‘‘I wish someone would spoil me,’’ Paula said. ‘‘Basil used to, but then I screwed that up royally.’’ Her mouth twisted in a bitter grimace.
‘‘Who’s Basil?’’ Sophie asked.
‘‘Basil Dumont,’’ Paula said, and Sophie’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘‘My first husband.’’
I tilted my head sideways a bit, watching Sophie. Seeing my gesture, she answered. ‘‘Basil Dumont is pretty well-known in bridge circles, but he’s not really in Avery Trowbridge’s league. Avery’s kind of a bridge superstar.’’
‘‘Oh, I see,’’ I said. Paula evidently moved in an exalted social sphere, at least as far as the bridge world was concerned.
‘‘If I had known then what I know now,’’ Paula said with a heavy sigh, ‘‘I can tell you I sure wouldn’t have left Basil for Avery. No matter how good Avery is in bed, it’s just not worth it. Basil took care of me.’’
Maybe Paula had turned into this bitter, sad person after her second marriage, I thought, trying to be charitable. Otherwise, I was having a really hard time imagining either of her husbands wanting to stay married to her.
‘‘Now, dear,’’ Marylou said while carrying a tureen of soup to the table. She began ladling a fragrant tomato-basil concoction into our soup bowls. ‘‘It doesn’t do much good to look backward. You’ve made your bed, so to speak, and you need to resign yourself to that.’’
‘‘The soup smells wonderful,’’ I said, and the words were hardly out of my mouth before Paula started speaking.
‘‘But that’s where you’re wrong, Marylou,’’ Paula said. ‘‘I
can
go back, and I
have
to. If I don’t, I know I’ll go right out of my mind.’’
I caught Sophie rolling her eyes, and I could hear the words as clearly as if she had spoken them aloud.
That train’s already left the station, honey.
I tried not to react and choke on the delicious soup I had just spooned into my mouth. Swallowing hastily, I reached for my napkin to wipe my lips.
Marylou came back to the table and sat down. Picking up her spoon, she regarded Paula. ‘‘Now, what on earth do you mean by that, Paula? How can you go back?’’
Paula’s self-satisfied smile lit up her face. ‘‘Because Basil wants me back, that’s how. He still loves me—I know he does—and all I have to do is get Avery to agree to a divorce.’’
‘‘Basil has actually told you this?’’ Marylou asked, while Sophie and I looked back and forth at her and Paula like spectators at Wimbledon.
Paula shrugged. ‘‘Well, not in so many words.’’ The light in her face had dimmed for a moment, but now it came blazing back. ‘‘But I know him so well, you see, and I can tell what he’s thinking, even if he won’t say the words straight out. He wants me back. I know he does.’’
It seemed not to matter what anyone else thought. Paula had evidently convinced herself, and even Marylou’s obvious skepticism didn’t deflate her.
‘‘My goodness,’’ Marylou said as she jumped up from her chair. ‘‘I forgot the tea.’’ From the nearby counter she retrieved a pitcher, the sides specked with moisture. She went around the table, filling our glasses.
I thought about trying to change the subject, but I figured it was probably a lost cause. From even the brief acquaintance I had with Paula, I decided that any conversation in which she took part would revolve mostly around her.
Marylou settled back into her place. ‘‘Now everything becomes clear.’’ She fixed Paula with a basilisk stare. ‘‘Come clean, Paula. You want me along to help you with some harebrained scheme to win Basil back, right?’’
Paula flushed. ‘‘I wish you wouldn’t put it like that. You make me sound so self-centered, and you know I’m not really like that.’’
If she were waiting for Marylou to reassure her with a denial of those words, she was evidently going to wait a long time. Marylou just kept staring at her, and Paula began to wilt.
Taking pity on her, I decided to venture a question. ‘‘Along on what, Marylou? Are you going somewhere with Paula?’’
‘‘I was,’’ Marylou said, ‘‘but now I’m not so sure.’’
‘‘Please say you’ll still come,’’ Paula said, as pale now as she was red before. ‘‘I need your moral support. I just can’t go through with it on my own.’’
‘‘Come where?’’ Sophie said, not bothering to disguise the impatience in her voice.
‘‘Paula invited me to accompany her to a bridge retreat in the Hill Country,’’ Marylou said, ‘‘and I thought you and Emma might like to join us. I thought it would be restful to be out of the city and its heat and noise for a week, and this sounded absolutely perfect. I had no idea there was another side to the plan, but I suppose I should have guessed it when Paula told me that Basil will be the guest teacher for the week.’’
‘‘You could still all come and have a wonderful time,’’ Paula said. ‘‘I just know you could. As long as you’re there, I can draw courage from your presence. Being with you gives me strength, Marylou. It always has. You know that.’’
Marylou sighed as she got up from the table and began collecting the empty soup bowls. ‘‘I don’t know, Paula. I really don’t. I want some rest and relaxation, and I want to play a lot of bridge. Will you promise me that I can have all that if I come with you?’’
Paula’s head bobbed up and down so fast I thought she might hurt herself. ‘‘Oh, definitely, definitely,’’ she said at last. ‘‘You’ll love having Basil as a teacher— he’s so patient and thoughtful. And thank the Lord, Avery won’t be anywhere
near
the place!’’ She turned to me. ‘‘Emma, do say you’ll come, too. It’s a wonderful old hotel in the Hill Country where they often hold bridge retreats.’’ She turned to Sophie. ‘‘It’s really beautiful there, and I know, Sophie, that you’d all have such a lovely time. You can take lessons with Basil.’’
Sophie and I stared at each other across the table. I shrugged slightly, and Sophie shrugged back at me. We had both been complaining about the heat lately. This was the time of the year that Baxter and I had usually vacationed somewhere cool, and I would certainly enjoy playing bridge and learning from a master teacher, as Basil Dumont apparently was.
‘‘I’ll go,’’ Sophie said. I echoed her words.
Paula’s triumphant smile made me a bit uneasy for some reason, and I suddenly flashed on that bit of conversation Sophie and I overheard when we first arrived. She must have been talking about her current husband, Avery Trowbridge.
I relaxed. If Avery wasn’t going to be at the bridge retreat, there was no point in worrying over whether Paula would make good on her threat. The worst thing we would have to endure was the woman’s unceasing self-absorption.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Chapter 3
Three days later we were on our way to the Texas Hill Country.
‘‘How much farther is it?’’ Sophie asked us. ‘‘I can’t wait to get off the road and out of this rain.’’
Marylou consulted her map as I kept my hands tight on the steering wheel. The rain, though not too heavy, made me nervous, particularly since I was driving on unfamiliar roads.
‘‘Maybe twenty minutes,’’ Marylou said. ‘‘We turn off the highway when we get near Fredericksburg, and then it’s only about ten miles down the road.’’
‘‘Good,’’ Sophie said. ‘‘I’m ready to get out of this car.’’
I heartily agreed with her, and I’m sure Marylou did, too. We had been on the road since about six o’clock that morning, and it was now almost quarter past ten. Had it not been for the rain that had bedeviled us for the past hour, we would probably have been there already. Mindful of the accident that had taken my husband’s life, however, I wasn’t about to take any chances by speeding on wet roads.
‘‘The turnoff is just ahead,’’ Marylou advised me. ‘‘Take the next exit, and then turn right when you get to the road. After that, according to Paula’s instructions, we should be there in a few minutes.’’
About five minutes later, I turned the car off the highway and followed Marylou’s directions. The rain persisted, and the day around us was gloomy. My husband and I had visited parts of the Texas Hill Country on several occasions, usually in the spring when the wildflowers were in bloom. The sight of roadsides, hill-sides, and meadows bursting with bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush—my particular favorites—as well as other varieties, was spectacular. At the moment, however, the scenery was dreary.
To tell the truth, I was feeling a bit anxious over leaving Olaf and Hilda at home, and that anxiety no doubt colored my feelings. I had thought about bringing them along, especially when I found out that the resort where we would be staying was pet friendly. In the end, however, I decided that traveling in the car and finding themselves in a strange place would only upset them. When they were younger, Baxter and I had taken them along with us on trips, and they had adapted pretty well. They hadn’t traveled in several years, though, and I thought it best to leave them at home. I had a wonderful pet sitter who actually stayed in the house with them. They liked her, and I hoped they wouldn’t miss me too much.
‘‘Stop worrying about your cats,’’ Sophie said.
Startled, I glanced in the rearview mirror. She made a face at me, and I laughed. ‘‘You know me a little too well sometimes,’’ I said.
‘‘Jackie will take great care of them like she always does,’’ Sophie said.
‘‘I know,’’ I said. Marylou gave my arm a little squeeze. ‘‘I promise I won’t worry anymore.’’
‘‘Oh, look,’’ Marylou said, her attention diverted. She pointed. ‘‘There’s the sign.’’
I slowed the car and prepared to turn. Ornate wrought-iron gates, connected to stone walls on either side, framed the driveway. To our left, atop the wall, sat a sign proclaiming this THE WALDHEIM HOTEL AND CONFERENCE CENTER. I drove through the open gates, and we proceeded along the driveway, following it up a gentle rise. Neatly manicured lawns dotted here and there with trees offered a prospect that was no doubt more inviting when the sun was shining.
When we reached the top of the small hill, we could see the hotel about fifty yards ahead and slightly down. I braked for a moment so we could all take in the view. The Waldheim Hotel offered a rather peculiar sight, and I peered through the rain-spattered windshield to be sure I wasn’t dreaming.
What appeared to be the main part of the building resembled an antebellum mansion in the Greek Revival style, but the resemblance ended once the eyes scanned left or right. The best adjective I could come up with to describe the rest of the hotel was ‘‘haphazard. ’’ To the right of the main building, a long wing had been added at some point, and little attempt had been made to harmonize the architecture with the Greek Revival original. Perhaps whoever had built this wing had delusions of medieval grandeur, because there was a turret at the end.
The left wing gave the impression of an arm held back at a forty-five degree angle. I swung my gaze farther to the left, and there I saw the reason that the left wing was so oddly canted. The terrain sloped sharply uphill about fifty yards from the left side of the hotel, and perhaps the builder of this wing had decided it was cheaper to build sideways than to level the hill. Whatever the reason, it gave the whole building a lopsided appearance. At least it had a turret to match the other wing, providing a bit of symmetry.
‘‘Rather odd-looking,’’ Marylou said.
‘‘Let’s just hope it’s comfortable inside,’’ Sophie said.
‘‘Exactly,’’ I agreed, putting my foot to the accelerator again. I drove on to the front door of the hotel, and as I pulled to a stop, a man stepped forward with a large umbrella. He opened Marylou’s door and escorted her through the rain to the porch before coming back for Sophie.
When he came for me, I asked him about parking the car.
‘‘I’ll take care of it for you, ma’am,’’ he said. ‘‘And I’ll have your bags brought to your rooms.’’ He was about twenty-five, tall, and muscular. He looked more than capable of dealing with the car and the luggage, and I gratefully allowed him to shepherd me to the porch.
We gave him our names, and he nodded, then went back to the car. I explained to Marylou and Sophie about our bags as we went inside.
The foyer of the hotel reminded me of some of the antebellum mansions Baxter and I had visited over the years. Lots of marble, including the floor, but much of that was covered with expensive Oriental rugs. I followed Marylou and Sophie to the reception desk, to the left of the entrance.
Behind the desk stood a mousy young woman. Her fair skin was mottled with spots, and her hair could have used a good wash. Her smile was friendly, but nervous. The name tag on her blouse proclaimed her as MONICA.
‘‘Welcome to the Waldheim,’’ she said, her voice thin and high-pitched. She licked her lips a couple of times before she continued. ‘‘How may I help you?’’
Marylou stepped up to the desk. ‘‘We have reservations for a suite under the name Lockridge,’’ she said.
Monica nodded before turning to consult her computer. ‘‘Yes, ma’am,’’ she said after tapping at the keys for a few seconds. ‘‘That would be Mrs. Marylou Lockridge of Houston, accompanied by Mrs. Sophie Parker and Mrs. Emma Diamond?’’
We all nodded, then began rummaging through our purses for our credit cards. Before we left Houston that morning, Marylou had tried to insist that she pay for the lodging because she had invited us. Sophie and I would have none of that. Marylou seemed to be comfortably off, but I had a feeling this place was fairly expensive. It was too much for her to pay for all three of us, and both Sophie and I could well afford to pay our own way.
Monica stared blankly at the three credit cards we handed her. ‘‘We want to split it three ways,’’ Sophie told her, none too patiently, after the girl failed to accept even one of the cards.
Monica licked her lips again. Then she stepped back from the computer. ‘‘I don’t know how to do that,’’ she said. At least, that was what I thought she said, because her words were so faint. I could barely make them out. She turned and disappeared through a door behind her.