Three Bedrooms, One Corpse(14)

“Does it make a difference to you?” he asked me softly.

I didn’t raise my head. “I don’t know,” I said sadly. “But I think it makes a difference to you.” I turned up my face then, and he kissed me. Despite Aubrey’s prin- ciples, we came very close to falling over the edge then and there, at the end of our relationship. There was more emotion in back of our touching than there ever had been before.

“We’d better go,” I said.

“Yes,” he said regretfully.

We were silent all the way to my mother’s house on Plantation Drive. We were both a little sad, I think.

Chapter Six

A

Martin’s Mercedes was already parked in front of my mother’s house. I took a deep breath and ex- haled it into the nippy air as I swung my legs out of the front seat of Aubrey’s car. He extended his hand and helped me out, and we went up the long flight of steps to the front door still holding hands. The glass storm door showed us the fireplace, lit and welcoming, and my mother’s new husband, John Queensland, standing in front of it with a glass of wine. He saw us coming and held the door for us.

“Come in, come in, it’s cold out tonight! I think winter is just about really here,” John said genially. I realized that he now felt at home in the house, he was the host. I, therefore, must be a guest. This evening was beginning on several jarring notes. My mother swept in from the kitchen. She could sweep even in quite narrow dresses; you’d think lots of ~ 84 ~

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material would be required for that gesture, but not with Aida Teagarden Queensland.

“Aubrey! Aurora! Come get warm and have a glass of wine with our guests,” Mother said, giving me a peck on the cheek and patting Aubrey’s shoulder. He was sitting on the couch, his back to me. I had a little time to get myself steeled. I held Aubrey’s hand tighter. We went around the corner of the couch to en- ter the little “conversation group” before the fire. “Have you gotten over your shock of yesterday?” asked Barby Lampton. She was wearing an unbecom- ing dress in dark green and mustard.

“Yes,” I said briefly. “And you?”

Aubrey was sliding my coat off. He smoothed my hair gently before he handed the coat to John to hang up. My eyes finally met Martin Bartell’s. His face was quite expressionless. His eyes were hot. “I guess so,” Barby said with a little laugh. “Noth- ing like that has ever happened to me before, but a woman I met at the local library this morning was telling me you’ve had an exciting life.” “Were you taking out a library card?” I asked after a moment.

“Oh, no,” Barby said, letting out a little shriek of laughter. “I wanted to look at the New York Times, at the sale ads. I was thinking about flying up to New York before I go home.”

Her marriage must have left her pretty affluent. “You’re going back so soon?” John asked hastily. Aubrey and I sat on one of the love seats flanking the couch, and Aubrey took my hand again.

“I’m sorry. I must not be cut out for rural living,”

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Barby said rather smugly. “This is such a sweet little town, all the people are so—talkative.” And her eyes cut toward me. “But I miss Chicago more than I thought I would. I’ll have to go back and start apartment-hunting. I think Martin was hoping I’d keep house for him, but I don’t think I’m quite ready for that.” She smirked at us significantly.

“I understand you got hurt quite badly a couple of years ago?” Barby went on, oblivious to the fact that my mother’s back got very straight and even John looked rather grim. Martin’s eyes were going from one face to another curiously.

“Not seriously,” I said finally. “My collarbone was broken, and two ribs.”

Aubrey was looking studiously at his wineglass. My brush with death had always seemed a little lurid to him. “Oh, my God! I know that hurt!”

“Yes. It hurt.”

“How did it happen?”

My side began to ache, as it always did when I thought about that horrible night. I heard myself screaming and felt the pain all over again. “It’s old news,” I said.

Barby opened her mouth again.

“I hear you have a wonderful cook, Aida,” Martin said clearly and smoothly.

Barby looked at him in surprise, Mother in gratitude. “Yes,” she agreed instantly, “but Mrs. Esther is not my cook, really. She’s a local caterer. If she knows you well, she’ll come into your home and cook for you. If she doesn’t know you well, she’ll prepare it all and leave it in your kitchen with instructions. Fortunately

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for me, she knows me well. She picks her own menu, and the next day everyone gets to talk about what Mrs. Esther felt like cooking for Mrs. Queensland, or Mr. Bartell, or whomever. We’ve all tried to figure out how she selects her dishes, but no one can pick out a pat- tern.”

Mrs. Esther’s cooking and character had provided more conversational fodder for parties than any other topic in Lawrenceton. Martin segued smoothly from Mrs. Esther to catering disasters at parties he’d at- tended, Aubrey ran that into bizarre weddings at which he’d officiated, and we were all laughing by the time Mrs. Esther appeared in the doorway in a spotless white uniform to announce that it was time to come to the table. She was a tall, heavy black woman with hair always arranged in braids crowning her head, and thick gold hoops in her ears. Mrs. Esther—no one ever called her Lucinda—was a serious woman. If she had a sense of humor, she kept it a secret from her clients. Mr. Esther was a secret, too. Young Esthers were al- ways on the honor roll printed in the newspaper, and they were apparently as closemouthed as their mother. We all went into Mother’s dining room with a sense of anticipation. Sometimes Mrs. Esther cooked French, sometimes traditional Southern, once or twice even German or Creole. Most often it was just American food well prepared and served. Tonight we had baked ham, sweet potato casserole, green beans with small new potatoes, homemade rolls, Waldorf salad, and Hummingbird Cake for dessert. Mother had placed herself and John on the ends, of course, and Aubrey and I faced Barby and Martin, respectively.

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I looked at Martin when I thought he was unfolding his napkin. He instantly looked up, and we stared at each other, his hand frozen in the act of shaking out the napkin.

Oh, dear, this was just awful. I would have given anything to be miles and miles away, but there was no excuse I could make to leave just then. I looked away, addressed some remark at random to Aubrey, and res- olutely kept my eyes turned down for at least sixty sec- onds afterward.

Mrs. Esther did not serve, though she did remain to clean up afterward. So we were all busy passing dishes and butter for a few minutes. Then Mother asked Aubrey to say grace, and he did with sincerity. I poked at the food on my plate, unable for a few minutes to en- joy it. I stole a quick glance across the table. He was freshly shaved; I bet he’d needed to, he was probably a hairy man. His hair must have been black before it turned white early, his eyebrows were still so dark and striking. His chin was rounded, and his lips curved gen- erously. I wanted Martin Bartell so much it made me sick. It was a dangerous feeling. I had always been wary of dangerous feelings.

I turned to Aubrey, who had chosen this evening of all evenings to tell me about his sterility. To tell me how lovely Emily Kaye’s little girl was. To warn me that he wanted children and couldn’t have them with me, but that Emily already had a child who could be his in all but name. I had always theoretically wanted a baby of my own, but—I thought now—if I loved Aubrey enough, I would have forgone my own children. If he had loved me enough.

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This was not going to happen. Aubrey was not going to hold me fast to his anchor while the danger of Mar- tin Bartell passed by. He was going to cast me adrift, I thought melodramatically. I took a bite of my roll. Martin looked at me, and I smiled. It was better than smoldering at him. He smiled back, and I realized this was the first time I’d seen him look happy. My mother eyed us, and I took another bite of roll. An hour later we were all protesting how full we were and that the cake had been the clincher. Chairs were pushed back, everyone stood up, my mother swept into the kitchen to compliment Mrs. Esther, Barby excused herself, and I walked back into the liv- ing room. Martin fell in beside me. Behind us Aubrey and John discussed golf.

“Tomorrow night,” Martin said quietly. “Let’s eat dinner in Atlanta tomorrow night.”

“Just us?” I didn’t mean to sound stupid, but I didn’t want to be surprised when he turned up with his sister. “Yes, just us. I’ll pick you up at seven.” His fingers brushed mine.

After thirty or forty more minutes of polite conver- sation, the little dinner party broke up. Aubrey and I went to his car after Martin and Barby had pulled away, and we exclaimed over how cold it was and how soon Thanksgiving seemed, all of a sud- den. Talking about the food lasted us until my place, where he courteously got out to walk me to the door. This was where our dates usually ended; Aubrey wasn’t taking chances on being swept away by passion. To- night he kissed me on the cheek instead of the lips. I felt a surge of grief.