her to let it be, and Tansy said if Kit was riding back with them, she’d better get her ass in the car. But Kit shook her head and said she wouldn’t dream of leaving us to clean up the mess—her mama had raised her better. No true Southern belle would do such a thing.
Later I’d wonder if Kit had merely been looking for an excuse to go inside. Because a small bathroom is located near the porch, there hadn’t been a reason for any of them to wander through the house. To my dismay, when Kit followed me into the kitchen, her arms full of dirty plates, she looked around wide-eyed before bursting into tears. Tansy came running in to glare at me, as though I’d said something to upset her friend. I stood by helplessly as Kit dumped the dishes into the sink with tears rolling down her flushed cheeks. Throwing me a look, Tansy enclosed Kit in her arms and led her out of the kitchen. From the porch I could hear the cries of concern, then Noel’s voice. “Was the kitchen that big of a mess, honey?” he said, but no one laughed in response.
Before everyone left, Kit apologized, saying how she never imagined seeing Rosalyn’s kitchen would affect her like that, but the harm had been done. The evening ended on a sour note, and I fretted as I cleaned up. Emmet was silent and unapproachable as he worked beside me. When I asked him if he thought it went well, he shrugged. “I guess so,” he said tonelessly. “Didn’t you?” Turning away abruptly, he announced that he was wiped out and hitting the sack. Before leaving, he stopped by the butler’s pantry and fixed himself a nightcap—a double, I noted glumly.
I lingered in the kitchen as long as I could, putting off the moment I’d be forced to climb the long flight of stairs to our bedroom. Somehow I knew that the previous night, my first in the house—in Rosalyn’s house—would be the last good night of sleep I’d have here. When I finally went to bed, I lay awake and listened to the strange noises of an old house. The sounds were unfamiliar and somehow frightening, as though they were whispering me a warning.
SHAKING OFF THE memory of that unsettling night, I see Emmet’s Jeep pulling out of Noel’s driveway and get to my feet, the wine bottle tucked under my arm. If the bright pink glow beyond the mountaintops is any indication, this evening’s sunset will be something to behold. I hurry down the pathway to join Emmet for the viewing, a favorite ritual of ours. He’ll be looking for me.
Just as I emerge from the suddenly dark rhododendron tunnel into the golden light of late afternoon I see it out of the corner of my eye and I blink in surprise. Someone is in the moon gardens, moving swiftly away from the house. From here, it appears to be a man. Emmet? But what would he be doing out there? He can hardly bear the sight of the gardens; I can’t imagine him suddenly deciding to wander through them. Plus, there’s hardly been enough time for him to get to the house, much less around back.
I’m almost to the house and about to call out, but I no longer see the dark figure moving through the trees. Stopping in bewilderment, I wonder if I really saw someone, or if my mind was playing tricks on me. Exhaustion can do that to you. I stand and watch the back of the house, my eyes scanning the overgrowth, the shrubbery, the trees, for any sign of movement. Nothing. If Emmet was out there, he’s back inside. Even as I think that, I know better. It wasn’t Emmet I saw out there. It was only a play of light at the end of the day, I tell myself. I speed up, anxious to get back, to sit on the porch and watch the sunset with my husband, leaving shadows behind.
ARS POETICA
Naturally, Noel parks as far away from the building as possible, and I cut my eyes his way. “Wish I’d known we’d be walking all the way from Cashiers. I would’ve worn my hiking boots instead of heels,” I say between clenched teeth. From the backseat, Kit giggles.
“Maybe Noel’s trying to tell us we need the exercise,” she suggests.
“Or maybe he’s just being a turd,” I retort.
Noel sighs heavily. “Tansy, Tansy, Tansy. Might I remind you that the last time we came here, you also wore those ridiculous shoes that make you look like an Amazon warrior—”
With a gasp, Kit leans forward to slap his shoulder. “Those are the best-looking Jimmy Choos she owns, Noel Clements! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Like that’s ever stopped him,” I mutter as I fumble with the latch of the door.
Noel continues as though neither of us has spoken. “—and I drove you up to the front door so you wouldn’t have to walk on the gravel. You flat-out refused to get out because—according to you—nobody but blue-haired ladies are driven to the front door.”
My cheeks flame, remembering. I’d totally forgotten. God, I hate it when Noel’s right. Trying to save face, I say haughtily, “Yeah, but that was different.”
I get out of the car quickly before he can ask me why, because I can’t think of a single reason. While I’m holding the seat up so Kit can get out, Noel slams out of the driver’s side with a huff. One of his pet peeves, when I don’t wait for him to open the door for me. His manners are so much a part of him that I feel a twinge of guilt, aggravating him like that. Then another twinge, witnessing Kit crawling awkwardly out of the backseat of Noel’s little hybrid. When we stopped by her place to pick her up, I hopped out and held the passenger seat up for her to get in the back. Noel shot me a look of amusement, which I ignored. Good manners dictate that I go in the backseat, but Kit’s half my size. Why should I fold myself up like a pretzel so she could have more room than needed in the front seat? By the time Kit has gotten herself out and smoothed down her knee-length skirt, Noel has come around the car to elbow me out of the way. Always the gentleman, he lends a helping hand as Kit adjusts the sheer shawl draped around her shoulders.
Kit tosses her head, and I note how pretty she looks tonight. A nearby streetlamp, as muted and understated as everything else at the art center, catches the glint of the exquisite diamonds in her earlobes. She could always sell those, I realize, if her situation gets any worse. Kit has never been good at finances, but she’s really gotten herself in a mess this time. Somehow she’s managed to blow every cent her last husband, whom we now refer to as Poor Old Al, left her. To be fair, a lot of it went to lawyers. Understandably, Poor Old Al’s kids weren’t exactly happy with the terms of their father’s will, and Kit had no choice but to fight them in court. She’s been in court more in the last few years than most judges have.
With a mock bow, Noel offers one arm to Kit and the other to me, but Kit freezes in place. Her eyes dart toward the entrance of the Bascom Visual Arts Center, then back to Noel and me. In a whisper, she says, “Don’t look now, but you’re not going to believe what she’s wearing.”
When Noel and I both turn our heads toward the entrance like spectators at a tennis match, Kit hisses, “I said don’t look!” Since I’d expected to see Myna in one of her artsy-fartsy outfits that we love making fun of, I’m surprised (and a tad disappointed) to see Emmet and the Bride instead. He, of course, caring much more for the Bride than Noel does for me, has parked close, which gives us the perfect opportunity to watch from a distance as they stroll arm in arm toward the entrance. It shakes me up, the way Emmet is looking at his new wife, and I feel an almost unbearable pang of grief for Rosalyn. As long as I’ve known Emmet, that besotted look has been reserved for Rosalyn alone.
I glance at Kit, and the look on her face breaks my heart. Noel’s gaze catches mine, and holds. He, too, has seen the grief in Kit’s expression, but there’s nothing either of us can say to comfort her. The cold, hard facts are simple: Rosalyn
