Jack was well into part three of the James Whale Festival—Claude Rains was getting ready to start his reign of terror as
The phone rang. Jack picked up before his machine began its routine.
'Where are you?' said Kolabati's voice.
'Home.'
'But this is not the number on your phone.'
'So you peeked, did you?'
'I knew I'd want to call you.'
It was good to hear her say that.
'I had the number changed and never bothered to change the label.' He’d purposely left the old label in place.
'I have a favor to ask you.'
'Anything.'
'The UK Mission is holding a reception tonight. Will you accompany me?'
Jack mulled that for a few seconds. His first impulse was to refuse. He hated parties. He hated gatherings. And a gathering of UN types, the most useless people in the world...a grim prospect.
'I don't know...'
'Please? As a personal favor? Otherwise I shall have to go with Kusum.'
A choice then between seeing Kolabati and not seeing her…not a tough call.
'Okay.'
Besides, it would be fun to see Burkes's face when he showed up at the reception. He might even rent a tux for the occasion. They set a time and a meeting place—for some reason, Kolabati didn't want to be picked up at Kusum's apartment—and then a question occurred to Jack.
'By the way, what's durba grass used for?'
He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. 'Where did you find durba grass?'
'I didn't find any. As far as I know, it only grows in India. I just want to know if it's used for anything.'
'It has many uses in traditional Indian folk medicine.' She was speaking very carefully. 'But where did you even hear about it?'
'Came up in conversation this morning.' Why was she so concerned?
'Stay away from it, Jack. Whatever it is you've found, stay away from it. At least until you see me tonight.'
She hung up. Jack stared uneasily at his big TV screen on which an empty pair of trousers was silently chasing a terrified woman down an English country lane. Something strange about Kolabati' s voice at the end there. Almost sounded as if she were afraid for him.
7.
'Stunning!' said the saleswoman.
Vicky looked up from her book. 'You look pretty, mommy.'
'Smashing!' Nellie said. 'Absolutely smashing!'
She’d brought Gia to La Chanson. Nellie had always liked this particular boutique because it didn't look like a dress shop. From the outside, with its canopied entrance, it looked more like a chic little restaurant. But the small display windows on either side of the door left little doubt as to what was sold within.
She watched Gia standing before a mirror, examining herself in a black crepe strapless cocktail dress. Nellie liked it best of the four Gia had tried on. Gia was making no bones, however, about what she thought of the idea of Nellie buying her a dress. But it had been part of the deal, and Nellie had insisted that Gia hold up her end.
Such a stubborn girl. Nellie had seen her examining all four dresses for a price tag, obviously intending to buy the cheapest one. But she hadn't found one.
Nellie smiled to herself. Keep looking, dearie. They don't come with price tags here.
It was only money, after all. And what was money?
Nellie sighed, remembering what her father had told her about money when she was a girl. Those who don't have enough of it are only aware of what it can buy them. When you finally have enough of it you become aware— acutely aware—of all the things it can't buy...the really important things...like youth, health, love, peace of mind.
She felt her lips quiver and tightened them into a firm line. All the Westphalen fortune could not bring her dear John back to life, nor bring Grace back from wherever she was.
Nellie glanced to her right on the sofa to where Victoria sat next to her, reading a collection of
Dear, dear, Victoria. How did Richard ever father you?
