The telephone rang several times before a woman answered. Her voice sounded young and a bit informal for a country club.
Bobby introduced himself and said he was representing a talent agency who had an interest in one of the models who’d worked the December fashion show at the Barston Country Club. In the deep-throated voice he used when there was a need to impress, he said, “I’m hoping you can give me the young woman’s contact information.”
“Are you a talent scout? Like for a movie or something?”
“Something like that,” Bobby replied, keeping the timbre of his voice consistent. “My understanding is that the young woman we are looking for is a blonde with a double name.”
“The model from Atlanta was a brunette, so you must mean Darla Jean Parker.”
Bobby jotted the name down as he continued. “This Darla Jean Parker, is she from Atlanta also?”
“No, sir, she’s a local. Works here in Barston. I’m not real sure, but I think she lives with her grandma over in Cousins.”
“Works in Barston? Would you happen to know where?”
“Yes, sir, I sure enough do. Cavalier’s Couture. It’s the fancy dress shop over on Main Street.”
Bobby thanked her for her help and hung up. He studied the piece of paper for several minutes then picked up the receiver and asked the operator for the number of Cavalier’s Couture on Main Street in Barston. As she recited the numbers, he wrote them below Darla Jean Parker’s name.
It was beginning to look like every piece of information he got only led to more questions. If this Darla Jean Parker was Suzanna Duff, why had she changed her name? And where did the grandma thing come from? Suzanna always told him she’d never known any of her grandparents. If that story was a lie, had there been any truth in their relationship?
He underlined the name in a heavy-handed stroke, then put a question mark at the bottom of the page and drew a circle around it. He sat there for a long while, tapping his pen against the desk, and trying to make sense of it all. It was close to seven when the telephone rang and shook him from his reverie.
Brenda’s voice had a thread of irritation woven through it. “It’s after seven. Why are you still at the office?”
Bobby stumbled through an explanation of being buried under a mountain of paperwork and then in a move that came as a surprise even to him, said he’d be going to see a new client later in the week. “It may be for just a day or could turn into an overnight thing.”
“Can’t you hold off until next Tuesday?” Brenda asked. “That’s my bridge club night, and it won’t be so lonely if you’re away.”
A sliver of guilt crawled along Bobby’s spine. “Yeah, sure, babe, I can hold off ’til Tuesday.”
At that point he was committed. He’d come too far and wasn’t about to back off now. Besides, he had to know whether or not this woman was Suzanna. If it was, he had a whole lot of questions that needed to be answered.
He refolded the note paper with Darla Jean Parker’s name and Cavalier’s telephone number, slid it back into his pocket, then left the office and started for home.
Bobby Doherty
Tuesday, January 10, 1961
BOBBY ARRIVED IN BARSTON A few minutes after 11 a.m. He drove down Main Street looking for Cavalier’s, and once he spotted it he circled the block to drive by a second time. A cold front had come through the night before, so the few shoppers who were out were bundled in wool caps and parkas. He parked two blocks away then got out and walked past the store.
At first the shop appeared empty. Then he saw her behind the counter, her head tilted as if she might be searching for something on a lower shelf. Her hair hung loose, longer than it was when they were together, falling across her shoulder, hiding part of her face. At first he wasn’t sure, so he stood for a moment and watched. As familiar as the figure seemed, there was something different about this woman. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.
Moments later she lifted her head as if she’d heard something, then turned and walked toward the back of the store. He watched as she disappeared behind a rack of dresses. Her walk was different than he remembered, her stride longer, her back straighter. Even from the brief glimpse he’d managed to catch, he could tell her chin was held at a loftier angle.
He thought he’d know right off whether or not it was Suzanna, but the sorry truth was he didn’t. Bits and pieces of the girl he knew were there, but the woman as a whole was different. He waited, hoping she’d return, but several minutes ticked by and he didn’t see her again. The wind gusted, and he felt something smack against his back. He turned quickly and found the street empty. A trash can toppled over; a flyaway newspaper was lifted by the wind and disappeared down the street. Shivering in his suit jacket, Bobby wished he’d thought to bring a top coat or a wool scarf. Remembering that he’d passed a coffee shop a few doors down, he turned and headed back. He’d get warm, then check her out again.
He slid onto a stool at the counter and ordered coffee, black.
The counterman, a pimply-faced kid close to the age he’d been in high school, set the cup in front of him and filled it to the brim. The coffee spilled into the
