utterly from the peach-skinned debutantes who fill the ranks of the Junior League below the Mason-Dixon line. Her eyes are a deep and brilliant blue, and the tailored jacket and skirt she’s wearing bring out their color just as she intended.
Her name is actually Livy Sutter now, but I live in such denial about her marriage that the name Sutter never really registered. I remember it only on those rare occasions when I pass through Atlanta on business and in the tipsy midnight of a lonely hotel room pick up the phone book and flirt with the idea of calling her. Of course, I never have. Oh, John, that was Penn Cage, the writer. He’s an old friend from Natchez … I’d rather die than be another “old friend” of Livy Marston’s. Have good old John think of me with pity, knowing that every heterosexual man who ever met his wife fell in love with her to some degree. As far afield as Montreal and Los Angeles, I’ve had lawyers—upon learning that I’m originally from Natchez—come alive with questions about the fantastic Livy Sutter. Do I know her? Isn’t she remarkable? Unique? Different somehow? That was certainly the opinion of the Pulitzer prize-winning writer-in-residence who made a fool of himself (in his sixties, no less) and ruined his marriage over Livy when she was a junior at UVA.
Twenty yards away from me, Livy slows and pans the concourse. She has her father’s survival instincts. Her eyes pass over me, then return.
“Penn Cage,” she says, without the slightest doubt that it’s me.
“Hello, Livy.”
She walks toward me with a smile that cuts right through resentment and regret. Her hair is the color of winter wheat in summer and just touches her shoulders, looking much as it did during high school. The last time I saw her (at Sarah’s funeral) she had a short, severe, lady-lawyer cut. She must have been growing it out ever since. I like it much better this way. Probably because it fits the images that haunt my dreams.
“My God, what happened to you?” she asks.
For a moment I’m confused, but it’s the bruises she’s noticed. Last night’s altercation left me looking quite a bit worse for wear.
“I ran into the welcome wagon.”
She shakes her head as though this is about what she would expect from me, then leans forward. Livy is a big hugger, but I have never submitted to this. Her hugs somehow put you at a remove even as they seem to pull you in. Remembering my aversion, she drops one hand and squeezes my wrist with an intimate pressure, her eyes already working their subversive spell upon me, blurring my critical faculties, creating a juvenile desire to please her, to make those blue eyes shine.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I’m on my way home. To Natchez, I mean. My mother’s having health problems. Dad’s been after me to come visit, so when he called this time, I decided to spend a few days with them.”
Her health was good enough to toss a drink in my face two nights ago, I think. Maybe “health” is a euphemism for alcoholism. If they intend to try an intervention with Maude, I don’t want to be within a hundred miles of it. In fact, I’d recommend Kevlar body armor to the participants.
“What about you?” Livy asks.
“I’m on my way to Huntsville Prison.”
“Oh, God, the Hanratty thing. It’s all over the news. Midnight tonight, right? Are you required to be there?”
“No. The victim’s family wants me there.”
She shakes her head. “You always were one for duty.” In a lighter voice she says, “I still see your books in all the airports. And it still makes me jealous.”
“Come on.”
“I mean it. I make great money, but I’m compromising every day for it. You’re living the life you always talked about.”
“You talked about that kind of life too.”
She blushes, but before she can reply Annie is tugging my trouser leg. I reach down and scoop her into my arms. “Hey, punkin! You remember Miss Livy?”
Annie solemnly moves her head from side to side. I was stupid to think she’d remember anyone from the funeral.
“My hair was shorter then,” Livy tells her. Like Caitlin, she makes no attempt to talk baby talk. “I sure remember you, Anna Louise.”
I can’t believe she remembers Annie’s full name. The female memory defies explanation.
Suddenly something brushes my shoulder. It’s Caitlin, holding out her hand to Livy.
“Caitlin Masters,” she says, cutting her eyes at me as she gives Livy a professional smile.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize, far too late.
“Liv Sutter,” Livy says, giving Caitlin’s hand a firm shake.
Liv Sutter. Another thing I’d forgotten: Livy’s name metamorphosed as she progressed through life. She wasn’t like a Matt who suddenly insisted on being called Matthew to be taken more seriously. Her name actually got shorter with each incarnation: “Olivia” in grade school; “Livy” in high school; and just plain “Liv” in college and law school. And there was never any question of people not taking her seriously—Livy Marston Sutter is as serious as a garrote.
“You two obviously know each other,” says Caitlin.
“Oh, we go way back,” Livy explains, laughing. “Too far back to think about.”
“We only go back a couple of days,” Caitlin replies. “But we’re looking forward to Colorado.”
There’s nothing quite like the meeting of two beautiful women of the same class. I would never have guessed that Caitlin had a catty side. Livy is ten years older but gives up nothing in any department. The friction is automatic.
“How’s John?” I ask as Livy studies me with new interest. “Her husband,” I add for Caitlin’s benefit.
“We’re separated. Six weeks now.”
So, Sam Jacobs’s gossip was accurate. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I should have gotten out of it five years ago.”
This bombshell leaves me tingling with a sense of unreality. We all stand around feeling awkward until Caitlin takes Annie from my arms, points at the broad picture window, and says, “Let’s go look at those big airplanes!”
They’re quickly swallowed by the crowd, but not before Caitlin gives me a reproving look over her shoulder.
“Who was that?” Livy asks.
“The new publisher of the Examiner.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Her father owns the chain.”
“Ah.” Livy feels comfortably superior again. “Nepotism run amok. She doesn’t seem your type.”
And what’s my type? Dead saints and ghosts from my youth? “I think my type is
