“How bad was it this morning?”
“It wasn’t horrible,” I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee and unpacking the bag. “Sticky floors. Evangeline was cranky and threw a shoe at me. She’ll be in the attic for five days.”
“By the look on your face, I thought it was something really bad,” said Patrick, teetering back on the kitchen chair.
“There is something bad,” I said quietly over my shoulder from the stove. “Really bad.”
“What?”
“Remember that nice man from Memphis who came into the shop yesterday?”
“Of course. The rich football-playing poet,” said Patrick.
“Yeah, him.” I turned around from the sink. “He’s dead.”
Patrick’s chair thumped down against the floor. “What?”
I brought my coffee to the table and sat down. “He died in the Sans Souci last night.”
“Where’d you hear about it? I didn’t hear a thing.”
“Willie told me, but said she didn’t know any details. I just can’t believe it. Cokie talked to the bandleader, and he said that Mr. Hearne just slumped over and died at the table.”
Patrick crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.
“Exactly. Did that man not look fit as a fiddle?”
“I’ll say he did,” said Patrick. “I would have taken him for a Vandy football player now. Did he end up buying anything yesterday?”
“Keats and Dickens. And the man had a bankroll something huge, along with a Lord Elgin watch and an expensive fountain pen.”
“Keats and Dickens, huh?” said Patrick. “That doesn’t sound like a mess of a man.” Patrick turned away from me. “It’s a shame. He seemed like such a nice man.”
I nodded. “Thanks for covering for me about the college stuff. I would have been embarrassed after he assumed I was at Newcomb.”
“But it’s true, Jo. You could have your pick. Even Newcomb at Tulane.”
I looked down at my fingers laced around the warm coffee cup. Patrick had told me I could get scholarship money from any of the local colleges. But I hated the idea of seeing people from high school, being the girl whose mother was a whore and walked around naked in a fur coat. I’d never have a chance to be normal.
Willie said normal was boring and that I should be grateful that I had a touch of spice. She said no one cared about boring people, and when they died, they were forgotten, like something that slips behind the dresser. Sometimes I wanted to slip behind the dresser. Being normal sounded perfectly wonderful.
“Mr. Vitrone died,” said Patrick, pointing to the obituaries spread out on the kitchen table. Patrick combed the death notices daily, looking for leads on books or rare volumes that might be for sale. “He had a nice collection of Proust. I think I’ll pay my respects to his wife and see if I can buy them off her.”
I nodded. “So what were you doing with someone from Doubleday?” I asked.
“Ran into him at the Faberts’ party. We started heckling each other about who had a more diverse inventory,” said Patrick.
“Arguing about inventory? Doubleday has a lot more books,” I said.
“I know.” Patrick laughed. “Liquid confidence, I guess.”
“Yeah, you smelled like a distillery. And I didn’t appreciate you embarrassing me in front of him.”
“Well, what are you doing skulking around the store in your nightgown?” said Patrick. “And then you acted so weird, almost scared of us.”
“I had forgotten my book in the shop and came down to get it. You’re lucky I didn’t have my gun, especially after that comment about my hair.”
“For a girl who reads the society page as much as you do, I’m surprised you haven’t noticed that all the Uptown brats part their hair on the side now. It would look nice on you, flattering to the shape of your face. C’mon, it’s a new year. Time to reinvent yourself,” said Patrick. “Hey, I saw your mom at six this morning walking arm in arm toward the Roosevelt Hotel with some tall guy. Black suit. Didn’t fit him properly.”
“Did she see you?” I asked.
“No,” said Patrick. “The guy looked rough, but kinda familiar. You know who it was?”
“I have no idea,” I said, staring into my coffee cup.
EIGHT
January 2nd was always slow in the bookstore. People were too tired to go out or had spent too much money on holiday shopping to think about buying books. Patrick and I amused ourselves with one of our games. We’d give each other a choice of two literary characters, and we had to choose which one we’d marry. We played the game for hours, often howling with laughter when the choices were less than pleasing.
“Darcy or Gatsby,” said Patrick.
“Oh, come on. Can’t you do any better than that?” I scoffed. “That’s obvious. Darcy.”
“I just don’t see why women love him so much. He’s so uptight. Gatsby’s got style.”
“He’s not uptight. He’s shy!” I insisted.
“Look, here’s one,” Patrick said, motioning with his eyes to the window.
Droplets of rain began to fall on the sidewalk. An attractive girl with neatly styled auburn hair and a monogrammed sweater stood outside the shop, looking at the books in the window display.
“Romance,” said Patrick.
I shook my head. “Thrillers.”
The bell jingled, and the girl entered the shop.
“Happy New Year,” said Patrick.
“Why, thank you. Happy New Year,” she said. She spoke sprightly with an articulate cadence.
“Can we help you find something?” I asked.
“Yes, a book for my father.” She opened her purse and rummaged through. “I’m sure I put the slip of paper just here.” She began emptying the contents of her purse onto the counter. “Oh, how embarrassing.”
“Well, I’m sure we can find something you’d like,” said Patrick, setting the bait. “Perhaps a romance, like Gone with the Wind?”
She made a face. “No, thank you. Not really my cup of tea. I have nothing against Gone with the Wind, mind you. In fact, the author attended my college, and it would be quite sacrilege if I didn’t just love her.”
“Margaret Mitchell?” I said. “Where do you go to college?”
“I’m in my first year at Smith. Oh! Here it is.” She opened a small scrap of paper. “Fabulous New Orleans.”
“By Lyle Saxon.” Patrick nodded. “Let me get it for you. The Louisiana shelf is right in front here.”
Smith. Northampton, Massachusetts. I had read about it in the library. It was one of the Seven Sisters colleges and, along with Vassar and Radcliffe, was considered one of the most prestigious for women in the country. And, unlike Louisiana, Massachusetts had no segregation.
The girl looked around the bookshop and took a deep breath. “That smell, I just love it, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“And how lucky you are to work here. I could live in a place like this.”
“Actually, I do,” I said.
“You do? Where?” she asked.
“In an apartment above.”
“You have your own apartment?” The girl looked at me with a mixture of astonishment and intrigue. “Forgive me. I’ve been incredibly rude.” She thrust her hand out to Patrick. “Charlotte Gates.”
Patrick grinned at her stiff, official introduction. “Patrick Marlowe.”
“Marlowe. Yes, of course. The shop is yours.”
The girl wore cultured pearls underneath her round white collar. She was sophisticated, yet had a dash of boldness generally absent among the debutantes of New Orleans.
“Charlotte Gates,” she said, extending her hand to me.
I paused. “Josephine Moraine,” I replied.
Patrick coughed. I shot him a look.
“Josephine, what a lovely name. I’ve always loved the name Josephine, ever since I read Little Women, I absolutely adored Josephine March. Oh, but don’t cut off your beautiful brown hair like Jo March did. Yours is so lovely. I wish my hair looked attractive parted on the side like that. It’s all the rage, you know.”
“Jo, I mean Josephine, has always worn her hair parted on the side,” said Patrick, suppressing a smile.