“No, I don’t.” I’d begun to feel that the Olivia I was coming to know probably wouldn’t have minded whatever I wanted to do with the house.
The café had become more crowded. One of the doubles teams had been seated, and the rest of the patrons looked to have just come off the golf course. It was almost two o’clock. Michael would be going down for his nap. And Eva should be telling Nonie she was too old to nap, that big girls should be allowed to stay up and play.
We stopped discussing the house and had moved on to town gossip, a much safer topic. Finally, Rachel told me that the Heasters’ nephew had shown up out of the blue with an appraiser, and then movers, to clear out the house.
“I had no idea. Did you even talk to him?”
Rachel shook her head. “Press said he talked to him on the telephone, and that he didn’t think he’d be back for the memorial. There’s just something wrong with some families.”
A pair of shadows fell across the table. “What families?”
Rachel and I looked up to see Press—in tennis whites, his tan face and arms shining with a thin sheen of perspiration—with a woman standing close beside him.
He put his hand on my shoulder and kissed the top of my head.
“What a nice surprise, darling! Ladies, you remember J.C., don’t you?”
J. C. Jacquith was as tall as I remembered, and skeleton-thin. She was more deeply tanned than even Press and had her chin-length ebony black hair (last time I’d seen her, her hair had been yellow-blonde) pulled back with a white eyelet band that matched the placket on her blouse. Instead of a traditional white tennis skirt, she wore high-waisted shorts that ended only five or six inches down her thin but muscular thighs. Was she ten, perhaps twelve years older than Press? I wasn’t sure. Her nose and lips were patrician-thin, but her eyes—above her precipitous cheekbones—were large, the shocking gold color of a big cat’s.
“Is there room for us, girls?” J.C.’s drawl was low and slightly nasal. “I’m desperate for a cold drink. Preston ran me ragged during that last set. I think I even perspired a little.” She gave a laugh that might have been meant to be a giggle, but she had no facility for giggling. Her voice was nearly as deep as a man’s.
Press signaled for the waitress to set two more places at the table, and pulled out the chair closest to him for J.C. to sit down. He also handed her the fine white cardigan that he’d obviously been carrying for her and obliged when she asked him to put it around her shoulders. As exhausted as she said she was, she’d found time to apply a fresh layer of thick, shining red lipstick.
“All these fans.” She waved a hand toward the ceiling. “I get absolutely chilled. Don’t you?” She was looking at Rachel, who looked back at her with obvious distaste. When Rachel didn’t respond, I jumped in.
“It’s been very pleasant this afternoon.”
Rachel’s gaze shifted to Press, who was seating himself in the fourth chair. Finally she spoke.
“I had no idea you were going to be here, Press, you naughty thing.” She looked at me. “Did you know?”
I shook my head. No, I hadn’t known.
Press surprised us all when he turned to me and said “Darling, I told you. You must have forgotten.”
“You didn’t.” When had he said something? We’d barely spoken in days. “I would have remembered.”
“There’s no need to get upset, darling. It’s not important.”
Rachel and J.C. looked at me, each with something dangerously close to pity in their eyes. I wanted to run from the room.
J.C. laughed, breaking the moment. “I’m just thrilled that I get to see Precious Bride again, Press. You keep her hidden away down at that house of yours. He should let you out more, darling. You’re absolutely delicious.” She was staring at me with those fierce gold eyes, and I suddenly had an image of her biting into me—my arm, my cheek—licking me to tenderize me first, like a real cat with her prey.
“You know I haven’t been hiding her. We’ve had a difficult few months.” Press lightly touched my hand as if to emphasize the gravity of his words. “By tomorrow afternoon you’ll be down in Old Gate with us.”
The afternoon had taken a bizarre turn, and I deeply regretted leaving Bliss House. I thought of the security of the morning room, the warm mohair blanket.
The waitress stood waiting quietly by the table, and we were interrupted for a few moments. Rachel ordered a second drink, but this time just a plain club soda.