adjoining the mall. It had been built only three years earlier, and there had been the usual public carping about the expense and style. Its critics said it looked like a Disneyland city hall, needing only a dwarf at the entrance. Its defenders claimed it had dignity and grace. To Jane, it was just a building she visited annually to get Willard his dog tags. The ground floor was a warren of little closet-sized offices for the mayor and the public works people. The basement housed the traffic court, which was, tonight, doing double duty as a classroom. Jane, Shelley, and Cecily made their way down the rather steep steps with a sense of happy anticipation, which was obliterated when they entered the room.
Jane had never actually seen Mrs. General Pryce. Only heard about her distasteful exploits. But she recognized her instantly. Not so much a big woman as an impressively built one, Mrs. Pryce had a pouter pigeon figure—skinny legs, reasonable hips, but an enormous bosom. She was so thoroughly corseted that she looked as if a person could bounce a handball off her—if that person had no sense of self-preservation. Pryce had a face like a bulldog; the same prominent, determined jaw and protuberanteyes, the whole unattractive visage surrounded by an elaborate array of tight purple curls. She was, naturally enough, sitting front row center of the makeshift classroom. She must have gotten there a good quarter hour early to assure herself of this position. Poor Missy, Jane thought.
Jane's mother took a deep breath and approached the older woman. 'Mrs. Pryce? I'm Cecily Grant. Mrs. Michael Grant. We met in Portugal some years ago. My daughter, Jane Jeffry, is your neighbor.”
Mrs. Pryce glanced up. 'I don't remember you, young woman,' she said bluntly.
Cecily didn't falter. 'Possibly not, but I remember you. My husband was posted to the embassy.' 'There are always hangers-on around embassies.' Cecily paused. 'My thought exactly.'
“What is that supposed to mean?'
“Merely that I agree with you,' Cecily said smoothly, and took her departure before Mrs. Pryce could get in another insult. Cecily sat down by Jane and whispered, 'I guess I should count myself lucky. I got called 'young woman.' '
“Why didn't you deck the old bitch?' Shelley asked as if genuinely curious.
“Sometimes age is the best revenge,' Cecily replied. 'She can't possibly last as long as I can.' She was speaking just loud enough that Mrs. Pryce
Jane wasn't paying much attention, because it had just occurred to her that her fictional person could have a long-lost identical twin. Her mind was racing along with the idea. What if she met a man who'd known the twin....
A tall man came in the classroom. He started toward the front of the room, saw Mrs. Pryce, stopped, and sat at the far end of the second row of chairs. He was lean, with painfully short hair and a stiff bearing. Jane recognized him as Bob Neufield.
He was followed by two middle-aged women. They were obviously sisters, both very feminine, blue-eyed and delicate-featured. One was painfully thin and rather ill looking, and the other prettily plump and quite tan, wearing a flowered dress with far too many ruffles for a woman her age. This sister, the fit one, was Ruth Rogers, the heroine of the swimming pool incident. She nodded at Jane's group and went to speak to Bob Neufield. She exchanged a few pleasant words about some cartons Bob had offered to take someplace. Then she came over to say hello to Jane and Shelley. Her sister, a frail, tired-looking woman, had inadvisedly taken a seat in the front row next to Mrs. Pryce.
“You must come over for tea,' Ruth was saying to Cecily Grant after they'd been introduced. 'The garden's at its best, and I'd love to show it off. We're just on the corner of Jane's block.'
“Oh, I noticed your house when I got here,' Cecily said. 'Those are alstroemerias around the front porch, aren't they? I've never seen them actually growing—only in florists' shops.'
“How nice of you to notice. I've had a terrible time starting them. This year is my third try. They're sunk in pots, of course. They can't winter here—' She broke off, turning to see what was going on in the front row.
Mrs. Pryce was talking loudly to Ruth's sister, Naomi. 'Naomi Smith? You're the one with cancer, aren't you?”
Naomi, pale as eggshells, said, 'What? No—I don ' t—'
“Just the same, would you mind sitting someplace else?”
Jane heard Shelley's hiss. 'That's unforgivable!' Cecily Grant exclaimed under her breath.
Ruth Rogers, ruffles quivering with outrage, had practically leaped the row of chairs to get to her sister's side. 'Mrs. Pryce, my sister has a rare blood disorder. Not that it's any of your business. It isn't contagious, and you owe her—all of us—an apology.”
Naomi Smith had picked up her purse and folders and had moved away. 'Ruth, please—'
“I don't apologize,' Mrs. Pryce pronounced. 'Ever.'
“Then it's a wonder you've lived as long as you have!' Ruth said. She went to sit where her sister had taken a place. 'Do you want to leave?' she asked quietly.
Naomi Smith was shaken, but smiled weakly. 'No, Ruth. We can't let that kind of person drive us away from something we want to do.'
“Darlings! Are we all ready to be literary?' a voice trilled from the doorway. Desiree Loftus entered with her usual flourish. She was trailing scarves and an exotic scent that Jane thought smelled like a mixture of marijuana and ylang-ylang. 'Ruth and Naomi—the biblical sisters!' she said, rushing over to greet them. 'No, don't tell me again. I know
Jane thought Desiree had finally gone over the edge. She looked at Shelley with alarm.
Shelley giggled and whispered, 'Naked ladies are those pink lilylike flowers that come up in the late summer. You know, the ones that don't have any foliage.”
Jane sighed. 'I'm so relieved. I was picturing unclad virgins artfully strewn all over the corner lot and wondering how I could have missed it.”
Desiree, courageous as ever, called across the room to Mrs. Pryce, 'My dear! Such a bad color for you—blue. You have a red aura, you know.'
“Utter nonsense!' Mrs. Pryce exclaimed.
“No, not at all. I'm very tuned in to these things.' 'You're drunk! As usual!”
Desiree glared at her for a moment, then laughed shrilly. 'Drunk on the joy of life, perhaps,' she replied before turning her attention to the man at the edge of the room. 'I don't believe we've met. I'm Desiree Loftus.'
“How do you do. I'm Robert Neufield. My friends call me Bob.'
“Oh, I do hope I'm going to be among them, Bob.' She gave him a dazzling smile and turned to survey the room for other conversational victims. 'Jane! Shelley! And who are you? No, don't tell me. You must be a relative of Jane's. It's the eyebrows. They tell everything! People don't pay nearly enough attention to eyebrows these days.”
As the introductions were going on, Jane heard Grady Wells's characteristic hearty laughter in the hallway. He came in the room with Missy, who was smiling—until her eye fell on Mrs. Pryce ensconced center front. Grady, chunky and florid-faced, took a seat by Bob Neufield, and Missy went to her desk and started sorting out her notes.
Jane slipped out of her seat and went to have a word with Missy. 'I'm cheating. I made up a person,' she said, furtively sliding an envelope onto thedesk. 'Just for fun. Not for the class.' She was surprised and embarrassed to realize her heart was pounding at her own audacity. She almost snatched the envelope back.
“What a great idea, Jane. I won't pass it out to the others if you don't want me to.'
“Oh, no. Please don't. I'm terrified to even show it to you.”
They were interrupted by Mrs. Pryce bellowing at Grady. 'I'm surprised you'd have the nerve to show up here.”
Grady smiled at her as if she were a grand joke. 'I don't know why that would be.'
“After the way you've neglected your civic duties.'
“Mrs. Pryce,' he said patiently, 'I'm not here as mayor. Bring your concerns to the council meeting if you must.'
“Oh, yes! To your paid toadies!'
“Mrs. Pryce, the council isn't paid anything. And I only get a hundred dollars a year. That's about a nickel an
