the babies aren’t his, and that’s all I know and care to say. You’re fortified now, so are you ready to tell me more about Peach? And what about your little splinter society? If I’m going to be besieged by women in this town, I may as well know it all. What’s your group’s name? Big River Mamas? Little Girls Gone Wild?”
Marti tore a chunk of bread off a baguette. “Very nice diversionary tactic, Leigh, if a little obvious. Our group is The Ida May Turnbull Society. It’s dedicated to the preservation and promotion of the Little Girl books and other early feminist literature. You’re laughing again. Need I remind you: I’m a guest, and you should treat me nicely.”
“You’re a guest, and my car is in the shop because of an accident. You said the books were why you majored in literature. Well, you know what, Marti—you sentimental lit majors are why I went into journalism.” Shit, she thought, her hand on her lap immediately snapping closed into a fist, the nails digging into her palm. Stop it. One word, one hint that the vice-president had hired Nancy Taylor Lee as his ghost, and the job was gone.
“Did you?” Marti said softly. “How interesting.”
Leigh’s hand uncurled as they eyed each other. Talons and claws. Why did she feel like Marti was about to use them?
Marti rose and refilled her glass with water from a jug on the counter. She picked up the spoon rest from the range. “Beginning with the fourth book, Maud and Lucy and Laura always took a Christmas shopping trip and bought their mothers’ presents at the same time. In one book Maud gives her mother a spoon rest exactly like this one. Ida May was such a careful writer. Exquisite description of details. Do you miss being a reporter? Maybe not, what with the way it all ended and everything, Nancy Taylor Lee.”
Leigh slumped, every bit of pleasure she’d gotten from the Scotch, the food, the conversation gone. Why had she thought she could keep it a secret? She whispered, “What do you want?”
Marti sat, still holding the spoon rest. Her thumb tapped one of its faded blue flowers. “I need your help, Leigh. I can’t allow Peach to have her way with everything at this convention. It just means too much to some of us to allow that. Lilac-colored decorations and sing-alongs and fashion shows and a Hollywood has-been as the guest of honor. God help us all.”
“Let me guess: You want me to make this place available to the women at the convention.”
“Not the whole crowd. I shudder to think of what Peach would do if she gets back inside, and I definitely hate the thought of a stream of sticky-fingered women traipsing through. Some of them will try to get past you; there should be a guard, the old man’s right about that.”
“So what is it you want?”
“I want you to welcome one guest. She’s a big fan of the books, and we’ve been trying to get her to pay some public attention to them but she’s never cooperated with us. If she could stay here, she’ll come to the convention.”
“Who’s the famous fan?”
“Roberta Garibaldi.”
The knot in her stomach tightened. “Absolutely not.”
Marti narrowed her eyes, drew her arms to her side, and held very still. Talons, Leigh thought. Like a hawk suspended in air just before the plunge to snare its prey.
Marti said “Aren’t you interested in meeting someone who’s won a Pulitzer and written five bestsellers? Intimidating company, I suppose, and not just for a…defrocked journalist. I’ve talked to her, though, and she seems pleasant. She’s very keen on staying here.”
“No. We met long ago and I don’t want to meet again.”
“Worried she might not remember you? Or maybe you’re worried that she will.”
Leigh rose and leaned against the counter, staring out the kitchen window. That bitch Lanier.
“I know what you’re thinking now, Leigh, and I’d bet a bottle of Glenlivet that—”
“You have no idea what I’m thinking.”
“Tell
Marti tore a chunk of bread off a baguette. “Very nice diversionary tactic, Leigh, if a little obvious. Our group is The Ida May Turnbull Society. It’s dedicated to the preservation and promotion of the Little Girl books and other early feminist literature. You’re laughing again. Need I remind you: I’m a guest, and you should treat me nicely.”
“You’re a guest, and my car is in the shop because of an accident. You said the books were why you majored in literature. Well, you know what, Marti—you sentimental lit majors are why I went into journalism.” Shit, she thought, her hand on her lap immediately snapping closed into a fist, the nails digging into her palm. Stop it. One word, one hint that the vice-president had hired Nancy Taylor Lee as his ghost, and the job was gone.
“Did you?” Marti said softly. “How interesting.”
Leigh’s hand uncurled as they eyed each other. Talons and claws. Why did she feel like Marti was about to use them?
Marti rose and refilled her glass with water from a jug on the counter. She picked up the spoon rest from the range. “Beginning with the fourth book, Maud and Lucy and Laura always took a Christmas shopping trip and bought their mothers’ presents at the same time. In one book Maud gives her mother a spoon rest exactly like this one. Ida May was such a careful writer. Exquisite description of details. Do you miss being a reporter? Maybe not, what with the way it all ended and everything, Nancy Taylor Lee.”
Leigh slumped, every bit of pleasure she’d gotten from the Scotch, the food, the conversation gone. Why had she thought she could keep it a secret? She whispered, “What do you want?”
Marti sat, still holding the spoon rest. Her thumb tapped one of its faded blue flowers. “I need your help, Leigh. I can’t allow Peach to have her way with everything at this convention. It just means too much to some of us to allow that. Lilac-colored decorations and sing-alongs and fashion shows and a Hollywood has-been as the guest of honor. God help us all.”
“Let me guess: You want me to make this place available to the women at the convention.”
“Not the whole crowd. I shudder to think of what Peach would do if she gets back inside, and I definitely hate the thought of a stream of sticky-fingered women traipsing through. Some of them will try to get past you; there should be a guard, the old man’s right about that.”
“So what is it you want?”
“I want you to welcome one guest. She’s a big fan of the books, and we’ve been trying to get her to pay some public attention to them but she’s never cooperated with us. If she could stay here, she’ll come to the convention.”
“Who’s the famous fan?”
“Roberta Garibaldi.”
The knot in her stomach tightened. “Absolutely not.”
Marti narrowed her eyes, drew her arms to her side, and held very still. Talons, Leigh thought. Like a hawk suspended in air just before the plunge to snare its prey.
Marti said “Aren’t you interested in meeting someone who’s won a Pulitzer and written five bestsellers? Intimidating company, I suppose, and not just for a…defrocked journalist. I’ve talked to her, though, and she seems pleasant. She’s very keen on staying here.”
“No. We met long ago and I don’t want to meet again.”
“Worried she might not remember you? Or maybe you’re worried that she will.”
Leigh rose and leaned against the counter, staring out the kitchen window. That bitch Lanier.
“I know what you’re thinking now, Leigh, and I’d bet a bottle of Glenlivet that—”
“You have no idea what I’m thinking.”
“Tell
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