Like Gettysburg after the battle up there … Why didn’t it occur to me that there would be scar tissue? That I was ruining the riches of a substrate designed to nurture the fetus?
She dozed again, and when she woke the image of Gettysburg had gone. The book loomed in her mind. When she had the idea, she was convinced it was the answer. If Jim Hunter wrote about his discoveries for the layman, it would be a fascinating trek into the unknown for people who had no concept how exciting that unknown was, how exhilarating, how filled with the mysteries at the very roots of life. Naturally he would never have thought of it for himself, but once she proposed the idea to him, he saw its potential at once. Yes, yes! A popular book! Thank you, Millie, thank you for seeing a way out of our hell.
The frantic act of writing it, hammering away at the old IBM while she kept feeding his ego, chapter after chapter, until the six-hundred-page manuscript was done to fifth draft. Oh, the hilarious sessions as they tossed titles around until he had found the one he liked: A Helical God. His own choice.
Was it the book precipitated her downfall, or the horrific consequences of tetrodotoxin? Four murders! Captain Carmine Delmonico, her own close cousin, was certain that Jim was responsible for them — Jim!
Came a light knock on the door; Jim appeared. “Does the sign extend to me?” he asked, smiling, his hands full of white roses almost into full bloom.
Her arms went out in welcome. “Never in a million years.”
“Has Dr. Solomon been yet?”
How much do I tell him? “Yes.”
“What’s the story?”
“Apparently my womb needs a thorough rest, sweetheart. No sex for quite a while, I’m afraid. Can you bear it?”
His eyes were full of love. “What a question to ask! Sure I can bear it, for however long it takes. Are you okay?”
“I’m very well, but womb tissue takes some time to heal — Dr. Solomon explained it simply for the ignoramus I am. Sooner or later you’ll have to see him, but there’s no urgency,” she said lightly. “Be warned! Biochemists know as much about these things as accountants do.”
“I’ll see him whenever he wants.” He looked anxious. “The publicity tour, Millie. Will you be able to go?”
“Definitely,” said Millie comfortably. “I refuse to abandon you to the wiles of Pamela. Dreadful, isn’t she?”
“Like a very sour lemon dipped in chocolate.”
MONDAY, MARCH 31, 1969
Davina gazed around her contemporary living room in satisfaction. It looked its best, certain chairs banished, other chairs fetched from different rooms, or newly purchased. The moment that supercilious bitch Pamela Devane set eyes on this room, she would have to admit that Connecticut too was capable of producing innovative interiors and design.
Uda came in, dragging her feet. Vina’s eyes narrowed.
“You’ve been looking in the water bowl and it wasn’t good,” Davina said, not in English. “Tell me!”
“I have seen disaster,” said Uda, not in English.
“Disaster? What? Where? When?”
The flat face seemed flatter, as if a veil of Saran wrap had been drawn tightly across it. “I cannot see, Vina.”
“Then look again!”
“It is not our disaster, that is the problem. It touches us, but not malignly. Looking again will not help.”
Davina had relaxed. “As long as it isn’t our disaster, I can rest. It is not the success of the book?”
“No. The success of the book benefits.”
“Alexis?”
“Is a brilliant light in the sky above a field of utter desolation. Untouched, perfect. It is not Max either. I told you, Vina, it is not our disaster.”
“Then I can go ahead with my party tomorrow?”
“Oh, yes. It will be a triumph, even though you have acted stupidly in asking that woman policeman to come,” Uda said.
Davina looked shocked. “Stupid? It is you who is stupid! Sergeant Carstairs is a socialite as well as a policeman. No one in Holloman ever has a party without inviting the aristocratic niece of the Silvestris! It was I who was mistaken, Uda, when I first met her and told her how to dress. Delia Carstairs is a famous eccentric.”
“You can’t say that about Captain Delmonico’s giant wife,” said Uda sulkily.
“She is a famous heroine,” said Davina patiently, “and this is not a party for ‘Mayflower’ descendants, though there will be two of them as well.” She looked brisk. “Mine is a delightful preview of the book’s launch on Wednesday, but with better food, better drink, and far more comfortable surroundings. Chubb will hire the same old firm of caterers, whereas I have Uda, the chef supreme. The food?”