course, Sarah was no stranger to murder. Counseling victim’s families, visiting perpetrators in prison, listening to innumerable attorneys prosecute and defend in its name. But until six months ago, it had always felt . . . distant. Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, death and fear grew close, hovering around her friends and family, haunting her dreams, until finally, she saw it, felt it, tasted it for herself.
Holding firmly to the basin’s rim, she breathed in deeply and exhaled. Whether fate, luck, or the grace of God had intervened Sarah wasn’t sure, but she reminded herself now that she had managed to escape. And that she had helped Obee, her boss, her mentor, her friend to regain his health and return to the Bench. She had found the strength, risen to the occasion.
Thinking of these things always calmed her nerves, and soon her hands dropped to her side, her breathing slowed, and she once again saw her own reflection before her. Her involvement in the matter had come at a stiff price, but she was alive and now determined to move forward. And Sarah reminded herself there was a reason she had come so close to death’s door. She was glad she had helped put things right, but she’d traveled too far afield. She wasn’t a detective. She was an officer of the court, and a good one at that. When she returned from her holiday, she would be so again. The more routine the case, the better.
Feeling steadier and stronger by the moment, Sarah reached into her purse and pulled out a small, gold compact. Normally, she wouldn’t have bothered—she could reapply the tiny amount of powder she used blindfolded—but since the events of last fall, she had become somewhat self-conscious about her appearance. Not about her so-called imperfections: the outward curve of her rather prominent nose, the slight gap in her front teeth, the tiny, half-moon scar on her left cheek. Those she had accepted long ago, had even grown to half-heartedly believe that they gave her the character everyone said they did. No, it was the loss of youth, or more precisely, no longer looking younger than her years, that had prompted vanity to rear its ugly head. Having been complimented on the trait so often, she had, even at forty, simply taken it for granted. Not any more. Not when nearly everyone she encountered offered instead their well-meaning advice: “You know, my dear, you could benefit from a trip to the baths.” “Sarah, I have a wonderful doctor.” “You’re familiar with the Rest Cure, aren’t you, Miss Kaufman?”
If she interpreted such remarks correctly, time not only had caught up with her, but was threatening to pass her by.
As she examined herself now, however, she observed a slight improvement. She never might be quite the same, but she had regained most of the weight she lost last year; at five foot six still thin, but healthy-looking at one hundred and twenty pounds. The angles of her heart-shaped face had softened, her olive skin had lost its sallowness, and the velvety quality of her deep-set dark eyes had returned. She held out her hands. Still perfectly average in length and width, still squarish in shape with a deep nail bed. The only change was on the underside of her right ring finger. The callous had grown from a small ridge to a thick bump, the result of metal continuously pressing against flesh. It drove her sister, Tillie, crazy, the way she incessantly twirled her rings, counting each turn just under her breath. But something about the motion comforted Sarah, a simple way to feel pacified and protected. Mismatched and awkwardly stacked, the rings glistened under the bathroom’s soft white light. Her mother’s thin cluster of marcasites, the gold encircled garnet Obee had given her for her birthday, and the plain silver band, a place holder for the one she used to think would someday permanently grace her other hand.
She moved closer to the mirror. Perhaps a few more lines were etched on her forehead. And there definitely was more grey scattered throughout her chestnut hair, especially at the base of her widow’s peak, which became more obvious as she pinned it up into its usual French twist. But such minor alterations were a small price to pay. Not bad, she thought, as she straightened her pink silk chemise . . . all things considered. And with that, she swung open the door. Suddenly she was ravenous.
•••
Although it was noon, a few tables were still unoccupied. The dining car retained some of the luxury of the older trains: brass lamps, leaded glass windows, plush, thickly cushioned chairs. A uniformed Negro waiter escorted her to a white-clothed table midway down the isle. “Coffee or tea?” the man asked, as he placed a starched napkin on her lap.
“Tea, I think. Thank you.”
“Chicken consommé or Roquefort salad?”
“Salad.”
He smiled and wrote down her order, glancing at her book enigmatically before turning to a beckoning customer. She briefly tried to decipher his expression, but then decided that some things were best left unknown. Soothed by the gentle motion of the train, the tinkling of glass and silver, the gamy, citrus aroma of duck a l’orange, she marked her page and gazed out the window to the summer haze. At such a dreamy vision, the past retreated, wound itself back on the reel, and was held once more in suspended animation.
2
When Sarah arrived in Knoxville, the air was warm, but still fresh from rain. Thunderstorms were the mainstay of summer afternoons in the South. As the day progressed, plump white clouds had gradually gathered into tall grey plumes, and the haze had thickened, turning the landscape into a shapeless mass. Only when a yellow-white flash of lightening periodically electrified the sky could she distinguish one hill from another.
Still, Sarah had mostly enjoyed the ride. Despite the fact that it was hot and steamy outside, she had the cozy feeling of being indoors on a winter’s day. Not until the young Mr. Jarvis inadvertently sent her reeling did she begin to feel the heat of the storm. But for her cousin’s sake, as well as her own, she had pushed the worries out of her mind and relished the remainder of her ride. Lunch had been satisfying, and with her appetite and nerves calmed, she had managed to make progress on her book. In between chapters, she had followed the storm’s trajectory, from the first relieved droplets to the torrential downpour that signaled the beginning of its end.
By the time the conductor announced their arrival, the sun was out, streaming onto the landing where Lena was waiting. She waved at Sarah with both hands high above her head, plaid bloomers billowing out around her narrow hips, black bobbed hair swaying in the heavy breeze.
“Sarah! Sarah!”
Sarah dropped her suitcase on the wooden landing and ran toward her cousin. The two hugged and cooed for several moments, then drew back to examine one another. It had been five years. Much too long. Sarah held onto Lena’s bare, narrow shoulders, eyeing her up and down. So small. Only five tiny feet. Five and a quarter as she knew Lena would be quick to correct her. At the most one hundred pounds. But what a package! And evidently, still possessing an acute eye for fashion. Those French pumps with their curved heels and cream-colored suede were up-to-the-minute, not like those worn by any academic type Sarah had ever seen. “Lena, you little smarty. I’ll bet your male students have a hard time concentrating.”
Lena’s raven eyes gleamed. “Look who’s talking,” she said, or rather “tauwkink,” her Philadelphia accent especially pronounced at the moment. “You look marvelous, Sarah. You always were the pretty one—if you’d just do something with that hair!”
They both giggled, Sarah in her soft pianissimo, Lena in her throaty pianoforte. Lena had wanted Sarah to bob her hair ever since the style became popular several years ago. Although Sarah repeatedly said she would sooner stroll nude through the center of town, her cousin had raised the topic so often that it had become something of a private joke.
Bob or not, Lena was not pretty in the conventional sense, even less so than Sarah. Though she too was blessed with a clear, olive complexion and was shapely in the right spots, her nose was curved like a hawk, her square teeth
