Sea Change (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 1) (16 page)

What are they looking at?

She made her own way across the garden, slipping carefully through two crèches and a balloon figure of Frosty the Snowman.

She pressed the tip of her nose against the window glass.

What was that in the street?

“Would you look at that?”

“That is something, isn’t it?”

And it was.

For stopped before Margot’s shop was a carriage drawn by two white horses—real white horses, which made them the only real things in the village that night—who were driven by a driver with a top hat, and wearing a long coat.

The horses remained perfectly still, and the ringing of their bells was caused by the wind whistling around them, and not by any deviance on their part from pure military protocol.

The door of the coach opened, and Cary Grant got out.
 
He was dressed in a tuxedo, of course, which Cary Grant must always wear, and he had on a black and shining top hat

He straightened, attempted to shake the snow off his shoulders and coat sleeves, could not because there wasn’t any, then returned his attention to the carriage itself.

He leaned forward, reached into it, offered his arm, and withdrew Lucille Ball.

No one else could it have been:
 
not simply because Lucy Ricardo had much more in common with the women painters, clay makers, pot throwers, kiln operators, and restaurateurs than did the average medieval nun—but because no film star, with the possible exception of Ingrid Bergman, had this woman’s magnificent shoulders.

Not to mention the bonfire burning a brilliant scarlet in curls and yule logs only a foot or so above those shoulders, a face, neck, forehead, nose, ears, throat, etc., naturally intervening, but totally overwhelmed.

Especially since the woman’s back was to the shop.

“Who is that?”

“I don’t know.
 
Are those actors, or what?”

“Margot, who––”

“Don’t ask me.”

“Macy, do you know?”

“No idea.”

The couple, arm in arm, moved away from the carriage, and disappeared behind a live oak tree that shaded Margot’s shop.

So that the entire shower crowd now turned as one toward the shop entrance and waited.

The door eased open, it’s bell tinkling gingerly.

“Hello. Sorry we’re late. Little trouble with the horse.”

A slight gasp.

There in the doorway, inching shyly inside, were Tom Broussard and Penelope Royale.

Arm in arm.

He had been Cary Grant. And was still, if one looked carefully, at least far more than he was disheveled old Tom.
 
His stomach was now held in place by a black, shining cummerbund; his hair had been cut, oiled, slick-backed, and beaten, so that it now cowered servilely upon his scalp, ready to allow children to pet it; his shoes glittered like pieces of anthracite coal; and his slump had been magically cured, adding inches to his height by the simple measure of putting his head directly over his shoes instead of one and a half foot in front of them.

That was remarkable enough.

But as for Penelope—

––that was a bit more.

No one in the shop had ever seen this woman.

They had seen a hard block of granite, tall and unyielding, wrapped with oilskin and topped with carrot fire

But they had no way of suspecting the awesome effect of those rippling muscles revealed by a Bascani Gown, black as night, low-cut, sleeveless, and bejeweled.

They had no way of suspecting that Penelope Royale was an immensely striking woman.

“Oh my––”

“Oh my––”

“Oh my––”

The couple made their way through the shop and into the garden, stopping directly before Macy.

“We’re all so proud of you, Macy,” said Penelope.
 
“Of you and Paul.”

“Oh, Penelope––”

“Your marriage,” said Tom, “is the biggest thing that could happen to Bay St. Lucy.
 
Forget all the other stuff you’ve been hearing about—this is the only important thing.
 
We wanted you to have this.”

He gave her a small box, covered in exquisite green wrapping paper.

“Thank you, Tom.
 
Thank you, Penelope.”

 
“We should go now,” said Penelope.
 
“I love you Macy.
 
All of us do.”

Then the two of them turned and left the store.

Where there was no movement at all until the carriage jangled away.

Finally, the spell was, if not broken, at least eased somewhat, so the inhabitants of the castle could say:

“Open it, Macy.”

“Yes, open it.”

She did so, fingers trembling.

Then she took an object from the box and held it up to the light, held it up in the room, so everyone could see. An ivory letter opener; the blade carved to a pencil-sharp point, it’s hilt carved into an intricate, lace work pattern; a green stone flashing fire at it’s end.

“What is that?”

“It’s a letter opener!”

“Look at that intricate carving!”

“Look—engraved on the back of the blade, both of your names:
 
Macy and Paul.”

“Where is it from?”

“Here in town?”

“Not my shop.”

“Not mine.”

And then it was for Mrs. Wilson, poor, boring, widowed Mrs. Wilson, she who had spent the last few weeks simply sitting on the edge of Margot’s garden and reading, like a statue, hearing silently all of the gossip of Bay St. Lucy while saying nothing—then it was for her to come forward, take the letter opener carefully from Macy Peterson, and say:

“It’s from Maurice’s Antiques. One of the finest stores in New Orleans.
 
And my favorite.
 
Each of their items is one of a kind.”

She gave the letter opener back to Macy and disappeared in the crowd.

“What’s the jewel on the handle?”

“What is it?”

The object was laid on a table for all to see, and the few more questions about its identity—which came from those few people in town who did not know jewelry—were answered by the hundred or so craftspeople and artisans who knew very little besides jewelry.

“It’s an emerald.”

Then:

“How big would you say it was?”

“Oh, I would guess––”

And these people, in turn, were supplanted by the Head of the Chicago Art Museum, who bent over the piece, straightened, and said:

“Twenty five point three carats. Cosquez Mine.
 
Columbia.”

The words simply hung in front of her.

Finally, Nina asked, quietly.

“How do you know that, Margot?”

Margot Gavin shrugged.

“We tried to buy one like it once. We couldn’t afford it.”

Then she turned away, and seemed to go about other business.

After the arrival of an emerald that Tom Broussard and Penelope Royale could buy and the Chicago Museum of Art could not, a great deal more was not to be expected from a bridal shower.

There was only the business of picking up, saying thank you, and just being happy in general.

Nina followed Macy Peterson around the garden and shop, watching the young woman smile, chatter, laugh, gush, and act in a thousand more completely appropriate and utterly joyful ways.

She followed behind, picking up here, discarding there, offering a few thank you’s herself on Macy’s part.

Finally, after everything was done, she followed Macy outside, hugged her, congratulated her, and watched her get into a van which, driven by friends, was to take her home.

Nina followed the van on her Vespa.

It was a bit of a melancholy drive through the ‘Saint” Streets—St. Ambrose St., St. Gerome St., St. Euclid St.—melancholy because it was in one of these small, tree-lined streets, that she and Frank had their first small cottage.

She visualized it for a time, then forced herself to speed up slightly, even though she knew quite well where Macy lived, and would hardly get lost in this part of town.

She parked some fifty yards away while the van disgorged Macy and whatever presents could be carried inside by the three friends surrounding her—the rest having remained at Margot’s, while a separate museum could be built to house them.

The four women laughed uproariously on the porch.

The door opened, and they disappeared inside.

After a minute or so the door opened again, and they made their way slowly out to the van, laughing uproariously as they did so.

Then Macy watched the van drive away, waving spiritedly and jumping up and down.

Then she went inside, closing the door behind her.

Nina waited two minutes so that Macy would have time to change into a robe or underwear or whatever, then drove the Vespa into her driveway, parked it, took off her helmet and goggles, went to the door and knocked.

Macy opened the door and threw her arms around Nina, sobbing uncontrollably.

They stood in the door way for a while, and then made their way as a human knot across the small living room floor, like two immensely miserable and stunningly inebriated dancers.

Finally they were seated on the couch, each one’s face pressed hard into some kind of fabric on the other one’s chest, neither able to talk.

They cried for a time, tried to breathe, could not, gasped, hiccupped, succeeded in breathing, used the air to cry still more, and finally became an inert mass, only capable of panting and squeezing.

Something like words came out of Macy, those being:

“What is he
doing
?”

“I don’t know, Macy.”

“What can he be
thinking
?”

“He’s not thinking.”

“What does she
want
?”

“Him.”

“She wants
Paul
?”

“Yes, she does.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s the best we’ve got. And she wants it all.”

“Nina, who is this woman?”

“I don’t know, Macy.”

“Is she the devil?”

“Yes.”

“But the devil is just a story!”

“Ay, think so. ‘Til experience prove thee otherwise.”

And the other lines came to her, the ones from
Othello
:

There is no such creature; it is impossible.

Unfortunately, it was possible.

“He should have
been
there tonight, Nina!”

“Yes.
 
He should have.”

“Can you talk to him?”

“Yes.”

“Can you talk to him soon?”

“Yes.”

“How soon?”

“Now.”

“How?”

“Don’t worry about it.
 
I just can.”

“Will you tell him for me, please, that I hate him?”

“No.”

“I don’t, you know.”

“I know.”

“But what is he
doing
?”

“He’s being seduced.”

“Oh, God!”

“God doesn’t have much to do with it right now.”

“What can I do, Nina?”

“Go to sleep.”

“How?”

She could have said, ‘Sleep, sweet sleep, that knits up the raveled sleeve of care,’ but it wouldn’t have done much good, and it had never made complete sense to her, anyway.

“Just lie down. Get yourself some warm milk or something.”

“And you’ll talk to Paul?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“However.”

“Will you say bad things to him?”

“Yes.”

“Very bad things?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell him he’s an idiot?”

“Yes.”

“I hate him! I hate him!
 
Oh God, Nina, I love him so!”

“I know.
 
Now try to get some sleep.
 
Good night.”

She left, drove to Paul Cox’s home, found him just walking up the driveway, pulled up beside him, and said:

“Paul!”

“Nina!
 
What are you––”

“Follow me to my place.
 
Now.”

“But what––”

“Now.”

She drove to her place, parked, walked up her stairs, and opened the door for him as he arrived.

“Come in,” she said.

“Nina, I––”

“Come inside.”

She turned on the light, walked to the deck, unFurled, and then went back into the kitchen.

“I know everybody’s wondering about––”

“Go in the living room and sit down.”

She heard him doing so, and also heard a faint click, as the light came on.

She herself was busy in the kitchen, reaching high on a shelf and finding an almost forgotten bottle of whiskey.

She took two large glasses into the living room with her, set them on the glass-topped table between her and Paul Cox, and filled them.

“I’m not sure I should––”

“Drink.”

She drank; he did also.

The whiskey made perfect sense, and was the first thing in quite some time that had done so.

“I should have been there,” he said, “tonight.”

“Ya think?”

“Does she hate me?”

“She hates you; for that matter, even I hate you.”

“But, I’m just trying to––”

“Listen, you idiot:
 
there are two female figures in all of literature. There are a few more of us in real life but we haven’t gotten into print yet.
 
We’re still trying, and, who knows, with e-books and self-publishing––”

“It’s just that––”

“Shut up.
 
These two figures are the ‘Eve’ figure and the ‘Mary’ figure. Mary is wholesome, young, blue-eyed, virginal.
 
She represents everything good in the world.
 
Eve is tempting, evil, gorgeous, wily, evil, and destructive.
 
All she wants is to ruin whatever man she happens to be with.
 
Now—drink up! Drink up!
 
Drink up!”

He did so.
 
She poured more for him.

Finally she said:

“Now, it’s test time, Paul. Are there two women like that in
your
life?”

“But it’s more––”

“Yes, there are, aren’t they?
 
There is one who wants to help you and love you and marry you and have your children and do everything, until the day she dies, to make you happy; and there is another who wants to seduce you, and make a fool of you, and throw you off like a piece of garbage.”