It was a bright sunny day out when she headed toward school with Katie, and the early morning light was catching the tops of trees just starting to show hints of vivid fall coloration. "Oh, look at that one!" Jane said, pointing toward an especially gorgeous scarlet ivy climbing a chimney. ' ''
"Don't turn this way!" Katie shrieked.
"Why not? It's the way to school," Jane asked.
"Mom, Jenny lives on this street!"
"Of course she does." Jenny was Katie's best friend.
Katie was scrunching down in the seat, squealing protests. "She'll see me! Why couldn't you go some other way?"
"Katie, Jenny's whole family has the flu; I doubt very much that Jenny's been up since dawn peering out the window to see if we go by and what difference would it make if she had? Have you and Jenny had a tiff?"
"Mom, don't use words like that. They're so lame."
"Tiff is a perfectly good word. So have you had a spat, quarrel, rumble, confrontation, take your choice." The silence that met this inquiry answered it. "What was it about, honey?"
"You wouldn't understand," Katie grumbled. She'd crawled back up to a vertical position and was craned around, looking back at Jenny's house.
"Try me," Jane said.
Katie just sniffed pitifully, begging to be begged.
Jane dutifully begged.
Finally, just as they turned the last corner and the school loomed up in front of them, Katie relented. "Mom, she
told
Jason I liked him."
Jane tried to cast her mind back and appreciate the gravity of this treason. "Why would she do that?"
"She's mad at me. There's this new girl at school she likes better than me and I said she was fat. Well, Mom, she is!"
Jane sorted through the pronouns, assigning them, and came to the conclusion that the new girl was the fat one. Jenny herself was a bit plump, but Jane didn't think Katie even noticed that anymore. There were a thousand true, sensible and "motherly" things to say to her daughter, but Jane knew Katie didn't want to hear them and it would slam the door on further confidences. "I think the best thing is to act like you don't care," she ventured. "Jenny will remember pretty soon that you're her best friend and she'll be sorry she told Jason."
All her careful selection of words went for nothing. Katie wasn't paying any attention. As Jane stopped the car in the circle drive in front of the school, Katie put the back of her hand to her forehead. "I think I'm getting sick. You better take me back home."
"No way, kiddo." But just the same, she felt Katie's
forehead. "They'd all think you were afraid to come to school if you stayed out today. Besides, I'm going to be gone all day."
It was the wrong thing to say… again. "Mom! Why do you have to treat me like such a baby. I could stay home by myself."
Jane remembered Staying Home By Myself from her own school days. "No deal. Hop out."
The phone was ringing when Jane came back in the door to her kitchen after delivering the grade schoolers. It was Detective Mel VanDyne, the man she was dating in an extremely sporadic fashion. "Jane? I'm glad I caught you. Listen, about Saturday night…"
"You're canceling."
"Sorry, but I've got to. It's a follow-up to that drugs in the schools seminar I taught last week. It seems that…"
"It's all right," Jane said, even though it wasn't. She'd bought a new outfit.
"How about Sunday night instead?"
"Sorry. I'm busy."
There was a silence Jane hoped wasn't patently disbelieving. Well, she
was
busy on Sunday night. All Sunday nights, in fact. There was always at least one child who had to have help on a report that had been assigned a week earlier, another who couldn't find a precious article of clothing he/she
had
to wear the next day, and one who decided to practice some musical instrument next to the phone that a sibling was speaking on. It was that way every school night, but for some mysterious reason Sundays were always the worst. Not that she had any intention of letting a sophisticated bachelor know what sort of things she was busy with. She'd been dating Mel off and on
(more off than on, to her regret) for two months and he was still wary of her extraordinarily maternal life-style. He always seemed half-afraid she was going to lose her head and pack him a lunch or drive him to a piano lesson.
"If it weren't my own class—" Mel finally said.
"No, don't explain. I didn't mean to sound snappish. I'm just a little rushed. I'm on my way to the airport in a few minutes and I always have to sort of 'commune with my soul' before I tackle the drive."
"You're having visitors?"
"No, Shelley is. A class reunion. I've been drafted to help with the convoy."
"How about tonight for the dinner and movie then? You'll deserve it."
"I do hate to keep turning you down, but I really can't tonight." (Oops, did that "really" give away the earlier lie, she wondered.) "Shelley's got me booked— or hooked. Any night next week, though. How about Tuesday?"
Mel agreed that Tuesday fit his schedule, too. This settled, they rang off and Jane poured herself a thermal mug of coffee to take along. With any luck she'd be at the airport a good half hour before anybody arrived. This would allow her to make the drive without worrying about the clock and give her time to get her bearings. The three women she was supposed to pick up were coming in on three different flights and she would have to know where she was going next to keep from missing them.
She put on a black-and-white plaid skirt and her good black sweater, freshly out of summer storage. It was a good thing it was unusually cool for September. Jane was sick to death of her summer clothes. She hastily applied some makeup, glanced once more at
the city map to refresh her memory, and went out to the car.
During the interval while Jane had been inside the house, Shelley had put something on the front seat of her station wagon. Three modest-sized posterboards with a name on each: Lila Switzer, Susan Morgan, and Avalon Smith. And on the back of each, as a reminder, the airline, flight number, and arrival time of each.
Trust Shelley to be so organized.
It was a good thing Jane had allowed herself extra time. She missed bullying her way into the correct exit lane and had to go to the next exit and backtrack. Fortunately she had better luck parking and made it into the airport well ahead of the first flight she was due to meet.
If only she had some idea whom to look for. She was going to feel a bit silly holding up a placard. She'd asked Shelley for descriptions of the women she was meeting, but Shelley had refused to help. "Jane, it's been twenty years since I've seen them. God only knows what they all look like by now. I'll fix it so they find you."
The first flight was actually a bit early and Jane dutifully held up her "Susan Morgan" placard as the passengers flowed from the door to the walkway.
"Why, hello. Who are you?" an attractively coiffed and tanned woman said to her.
"I'm Jane Jeffry, Shelley's neighbor. Are you Ms. Morgan?"
The woman put a hand with expensively sculpted nails and a number of exceedingly expensive rings on Jane's arm. "This year I am. Next year, who knows? And please, none of that 'Ms.' stuff. Just call me Crispy. Everybody else at the reunion will."
"They will?" Jane asked, smiling. "Why on earth would they do a thing like that?"
The woman laughed warmly. "Because my maiden name, back in the dark days of my maidenhood, was Susan Crisp. I like you, Jane. I might make you my assistant."
"Assistant what?"
"Tormentor. Oh, this is going to be
such
fun." She rubbed her lovely hands together like a stage villain. "I can't wait to see everybody. I've got about a dozen bags and my hairdresser is crammed into one of them. Where shall I meet you?"
"My next gate is around the turn down there, first on the left, and the next is at the far end of the same concourse. Can you manage the bags?"
"My dear, I can manage anything." And she sounded as if she could. She went off chuckling to herself. Jane watched her go with a mixture of amusement and alarm. Assistant tormentor? Good God, what had Shelley let herself in for?
More important, what has she let me in for?
As if feeling Jane's eyes on her, Crispy — halfway down the concourse and drawing a number of admiring looks — turned gracefully on a spiked, lizard-skinned heel, waggled her fingers, and winked conspiratorially.
The last time Jane had seen an expression like that was when her sister Martha had decided to purchase a high school term paper and blackmailed Jane into being her go-between. Jane's father had caught her slinking out of the house with the cash wadded in her fist. If she recalled correctly, as she was certain she did, Jane herself had gotten the entire blame for the episode.
The next one Jane was to meet didn't have half the exuberance of Crispy. Avalon Smith looked like a well-preserved "flower child" with the careless wad of burgundy-red hair, freshly scrubbed, makeup-free face, and layers of droopy, no-special-color clothing. She had a long brown scarf flung around her neck, and an equally nondescript necklace made of wood and bits of something that looked like varnished dirt clods.
"I'm Avalon Smith," she almost whispered to Jane, as if admitting to a rather embarrassing secret.
Jane introduced herself. "If you want to get your bags and come back here, I'll fetch you when I've met one more person."
"I just have this," Avalon said, indicating a big, squashy tapestry bag that had been indistinguishable from her garb.
"Then come along."
Avalon trailed along as obediently as an eccentrically clad carnival pony. "Did you have a good flight?" Jane asked.
"Oh, yes."
That was it. Jane waited for polite elaboration, but there wasn't any. "Where did you come from?" Jane asked, feeling obligated to make conversation.
"Arkansas."
Jane wanted to grab Avalon's arm (if she could find it in all that organic clothing) and say, "Look at me when you talk!" but she didn't.
They settled themselves at the last gate and Jane looked desperately at her watch. Only ten minutes to wait. Unless—
-God
Forbid! — the plane was late! "So… are you excited about seeing all your old friends from school?" Jane asked.
Avalon thought hard. "I guess so."
Jane was spared any further attempts at chitchat by Crispy's arrival. This amazing woman had managed to snag one of the overgrown go-carts that ferry infirm passengers around. It was piled high with a half dozen pieces of matched luggage that looked like they were made of periwinkle blue suede. Jane had never seen anything like it outside of an expensive catalog display. The cart was driven by a good-looking young man who was smiling as if he'd been given a stupendous tip. "I've twisted my ankle, haven't I, Derek?" Crispy said, grinning.
Then she spotted Avalon and leaped off the cart. "Avalon Delvecchio! Imagine! After all these years!" She enveloped Avalon, limp as a rag doll, in a fierce embrace.
"I'm sorry — I don't—" Avalon mumbled.
"You don't know who I am, do you, dear!" Crispy crowed. She glanced at Jane for confirmation, then back to Avalon. "It's me. Crispy."
"Crispy! It can't be. You're so—" She stopped, appalled at what she'd been about to say.
Crispy said it for her. "Thin, pretty, rich? Isn't it amazing?" She whirled around to let Avalon get a better look, then explained to Jane. "I was the fat, pimpled slob with the nibbled nails and terrible hair.
Isn't it amazing what marrying three or four rich men can do for a girl?"
"You've been married that many times?" Avalon asked.
"Oh, at least. That was just the rich ones. My darling Avalon, I'd have known you anywhere. You look exactly the same. You must have a gallon of formaldehyde for breakfast every day. What's your name now?"
"Smith," Avalon said, still in shock and acting like she wasn't sure she believed this was who she said she was.
"What a pity. Still, we can't have everything. Why, I married Landsdale Brooke-Trevor just for his name and he turned out to be an impotent pansy. You see what I mean?"
"I–I think so."
"Who are we waiting for?" Crispy said to Jane.
"Oh, the plane's here, isn't it!" Jane said with surprise and hastily scrambled to find her placard. "This flight is Lila Switzer."
"Dear Delilah…" Crispy cooed maliciously. "No, don't hold that thing up. I'll know her, but she won't know me."
Crispy watched as disembarking passengers passed them. As she got ready to pounce, a severely well-dressed woman with a glossy twist of fair hair turned and said, "Well, Crispy. Imagine seeing you here. And Avalon. How nice." This couldn't have been frostier if she'd had a mouthful of dry ice.
Crispy was crestfallen. "You recognized me?"
"Well, of course. You haven't changed a bit."
Crispy stared at her for a moment, then took a deep breath and said, "I see."
Challenge delivered.
And returned.
Jane leaped in and explained her own role in their meeting. "We're
all
staying at Shelley's house?" Lila asked coolly.
"No, at a bed and breakfast nearby," Jane said, feeling vaguely as though she'd been chided. "They aren't open yet, officially, and Shelley arranged—"
"Quite." Lila cut her off.
"Do you have bags?"
"Only my garment bag," Lila said, indicating the object she was holding over her left arm. In her right hand she had a briefcase and a large, expensive but dowdy handbag. Jane had been studying her and suddenly realized what was so odd about her appearance. Everything she wore or carried looked like it once belonged to a great aunt. Jane's mother had a friend like that, an old "pillar of Boston," who said everything should be looked upon as an investment for your grandchildren. "Buy the very best quality, take excellent care of it, and hand it on to another generation," Jane had once heard the woman say. The old lady actually got extra fabric when each of her suits was made and had it cleaned with the suit so that it would match when it was needed to make alterations for another decade's — or generation's— use.