed her eyes as if it were naptime. After a thoughtful moment, she said, ”I'm not sure blonde is a good idea. The less attention you call to yourself, the better. That way if questions come up later, you won't be memorable.”

Momma was a genius, no matter what people said.

”Play down your looks,” Momma continued. ”Wear short heels, not stilettos. Leave your big purse here and take one of my small ones. And get rid of the coral nails.”

Looking down at her nails, Poppy smiled. Then she delved into her Miu Miu with glee. ”Oh, Momma, you are the best. And just for that, you get a prize.” She pulled out the silver call bell and held it up for inspection.

Ding-ding, ding-ding.

Momma clapped her hands and jumped up from the Queen Anne. ”From the Lord Winslow?” she asked and Poppy nodded and Momma s.n.a.t.c.hed it from her and flip-flopped to the grand piano, where she added it to the ”hotel collection” as she called it: the creamer from the Waldorf, the salt and peppers from the St. Regis, the water pitcher from the Plaza before the place had been gutted. Some were gifts from Poppy, others Momma had collected herself; all were s.h.i.+ny silver, like the stars. Next to growing orchids, Momma liked looking at ”her” stars.

”I must go to Yolanda's now and try on a few wigs,” Poppy said, then kissed her mother's paper cheek. ”But first, I'll get a small purse from Lila. I love you, sweetest Momma.”

But Momma, sweet or otherwise, was now distracted by her latest acquisition and didn't seem to notice that her only child was leaving the room.

”Momma says I shouldn't attract attention,” Poppy said to Yolanda, when she arrived after a quick drive to New Falls. ”So I'll be a brunette after all. Do you have something nondescript?”

Yolanda frowned. ”You told your mother about Elinor?”

”Well, of course. Momma won't tell anyone. She's probably forgotten already.” Poppy sat down at a big round mirror and stared at her reflection. She hadn't combed her hair since they'd left for Manhattan that morning. Maybe she could get Yolanda to do a comb-through while she was there. No sense looking like a banshee in case her husband was home when she got there. Duane was so particular about the way she looked.

Ooops! For a minute, she'd forgotten he might be a blackmailer. And sleeping with Elinor.

Yolanda brushed back Poppy's hair and sealed it in a do-rag, as if Poppy belonged in a gang. Then she snapped the dial of a yellow plastic radio that sat on the counter. ”Baby monitor,” she said. ”My daughter is upstairs asleep. Would you keep an ear out for her while I go dig up the wigs?” Without waiting for an answer, she left the room.

Poppy stared at the walkie-talkie. She wondered what she should do if sounds started coming out. She'd never really known if she'd wanted kids; if she was strong enough to endure pregnancy and childbirth, not to mention the crying and p.o.o.ping and spitting up that followed, and the fact that you were totally responsible for their little lives. Yes, it was probably good that she'd never had kids. Momma said she might regret that decision in her old age, that kids were what kept you young. Alice and Elinor, however, always seemed older than Poppy.

”h.e.l.lo?” a voice called out, not from the plastic device, but from behind her. She turned to see a handsome, latte-skinned man. He had wide, st.u.r.dy-looking shoulders, a crinkly face, and happy, dark eyes. His smile revealed perfect white teeth. ”Is Yolanda here?”

She didn't move, not one little inch. Was he Yolanda's boyfriend? He was wearing nice pants, a short-sleeved s.h.i.+rt, a tie, and...a badge! Oh, no! He was a cop!

”h.e.l.lo?” he said again, stepping into the shop and waving his hand.

”We're closed,” Poppy replied. ”It's Monday and we're closed.”

He laughed. ”I'm not here for a haircut.” He loosened his tie, then rubbed his head. That's when she realized he was totally bald.

”Well, then, go away,” Poppy said. ”We haven't done anything wrong.”

”Are you sure?” he asked. He kept walking toward her. She wished he wouldn't do that. The presence of policemen always made it difficult for her to breathe.

She tried to remember she'd come a long way. She sucked in her breath and slid off the chair. ”Stop right where you are,” she commanded, ”or I'll call the police.” Well, okay, so it sounded stupid. Maybe he was an imposter. These days, you couldn't be too careful.

”You must be Poppy,” he said as he halted.

She tore the do-rag off her banshee hair and ran her fingers through the tangled mess.

”I'm Manny,” he said, extending his hand for her to shake.

She shook. He looked older than Yolanda. Poppy had heard that Yolanda's dead husband had been older than her, too. It wasn't right for younger women to get the good ones and leave women like Poppy rummaging through the sc.r.a.ps.

Oh, wait! Why should she care? She was married to Duane!

Manny pressed his firm hand into hers. It occurred to her that she might gladly turn Duane over to Yolanda if she could have this one for herself.

”I'm Veronica,” she said, but even as she said it, the name sounded foreign to her ears. She worked up a little smile. ”Everyone calls me Poppy.”

”I thought it must be you,” he said, his eyes staying on her a moment, his hand pulling away too soon. He gestured toward the do-rag. ”Are you trying on wigs?”

She watched him eye the knit cap that she held in her hand. She didn't know what to say.

He smiled again. ”I think your hair is pretty just the way it is. The color's nice, you know?”

No, she didn't know. ”It's a little red,” she said, trying to finger-style it again without the use of comb, brush, or mirror.

”Well, look who's here,” Yolanda said as she reappeared, carrying a plastic trash bag. ”I see you've met Manuel.”

”Yes,” Poppy said. ”I thought he'd come to arrest me.” She was trying to make a joke, but she realized it wasn't funny under the circ.u.mstances. She returned to her chair and tried to replace the do-rag by herself.

”He wouldn't dare,” Yolanda said, then dumped the bag on Poppy's lap. ”Take your pick. Twelve shades of brunette.”

Poppy bit her lip and hesitantly reached inside the bag. She tried not to recoil from what felt like mounds of furry critters lying stealthily in wait.

”I like the red,” Manny said again, and Poppy blushed.

”Men,” Yolanda said. ”Especially brothers. What do they know, anyway?”

Brothers? Manny wasn't Yolanda's boyfriend but her brother?

”Forget it,” Yolanda said to Manny after Poppy left with three choices of wigs. ”She's married.”

”Forget it,” Poppy said to herself when she climbed into her BMW and buckled up. ”You're married. And you are not Elinor.”

So they both forgot it.

Ha-ha.

Fifteen.

If Elinor could only call him. She knew that if he would just hold her, if he would just touch her, everything would be all right.