you, Callie Mae?'
But Rachel's appetite remained paltry, and eating alone seemed to decrease it even more. But if Rachel often passed up Callie Mae's offerings, Marshall never did. He came often, to share a meal, to check on Rachel, or to 'get her out of the house,' as he put it. Having shared many of the same friends for years, it seemed quite natural that together they'd round out a table at bridge, attend backyard barbecues or an occasional movie, and even go shopping for the new furnishings for the master bedroom, which Rachel had decided to have redecorated.
Owen's life insurance had come through, and Marshall solemnly delivered the check shortly after Rachel's return from St. Thomas, then, together with Everett, mapped out the investment plan they deemed most prudent.
The three of them fell into the habit of driving up to one of the nicer clubs in Florence for dinner each Friday night, and though Rachel was most often grateful for their company, there were times when she felt smothered by them. Marshall was very much like Owen in many ways-quiet, steady, sensible, but, to her dismay, a bore. She grew tired of listening
to him talk about his chief pastime-taking 109 meticulous care of his yard. And of her father talking about his chief pastime-money and its management. Often when she was with them she found herself withholding sighs: Bermuda grass, investments, azalea bushes, interest rates, annuities, pruning, IRA accounts… The two of them droned on about the same dull subjects while Rachel grew listless.
But whenever they were not there Rachel found herself wishing she had children. How different these days would be if she could return home each day to the sound of their voices in the house, perhaps the blare of a stereo from one of the bedrooms, the clatter of a tennis racket being dropped in the middle of the kitchen floor, even the sound of adolescent bickering. She could imagine one of them coming to her, complaining, 'Mother, will you tell him-was Or her…
Don't think about Beth. Don't think about her father.
But every time she walked into the newly decorated bedroom, she thought of Tommy Lee. The room had been repapered with an airy yellow and white bamboo design, and the furniture was pristine white wicker-fresh, bright, a breath of springtime
brought inside. Colorful silk flowers adorned a miniature dressing table, above which hung a wicker-framed mirror. The bed was strewn with the whitest, ruffliest spread she could buy, and piled high with yellow and white throw pillows. She'd dappled the room with potted palms and pothos, and changed the scents in the closet and drawers to a brisk herbal that complemented the new look. It was the bedroom of a fifteen-year-old girl now, as bright and different as Rachel could make it. But when she viewed it, she often thought with silent chagrin, 'Is this my `Sue Ann Higgenbotham`?'
And at night, when she lay with the new woven wood shades lifted clear of the sliding glass door, she studied the reflection of the moon on the surface of the pool and took stock of her life, the void, the boredom that was becoming oppressive. She wondered if she would simply drift into her fifties, then her sixties, accepting Marshall's and her father's company as her social mainstay, because the town was small and offered little more.
But it offered one other whom she could not erase from her mind.
She pictured him as he'd looked the night
he'd come to the house, wearing the new 111 glasses that made him seem half a stranger, knowing in her heart that he was scarcely a stranger. She remembered the pain in his eyes as he'd told of his failed marriages and his lasting feelings for her. She recalled his lips, as familiar as they'd been years ago, and found herself wishing she had kissed him again, then felt guilty for making such a wish when Owen had been gone such a short time. But Owen's illness had depleted him so rapidly during the last half-year that their sexual relationship had been nonexistent. While he was alive, she'd been too preoccupied with concern for him to rue the lack, but now, alone in bed at night, memories of Tommy Lee and the past came crowding back, leaving her restless and unsatisfied.
Thank heavens she had the store to fill her days. She loved it and was tremendously proud of its success. It had taken ten years to endow the business with its current йclat-a Dun and Bradstreet rating of over $100,000 a year -and almost as long to acquire the eclectic fittings that made the setting at once genteel and warmly welcoming. Oddly enough, Panache was the
antithesis of Rachel's house, where each item had its place and where neatness reigned.
The front door boasted a stained-glass window she had found at an auction. Apple-green carpeting created a soothing backdrop for well-chosen touches of pink in the accoutrements.
An elegant French provincial sofa of shell-pink velvet sat before the front bay window, surrounded by hanging ferns. At the rear of the store a tall French armoire spread mirrored doors wide, its illuminated interior highlighting the current display of Giorgio Sant'Angelos and Gloria Betkers draped artistically over the gaping doors and tilting from willow hangers.
At one rear corner was the fitting room: nothing more than a length of fringed French moirй, again in pink, shirred on a circular brass rod. Inside was a delicate wicker chair that matched the chest just outside, where a mountainous burst of spruce-green eucalyptus exploded from a fat-bellied pot in bleeding shades of rose. The spicy fragrance blended with that of herbal soaps, bath salts, and sachets
displayed in an open curved-glass 113 curio cabinet and the central display of Flora Danica fragrances.
The opposite rear corner housed Rachel's prized Louis XIV kneehole desk and matching chair with its gilded legs and rose damask seat. There was only one rectangular showcase in sight, and that housed jewelry and scarves in the center of the store. Otherwise, clothing was displayed hither and thither: on an antique butterfly table, hanging from the doe-foot supports of an oval shaving mirror, strewn with an artful eye on the graduated shelves of a whatnot, and slipping from the drawers of a provincial lowboy with graceful acanthus-leaf pulls. Around the walls, dresses hung on charming brass extenders, alternating with the array of wall decor that brought the green-and- white trellised paper to life: miniature Renoir prints, framed cross-stitch embroidery, sprigs of feathergrass bound with green and pink ribbons, toadstools and unicorns on knickknack shelves, decoupage fancies and gold-beaded neck ropes. The handmade crafts interspersed
with couturier labels lent Panache that look of artful clutter only the most talented can successfully achieve. And the store managed to reflect its owner: cool, elegant, tasteful, and always, always fragrant.
Rachel's workdays followed a routine: up at seven, open at nine, paperwork at her corner desk in between helping customers, post office at eleven, lunch at twelve-thirty-usually a piece of fruit or a carton of yogurt at her desk while perusing Women's Wear Daily. The afternoons were slightly more varied: dust the furniture, water the ferns, steam the wrinkles from any newly arrived garments, tag incoming merchandise, straighten the stacks, rehang the tried-ons, then, at exactly quarter to four, walk down to the bank with the day's deposit before returning to the shop to help Verda close up for the day.
Given this regimentation, the biyearly clothing markets presented an inviting change of routine for Rachel. It was on a Wednesday in early April, when she and Verda were discussing the upcoming market in Dallas, that the phone rang on Rachel's desk. Verda, who happened to be
standing right beside the desk, automatically 115 picked it up. A moment later, wide-eyed, she covered the mouthpiece with her palm and announced in a stage whisper, 'It's for you! It's him!'
Rachel's head snapped up. 'Who?'
Verda's eyebrows nearly touched her hairline. 'It's the one who kept calling you while you were gone to St. Thomas. The one who'd never give his name.'
Rachel's stomach did a somersault, but she gave away none of the trepidation she felt as Verda handed over the phone, then stood listening, making no effort to appear as if she weren't.
'Hello?'
He needn't have given his name; this time she recognized the voice. There followed a long pause, and then Tommy Lee's voice came again. 'I've been thinking about you.'
With Verda right there, Rachel measured her reply carefully. 'Is there something you wanted?'
'Yes. I wanted to know if you'd like to come out and see the lake rise. The dam's been opened for two months, and the water level's finally coming up at my end of the lake.'
'I'm really sorry, but I won't have time.'
'How do you know? I haven't told you when yet.'
Verda now had her ear cocked like a robin listening for a worm. Unable to dream up an evasive reply, Rachel was forced to ask, 'When?'
'Friday afternoon. I thought we could drive out together after we're both finished with work.'
