but to appear like this in Highlands, where she and her family were so highly revered, is even worse. Everybody in town had plenty to say about him remarrying with his late wife dead less than a year; I can only imagine the talk about the young wife and the way Emmet can’t keep his hands off her. I reach over to pat Kit’s arm, and she smiles at me weakly. “Well,” she says in a small voice. “The show must go on, I suppose.”
My eyes return to Helen, wondering what Kit meant about the Bride’s choice of clothing. So far, it’s been the tropical look of her wardrobe that Kit and I dish about—the skimpy sundresses and short little skirts, the tank tops and garish floral prints. I’ve longed to ask her if she’s ever heard of Lilly Pulitzer, who does tropical with class. Think Palm Beach rather than the Daytona racetrack, I’ve wanted to suggest. But tonight, the Bride looks unusually presentable in a simple black sheath, a colorful but elegant shawl, and tasteful jewelry. When it hits me what Kit was referring to, I turn to her wide-eyed.
Kit nods grimly, her greenish eyes glittering. “She’s wearing Rosalyn’s necklace.”
We’ve begun to walk toward the front, with Noel between us, and he pauses to look down at Kit. Uncharacteristically, the three of us pay no attention to the other well-dressed patrons as they glide gaily by us, chattering among themselves.
“Helen is?” Noel asks, looking genuinely puzzled.
“Of course, nitwit,” I whisper. “Who the hell do you think she meant—Myna?”
Noel raises his head to study Emmet and Helen curiously, and his expression remains neutral. Because Kit’s with us, he won’t admonish me like he usually does for trash-talking Emmet’s new wife, but his expression tells me more than he knows. Even Noel, cool and unflappable as always, is taken aback. Rosalyn had several pieces of fine jewelry, mostly heirlooms, but none she loved as much as an unusual gold locket that Emmet got her in Cuba. He’d bought it on the sly from a Cuban aristocrat who had hidden it away since the fall of Batista. Although Rosalyn never wore it—its heavy, ornate design didn’t suit her—she adored both the necklace and the story behind it, especially the risks Emmet took smuggling it out of the country. That he would give Rosalyn’s most treasured piece of jewelry to someone other than Annie is appalling.
“And isn’t that Rosalyn’s shawl, too? The one he got her in Cuba to go with the necklace?” I ask Kit, but it’s Noel who answers me.
“Oh, come on, you two,” he groans. “The necklace is one thing, but Rosalyn would never begrudge the poor girl a shawl. I for one can’t stand to see her shivering every night. If Emmet hadn’t gotten her some kind of wrap, I would’ve done so myself.”
“At least the shawl’s covered up the cleavage,” I mutter, and Noel chuckles.
“That’s the only reason I haven’t gotten her a wrap,” he says, and Kit pokes him with her elbow, giggling.
The three of us watch as Emmet and Helen disappear into the crowd inside. The front of the Bascom is solid glass, so we can observe them for a moment as they mingle with the crowd, Emmet taking Helen around to introduce her. It occurs to me that this is their first public appearance at a social venue in Highlands. Everybody is curious to meet the woman who made Emmet Justice forget his grief, especially since most of them know how close that grief came to killing him.
“C’mon,” I say to Noel and Kit, motioning for them to hurry. “We can’t miss this.”
Dutifully, both pick up their pace, but Noel says, “What we cannot miss is poor Linc. We should’ve gotten here earlier to help him get settled, but I didn’t think there would be such a crowd. We’ve never had a turnout like this for a reading. Even for the poet laureate last year, remember?”
I shake my head at his naïveté, unusual for Noel. “Poor baby. Everyone came tonight because they knew Emmet would bring the new wife.” Another thought hits me, and I groan. “Oh, Jesus! Myna will think the crowd is for her, and she’ll be more insufferable than ever.”
“Not possible, my dear,” Noel says drily.
“She’s so transparent it makes me want to puke,” Kit chimes in. “Noel takes Linc everywhere we go, except tonight for her poetry reading. Oh, no—she insists on doing it herself. I can only imagine how she carried on bringing him in, can’t y’all? The long-suffering, devoted wife, taking care of her pitiful husband all by her lonesome! And where are those sorry friends of theirs, everyone will be asking? You’d think the least they could do is help the poor woman out with her burden.”
“Beverly Howell and Keturah Paulk are right inside the door,” I tell them breathlessly. “We can get the scoop from them if you two will just hurry your butts up.”
“One good thing about Myna,” Noel says with a sly grin. “She’s managed to get the two of you to shut up about Helen.”
“Not to worry,” I call out as I make a rush for the front door. “Beverly and Keturah will have plenty to tell us about her, too.”
Once inside the Bascom, Kit and I are surrounded by our women friends, eager to gossip about Emmet’s new bride now that she and Emmet are no longer in sight, having left for the lecture room right before we entered. Kissing cheeks and pumping hands like a politician up for reelection, Noel makes his way through the crowd toward the lecture room, where Linc is being held captive by his doting wife. It’s Myna’s big night, when she honors Highlands not only with her presence but also with a reading of her weird, obtuse poetry, and she’s in full-bitch mode. Kit’s right; Myna’s insistence on bringing Linc herself doesn’t fool anyone . . . except Linc, I guess. For the umpteenth time I wonder what happens to the brain of an otherwise über-intelligent man when a woman is involved. Say what you will about the dumb things women do for love, at least we don’t think with our peckers, and wouldn’t even if we had one, I hope.
As expected, the women, and even some of the men, are tsk-tsking about the Bride, now that they have Kit and me to commiserate. “My God, Tansy—how old is she?” Beverly Howell asks in a horrified whisper. “I heard she wasn’t much older than Annie.”
“Surely she’s not pregnant!” Keturah Paulk says, putting a hand to her mouth.
It’s tempting to let that rumor float, but I reluctantly tell the middle-aged crowd gathered around us that Helen is older than she looks, in her mid-forties, with a son about Annie’s age. It’s safe to say that she’s past childbearing age. “Guess it’s healthy eating that keeps her so youthful-looking,” I throw out casually. “She’s a dietician, you know.”
This brings about the reaction I’d aimed for, and I wish Noel were here to witness my vindication. John Jeffers, one of my closest—and gayest—buddies, guffaws in delight. “Emmet Justice married to a dietician? That’d be like me marrying a gay-bashing right-winger, wouldn’t it?”
Eyes round, Kathy Manning leans forward to whisper, “Does she allow Emmet to drink? He’s always been a heavy drinker, as all of us know.”
“One glass of red wine at dinnertime,” I tell her. It’s a bald-faced lie, but I cannot resist, especially since Noel’s not here to correct me, and Kit sure won’t.
“Maybe I could send her over to straighten out my husband,” Anne Sullivan says, and everyone laughs, including her husband, Claude. But Bootsie Woodruff, an influential dowager who’d been a close friend of Rosalyn’s mother, silences our laughter.
With her great dignity and full-throated
