“It’s good to see you again, dear, and I just love that dress.”
“Good to see you, too, Mrs. LaRue, and thanks. I’m so glad that Hank talked you into coming tonight.”
Charlotte winced at the “Mrs.” but didn’t bother correcting the error. “Mrs. LaRue sounds so old,” she said instead. “Please call me Charlotte.”
“Thanks, I’d like that,” Carol told her.
Charlotte had met Carol Jones only on one other occasion, a Christmas party sponsored by Hank and his partners for children confined to the hospital over the holidays. Then, as now, she’d felt immediately drawn to the younger woman. She was relieved and delighted to know that Hank was still dating her. Maybe, just maybe, Hank had finally met the right woman, she thought.
Besides being attractive, Carol had seemed to be a generous, caring woman, and Charlotte had been impressed. Unlike Mindy, Hank’s ex-wife, Carol also seemed to have a sensible, practical nature that strongly appealed to Charlotte.
Surely the fact that Hank was still seeing Carol was a good sign, she thought. At least she hoped so. For a long time after he’d divorced Mindy, she’d wondered if he would ever recover from what his ex-wife had done. It had taken him years to get to the point where he was even interested in dating again, and even then, he’d hardly ever asked a woman out more than once or twice.
Hank wasn’t getting any younger, and neither was she. If she ever hoped to have grandchildren, he needed to stop fooling around and get down to business.
A granddaughter would be nice, she thought longingly. A little girl she could cuddle and spoil. But a grandson would do just as well.
Then a horrible thought suddenly struck her. Hank’s first wife hadn’t wanted children. What if Carol felt the same way, too? Surely Hank wouldn’t make that same mistake twice.
Only one way to find out, she decided. Charlotte smiled up at her son. “Hank, honey, why don’t you get us all a nice glass of wine? Carol and I will wait right over there.” She pointed to a bench that was miraculously empty, considering the crowd of people standing around.
Hank firmly shook his head. “Oh, no, you don’t, Mother. I’m not letting you get Carol off alone to grill her.”
Charlotte feigned a hurt expression but was saved from outright lying about her intentions by Carol.
“What’s wrong, darling?” the younger woman crooned to him as she reached up and caressed his jaw. “Afraid I might learn all of your deep, dark secrets?” Then, with a saucy wink, she turned to Charlotte and took her firmly by the arm. “Come along, Charlotte. We can grill each other.” With a throaty laugh, she steered Charlotte toward the empty bench.
Two hours later, Charlotte found herself standing alone, just on the edge of the dancing area. After covering yet another yawn with her hand, she glanced at her watch. “Way past my bedtime,” she muttered. “Time to go home.”
Wondering if she’d stayed long enough to satisfy her son, she glanced around, looking for him. So where was he?
When she finally spotted him, he was among the dancers. In his arms was the lovely Carol. The band was playing a soft, dreamy song, designed especially for lovers. From the expression on Hank’s face, the last thing on his mind was the whereabouts of his mother.
As Charlotte continued watching, once again she felt the familiar tug of the past. From a distance, her son’s resemblance to his father was uncanny and more than a bit unsettling.
So why tonight? she wondered. It wasn’t as if Hank looked any different tonight than at any other time. Maybe it was the tuxedo. Though a far cry from the army uniform his father had worn, the tuxedo was still a uniform of sorts. And the music . . . the dreamy dance music, what her generation called belly-rubbing music . . .
Charlotte shook her head. “Definitely time to go home,” she murmured, pulling her gaze away in an effort to fight the onslaught of past memories, painful ones that seemed determined to intrude on this particular night.
Hank’s father, the love of her life, was gone, she firmly told herself, gone forever. And no amount of longing or wishing things were different would change that fact; it was a reality she’d had to learn to cope with the hard way.
“Charlotte? Charlotte LaRue!”
Even with the noise of chatter and music there was no mistaking the squeaky voice calling out to her or the spry, birdlike old lady headed her way.
Charlotte groaned softly. Of all the people she didn’t want to get stuck with, Bitsy Duhe headed the list. Bad enough she had to endure the old lady’s endless chatter every Tuesday, when she cleaned her house. A shameless gossip, Bitsy seemed to know something about everyone, thanks to the hours she spent on the telephone.
A sudden tug of guilt pulled at Charlotte’s conscience, and shame flooded through her for her uncharitable attitude.
Bitsy’s husband had once been the mayor of New Orleans, and the couple had led an active social life even after he’d retired. Then he’d died a few years back, leaving her all alone except for their son and two granddaughters. But her son and granddaughters lived in other parts of the country. Bitsy was simply a lonely old lady, so desperate for human contact and companionship that she resorted to phoning around, collecting little tidbits of the latest gossip.
Tuesday, Charlotte told her conscience as she quickly glanced around, seeking the best avenue of escape. I promise I’ll be more charitable on Tuesday, when I clean her house, but please, just not tonight.
For an elderly lady in her eighties, Bitsy was fast, though, and before Charlotte had taken two steps, Bitsy grabbed hold of her arm.
“Oh, Charlotte, am I glad to see you.”
As usual, Bitsy’s purple-gray hair was pulled straight back, away from her face, and fashioned into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She’d once confided to Charlotte that by pulling her hair back, she could smooth out the wrinkles in her forehead. And as usual, Bitsy wore one of her numerous midcalf flowered dresses.
Reminding herself that Bitsy was a client, Charlotte pasted a smile on her face. But before she could return the old lady’s greeting, Bitsy was chattering away, nonstop. With Bitsy, one never carried on a conversation. One simply listened.
“I meant to call you today,” the old lady told her, “but what with my doctor’s appointment and grocery shopping, I never got around to it. I was wondering if you could possibly come in tomorrow to clean instead of next Tuesday.”
Charlotte opened her mouth to tell the old lady that, regretfully, she had already made plans, but Bitsy kept right on talking.
“Now, Charlotte, dear, I realize that tomorrow is Saturday, and of course I would pay you extra” She took a deep breath and smiled proudly. “You see, my granddaughter called this morning, and she’s coming for a visit—you know, she’s the one who lives in New York. And she’s flying in tomorrow evening. I really want everything to be nice and tidy for her visit, but I don’t have a lot of time.”
Again Charlotte opened her mouth to tell Bitsy she couldn’t come, but one look at the eager anticipation on the old lady’s face, along with the glow of excitement in her faded blue eyes, and she found she couldn’t do it.
“What
