Following Julia, Max discovered one of the bedrooms employed as an office. Julia’s soliloquy ended when she directed Max to a comfortable chintz-covered sofa. A tea service graced the coffee table, two cups, bone china, and a teapot covered by a royal blue velvet tea cozy. Almost ceremonially, Julia lifted the cozy, smoothing it over her knee, and from that angle, Max could see the inside lined with gold quilted satin.
“This was given to me by my aunt. It’s from Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee.”
Something the First Lady, Mrs. Johnson, would have used. Ladybird Long would adore it. Julia stroked the velvet as if she found comfort in it, finally putting aside the cozy to pour tea into the fine cups.
With the house facing southeast on the slight rise, the sun shone through the latticed windows, catching the cozy’s threads of gold and making them sparkle. Julia studied the prisms of light rather than Max as she spoke. “I didn’t tell you the truth about why I invited you.”
So what was new? People never told the truth. They always had hidden motives, hidden agendas. She did, however, admire Julia’s honesty.
“I don’t want you to write cards or answer the phone, or any of the things Bud suggested. I wouldn’t even have asked you here, except...” Julia seemed to chew on her inside lip. “There’s no easy way to explain it. I wanted to talk about your husband.”
“My husband?” Max perched on the edge of the couch, and the pleasant sexual high Witt had left her with died a quick death.
“Cream and sugar?” At Max’s shell-shocked nod, Julia poured before she continued. Max took the proffered cup.
“Yes, your husband.” For the first time, Julia’s eyes met Max’s, and there was something there, some deep pain, more than grief, something that had been there far longer than the time her husband had been dead. Could it have been a sense of betrayal? “I need someone to understand. No one else can. Oh, Baxter tries.” She dipped her head, her cup remaining steady. “But he doesn’t really know what it’s like to lose someone to murder.”
“And I suppose you think I do?” How do you feel, Max? Does her question reach inside and rip your guts out? Actually, she felt nothing. Nothing at all. Not even a twinge. That momentary flutter of something around her heart had merely been surprise. “What do you want to know?”
“I’m sorry.” Julia’s lips flattened in a thin, tense line. “I should have asked if this bothers you.”
“It doesn’t, not anymore, not for a long time.” Max was very good at lying, especially to herself.
Admit it, sweetheart, you want to crawl under a rock right now.
Cameron was right. But her mission wouldn’t allow it. Find Lance’s killer. Eventually something would lead to Bud Traynor and she’d bring him down with a vengeance. To accomplish that, she could endure anything.
Julia put a hand out, almost as if she planned to touch Max’s knee. “How long?”
“How long since he was killed?”
“No, since it stopped hurting.”
It never stops. She almost said it, but knew it wasn’t what Julia wanted to hear. “I don’t know. The first holiday afterwards was the worst. I hated TV commercials showing happy families. The first anniversary of his ... death.” That word aloud was like blasphemy, worse because its use was becoming so effortless. “That day was bad, too.” All the anniversaries were bad, including their wedding.
Julia sipped her tea, licked her lower lip, something Max assumed a well-bred lady wasn’t supposed to do, something that could be construed as a sign of nervousness, like the excessive talking. The cup clattered as she set it back in its saucer. “When did you stop thinking constantly about him?”
Never. Kind of hard to do that when he talked to her most of the time. Max took a steadying breath. “I don’t want to lie to you. My husband was killed two years ago.” Pause, for calm. “And it still isn’t easy.” She wondered if it would have been if Cameron had left her the day he died. Maybe in two years she’d ask Julia.
Julia chomped on the inside of her cheek again, then fluttered a hand. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. I ... I...” The sheen of real tears misted her eyes.
“What you’re trying to say is that not many friends of yours have had their husbands murdered. All you’ve got is me to talk to about it.” Burying her own feelings on the subject, Max spoke with brutal intention, not sure if what she said was true, but needing to push at Julia until she learned why the woman had brought her here.
Harsh words notwithstanding, Julia seemed unoffended. “Yes. Is that an awful thing to ask?”
If Julia was acting, she was damn good at it and had definitely missed her calling. Her hand trembled slightly as she put her cup and saucer on the table. She blinked back that subtle mistiness before tears fell, her brown eyes sad as a whipped mongrel.
Max believed her. She’d even admit she wanted to believe. Julia was a sympathetic person, certainly not a murderer. “Most people need to talk to someone who won’t mouth platitudes.”
“Yes,” Julia agreed, her voice soft and inner-directed.