“So how are you going to celebrate?” I asked. “You’re not giving her a birthday party, are you?”
Portland shook her head. “Aunt Zell invited Mom and Dad for Sunday dinner and Avery and I are bringing the cake and ice cream. Avery’s parents are driving up from Wilmington on Tuesday morning to spend Christmas with us and they’ll babysit that night so we can go to the dinner dance out at the country club. What about you and Dwight?”
“What about us?”
“C’mon, Deborah!” she said impatiently. “Monday’s your first anniversary. Don’t tell me you’re skipping that, too?”
The “too” referred to the fact that Dwight and I still hadn’t had a proper honeymoon. We didn’t plan
“If you aren’t going to celebrate on Monday, why don’t you come out to the club with us on Tuesday?”
Dwight’s so good on a dance floor that I was immediately tempted. “But won’t they be sold out by now?”
“Probably, but I’ll call the manager and ask him to pull up two more chairs to our table. He owes me one. Do it, girlfriend. It’ll be like old times. Fun.”
I reached for my purse. “Okay. We said we weren’t giving each other anniversary presents, but we haven’t been dancing in ages. Take a check?”
“I know where you live, don’t I?”
She told me how much the tickets would be, I wrote the check, and talk turned to Christmas plans, crowded calendars, the cards we’d sent, and the old friends we’d heard from. It was the usual lazy give-and-take of a friendship that went back to childhood.
My Aunt Zell is married to her Uncle Ash, and we both smiled when she asked if I’d received a fruitcake yet. “I cut a piece for supper last night and the fumes almost knocked me over. I thought you said Mr. Kezzie had quit making the stuff.”
“That’s what he tells me, but Mother once said that whiskey-making was the only thing he ever lied to her about.” I shook my head. “So who knows? If he’d lie to her, he wouldn’t think twice about me.”
But one mention of Daddy’s illicit activities led to another, and she giggled when I told her about Ellen Englert Hamilton being in my courtroom this morning. She knew about Mrs. Englert’s run-in with the law over that jar of white lightning that had been found in the Englert basement, and she had been present when I dumped a full glass of cold water, ice cubes and all, in Rudolph Englert’s lap after he told me his mother wanted us to cool it.
She hooted with remembered glee. “And then Dwight and Reid gave you a package of those little frozen sausages the next day.”
“All the same,” I said, “she thinks the Johnson girl could have been run off the road by a drunk driver. She said it happened on a straightaway. Wonder what caused her to flip over like that?”
Portland shook her curly head. “Could’ve been a deer or possum or something and she swerved to miss it, then overcorrected. What does Dwight say?”
“He hasn’t. He’ll probably get the trooper’s report today, so I’ll ask him tonight.”
“Poor Malcolm and Sarah,” Portland said, unconsciously echoing my nieces.
I was surprised to realize that she knew them fairly well since they had been older than us back in school.
“Not Malcolm so much,” she admitted, “but I got to know Sarah better when her son wanted to change his name back to Barefoot. I drew up the petition for him last spring and did all the official notifications.”
I was curious. “Why? What was that about?”
“The usual. Two mule-stubborn males butting heads. He was jealous of Mallory—claimed that Malcolm had never really treated him equally. And it didn’t help that his Barefoot grandparents had been wanting him to do it and come live with them ever since he turned eighteen. Not that he needed much urging for the name change. I don’t know what finally pushed his buttons, but he really turned against his dad. And he wasn’t too happy with his mom either. He thought Mallory was spoiled. That Malcolm gave her more and let her get away with more than he ever got.”
“Was he right?”
“Probably. She was daddy’s little girl all right. Anything she ever wanted, he’d bust his britches to get it for her. All she had to do is look wistful, Sarah said. Just between you and me, I think she was a little bit jealous herself.”
“Nobody speaks ill of the dead,” I said, “but that’s the first negative thing I’ve heard anyone say about her.”
“I’m not speaking negatively of Mallory,” Portland protested. “Just because Malcolm doted on her and wanted to give her the moon and a few stars doesn’t mean she was spoiled. She seemed like a sweet kid and she tried like hell to talk Charlie out of changing his name, but he’d made up his mind and wouldn’t back down.”
She glanced at my empty glass and emptied her own in one swallow. “Let me get you some more tea.”
I glanced at my watch. As always when we get together like this, I had stayed longer than I planned.
“Gotta run,” I said.
Before she could urge me to stay, the baby woke up from her nap and began to cry.
“Call me,” I said and let myself out.
CHAPTER 7
—Traditional rhyme
While
