podium, she smiles and nods again and again, like a bobblehead doll. I assume she selects her wardrobe to conform to her image of the serious artiste; at least I hope she has a reason other than the most appalling taste imaginable. Tonight she’s draped in a gauzy black tunic with winglike sleeves, as if she’s just flown in from a witches’ coven. Her frizzy hair is piled chrysanthemum-like on top of her head, and elongated silver loops swing from her slightly protruding ears. I haven’t seen the necklace before ( just fortunate, I guess): an entwined black-and-silver cord that flaps against her flat chest. When she closes her eyes and raises both hands high over her head, I lean even farther away from Kit’s elbow. Poor Helen; she’s got Emmet practically in her lap on one side, and me on the other. It’s going to be a long night.
Myna achieved poetic fame by her innovative use of a single word or two to create an image, somewhat like haiku boiled down to even fewer syllables. She’s the darling of critics and the literary intelligentsia, but I don’t care for the stuff myself. I like my poetry more . . . poetic, I guess. She begins her recitation in a loud, dramatic voice: “An eagle! The sky! A cliff! An eye!” With her eyes closed and arms upright, she tilts her pointy chin toward the ceiling and takes on a look of pure ecstasy. Saint Teresa couldn’t have done it better. She proceeds to recite a much longer poem (also about eagles) with such intensity that when it reaches a crescendo, she shivers before slumping over the podium with arms outspread, spent. After a stunned silence, the audience bursts into startled applause. Emmet clears his throat, but I dare not glance his way. After enough time passes that I’m beginning to wonder if she’s fainted, Myna straightens herself up and bows solemnly. No more smiles and flushed cheeks now; she’s about the serious business of bestowing her poetic gifts on the masses.
I perk up when she launches into the next poem because it sounds suggestive, with tantalizing images of bees sucking dew from the shy petals of daisies. A few stanzas later, the bees are darting in and out of stamens, which seems to be giving the quivering daisies quite a buzz. About halfway through, however, she loses me, and I decide the poem is actually about bees, petals, and daisies instead of fornication. As expected, Myna moves on to the feminist poetry she’s known for, and I suppress another groan. If anyone’s ever been oppressed in a male-female relationship, it’s Linc, but Myna’s poems are so full of graphic images of female oppression, you’d think she’d gone through it. She goes from slavery, rape, and genital mutilation to the more common sins of job discrimination and housewifery drudgery. The idea of her being oppressed is ludicrous. I pity anyone, man or woman, who tries to hold that one down.
Big surprise: Myna’s reading goes on way too long, and the audience begins to get restless, eager to get out to the candlelit terrace where Noel and I, with a little help from Holly the caterer, are hosting a reception to honor the esteemed Magpie Poet. Finally, mercifully, I can make my exit on the pretext of helping get things ready. I slip out while Myna stands in front of the podium to bow over and over, her chrysanthemum head almost touching her knees, arms outspread as though she’s about to take off. The applause is as enthusiastic as it was when she entered, but this time it’s from gratitude that the ordeal’s finally over.
A couple of hours and several glasses of champagne later, I’m cornered by an old friend, Frank Grimes, who motions for me to follow him to a quieter area of the terrace. I noticed him trying to get my attention earlier, but every time I attempted my getaway, someone would detain me. The terrace is still full of folks, with Myna holding court in the center. Seated by her side and cradling the one glass of wine allowed him, Linc glows with pride at his wife’s success. I hope he can make it for the duration. Highlands is a party town, and the revelers will stay until the booze runs out.
Like the rest of us, Frank Grimes loves to dish, so I figure he’s looking for the lowdown on the Bride. To my surprise, his expression is solemn when he says to me, “Listen, Tansy, I need to ask you something. Do you remember last year, when you and Kit brought some things of Rosalyn’s to the shop?”
Of course I do. Frank and his partner, Bill, manage the charity thrift shop downtown, where Kit and I took a lot of the stuff from Rosalyn’s closets at Moonrise. Frank goes on to tell me that they always store their high-end donations away, then put out a few pieces at a time to sell. “The other day, I was going through the wardrobe where the remainder of Rosalyn’s things are stored,” Frank tells me in a low voice, “and I found something in one of her purses. Evidently you and Kit missed it when you cleaned out her things.”
I gasp in surprise, and Frank winces at my reaction. “Oh, dear,” he says ruefully. “I didn’t mean to get your hopes up, like we found a long-lost heirloom. It’s nothing, really, but it’s monogrammed, so I thought you’d want to have it, you or Kit. I’ve tried to corner Kit a couple of times tonight, but she’s been rather . . . ah, busy.”
Both of us turn our heads to where Kit stands leaning against the railing of the terrace, deep in conversation with one of our friends, Jim Lanier. They’ve been in that same spot for most of the reception, much to my delight. Jim is another of my former lovers, a handsome, sophisticated jet-setter who would be perfect for Kit. Until tonight, she’s resisted all efforts to be fixed up with him or anyone else. It’s a funny thing about relationships. It’s been almost four years since Poor Old Al’s death, and Kit, whom I never considered the ever-faithful type, has shown no interest in another man. Emmet, on the other hand, seems to have attached himself to the first woman that came along. Go figure.
As if echoing my thoughts, Frank says, “I figured a lovely woman like Kit would’ve remarried long before now.”
“Yeah, me, too,” I agree, then remind him of the item he found of Rosalyn’s. Can’t let the talkative Frank get sidetracked with gossip, the main thing besides tourists and bears that Highlands has in abundance.
I’m taken aback when Frank reaches into the pocket of his sports coat and pulls out a small book. “I brought it with me, figuring all of you would be here tonight.” He cuts his eyes toward another corner of the shadowy terrace, where Emmet and Helen huddle together with their plates of food. “As soon as I saw Emmet, though, I knew better than to approach him with this. It’s obvious that he has other things on his mind.” Frank wiggles his eyebrows meaningfully.
Poor Frank; he’s caught me at the end of the evening, after I’ve about talked myself out on everybody’s favorite topic, Emmet and the new wife. I’m suddenly tired, and don’t want to hear yet again how young Helen looks, or what a short time Emmet knew her before they married, or how different she is from Rosalyn. Not only that, a strange thing has happened over the course of the evening. The tide has turned, and somehow, the villain of the story is now Helen. Originally, the town was incensed that Emmet had dishonored his beloved late wife’s memory by remarrying so soon, and the new wife was mainly an object of curiosity. Now everyone has decided that Helen took advantage of a grieving widower and moved quickly to get her hooks into him. People are saying that Emmet was in no condition to make any kind of rational decision. They’ve got a point, but still. I turn my attention back to Frank and the book of Rosalyn’s he holds, which is about twice the length of a deck of cards. Monogrammed RHJ, it’s a brown leather pad with a gold pen attached to a loop on the side.
“Oh, it’s Rosalyn’s notepad!” I gasp when Frank hands it over. “Her Day-Timer was retrieved from the car, but not the notebook. So this really is a treasure.” Glancing at Frank, I explain rather breathlessly. “You see, she got a new one the first of every year. We teased her because she usually kept it in the car to scribble reminders to herself while driving. Not the safest of habits, especially in Atlanta.”
My voice catches in my throat, and Frank pats my arm awkwardly. After thanking him profusely, I excuse myself and make a dash for the ladies’ room. No doubt he’s disappointed that I didn’t hang around to talk trash with him, but I don’t want curious eyes on me when I open Rosalyn’s notepad. I pause for a moment to motion Kit to follow me. I hate to disturb her tête-à-tête with the delectable Mr.
