Part 12 (1/2)

She knocked again. She waited.

After another minute, Poppy said, ”d.a.m.n.”

She crossed the lawn, marched toward the garage, and climbed the stairs that led to Fiona and Bern's apartment. This time, her knock was more insistent.

Lights were lit; slippers shuffled across the hardwood floor. The door opened. Moments later, Bern was escorting Poppy toward the main house.

”Your momma's been having her spells again,” Bern said. ”When that happens, she likes it if Lucky stays in the house.”

”But Lila's room is right down the hall.”

”She's not much good in these situations.”

Poppy realized then that Momma's life was a little drama, with people and roles and, no doubt, performances, too. ”Why wasn't I told that her spells have come back?”

”Your momma didn't want to worry you. She says you have enough problems these days.”

Bern unlocked the kitchen door and decoded the alarm. Poppy had a fleeting fear that they'd find Lucky under the covers with Momma, naked and hugging her old-moneyed bones.

What would Poppy say?

What would Lucky say?

Should she fire him on the spot, or would Momma protest?

Lucky was a dozen or more years younger than Momma. He had a low forehead and a p.r.o.nounced facial tic, but he was dependable, and Momma liked that. She also liked the fact that he did everything for her, that he responded to her every whim. His demeanor always seemed professional enough, but Poppy suspected that not much stopped Momma when she was having a spell and needed brandy and warmth.

Poppy tagged along behind Bern as they made their way up the sweeping, curved staircase. She wondered if they should leave Momma alone...then she thought about Doris Duke and all the money her ”companion” had made off with after her death...not to mention the rumors that he had somehow helped accelerate her demise.

Oh! Poppy thought. Oh!

But when they reached Momma's bedroom, they found Lucky parked on the settee outside the door. His head drooped as he dozed; his s.h.i.+rt was fully b.u.t.toned and his pants, fully zipped.

Twenty-two.

The next morning, Poppy called Alice and asked if she'd please pick her up at Momma's and please not ask why she was wearing the same clothes she'd had on last night.

So Alice did and she didn't.

”Neal commented on the dress when I left,” Alice said after Poppy was settled inside the Esplanade. ”He asked since when had I taken to wearing polyester. I asked since when had he earned the right to question my fas.h.i.+on sense, Mr. White s.h.i.+rt with Pinstripes.” She'd hoped a little light humor might help erase the maudlin look on Poppy's face. It did not. She turned the AC vent toward her. ”Good Lord, I was right. Polyester is hot.”

Poppy didn't reply.

Alice drove down the driveway, past the chauffeur, who was was.h.i.+ng the Lincoln stretch limo as if Poppy's mother had somewhere important to go.

”It's Duane,” Poppy said suddenly, because she'd never been good at keeping secrets.

”I wasn't going to ask.”

”The visitor last night was a woman.”

”Who?”

”I have no idea. I didn't go in.”

Alice steered the car along the shady country road toward the highway that led to the city. She wondered if their friends were as bothered by Poppy as she had become, or if it was another menopausal annoyance, like the occasional black hairs that sprung from nowhere in particular and instantly took root on her chin. ”If you didn't go in, how do you know it was a woman? Did you peek in the windows of your own house?”

If Poppy was offended, she didn't show it. ”I just know, Alice. Whether or not he's been sleeping with Elinor, Duane has been cheating on me for years. Do you think I am stupid?”

The question, of course, was an interesting one. Alice might have played along if it hadn't been for the fact that Poppy had crossed the boundary of their unspoken rule: she'd said something really bad about her husband, something not playful or malingering, like the fact he wore pinstripes. She'd said something really, really bad by acknowledging that marriage was not immune to unpleasantness even when housed in over-privileged rooms. CJ was the only one of them who remained unaffected. Then again, CJ never discussed her ex-husband, who had seemed like a pretty nice guy on the surface.

As did Neal, the bore.

And Malcolm, the disinterested.

Duane? Well, he'd never seemed what Alice could call nice. And now, good Lord, Poppy was considering his potential for perpetual adultery on top of the blackmail.

Alice could not disagree, which was such a pity when one considered that sweet stiffness to Duane's p.e.n.i.s.

”Well?” Poppy asked. ”Do you? Do you think I'm stupid?”

Alice fanned herself again and readjusted herself on the leather, wis.h.i.+ng the tingles would abate. ”Of course you're not stupid. Do you think Duane's...visitor...has something to do with Elinor's blackmail?” She glanced over at Poppy, whose eyes seemed rimmed with the same color red as her hair, as if she'd been crying all night.

”Idon'tknowIdon'tknowIdon'tknow.” Poppy spewed out her thoughts as if they'd been one word, not three. Or nine.

Without looking either way, Alice pulled onto the shoulder and made a U-turn.

”What are you doing?” Poppy asked.

”We're going to Elinor's. We're going to ask if she thinks Duane is blackmailing her. I'm tired of p.u.s.s.yfooting around.” She wasn't even sure if that's what they'd been doing, but she liked the way that it sounded.

Elinor loved her daughter. She'd often been pleased that Janice took after her, that she was self-sufficient and did not need a mother hovering about the way Elinor's mother had, the way her father had. The way everyone had, with silent expectations for the older twin, the less appealing one.

Like Elinor, Janice was clever, if not as attractive as Jonas. At twenty-eight, she hadn't yet found a man, perhaps because Malcolm hadn't corralled one, the way Father had corralled Malcolm for Elinor. Janice did have a career, which was off to a resounding start. Once in a while, however, she was p.r.o.ne to emotion-packed flare-ups that usually began with a surprise visit, like now, when she suddenly appeared in Elinor's bedroom, of all places, as Elinor was tossing a few things into her Chanel lambskin tote.

”Mother?”

”Janice?”

”What are you doing?”

”Shouldn't I ask you the same?”

”Why are you packing?”

”Why aren't you working?”