Ryan was late. The evening dark had already fallen but the temperature was still in the upper eighties when Lizzy decided to wait for him outside, on the porch swing. She had changed into the blue dress and brushed out the pin curls so that her hair fell loosely onto her shoulders. But the lacy underthings were back in her dresser drawer. And she hadn’t finished setting the table or making the chicken salad or done anything more about the supper she had planned.
The scent of honeysuckle was heavy on the night air. She took a deep breath of the steadying fragrance, willing it to cool the anger that had been simmering inside her ever since Verna had told her the news. Daffodil was on her lap, purring as she ran her fingers through his thick fur. Next door, she could see Mr. and Mrs. Graham sitting in their parlor. Mr. Graham was reading a newspaper and Mrs. Graham was knitting as they listened to the Fred Waring Show. Their parlor windows were open and the music—a popular Jerome Kern favorite, “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes”—spilled out into the darkness.
As the chorus sang about hearts on fire and tears blinding your eyes, Lizzy thought how oddly apt the song was. Once, she supposed that the smoke in her eyes was kindled by passion. But right now, it was produced by a smoldering anger. She hoped she would be able to keep it under control when she talked to Ryan. She didn’t want to make a fool of herself by yelling. Or worse, crying.
It was almost nine when he pulled his blue roadster to a stop in front of her house. Carrying a bottle of wine, he walked jauntily to the porch where she was sitting on the swing. “Oh, there you are,” he said in surprise as he came up the steps. “I didn’t notice you. Why are you sitting in the dark?”
“It’s cooler out here,” she said. “And more pleasant.” She had turned off the lamp in the parlor window, welcoming the outdoor dark. She hoped it masked her face. “Come and sit.” She pointed to the wicker rocking chair.
“Sorry to be late,” he said, putting the wine bottle beside the chair. “It took a while to go through Mrs. Snow’s projects with her and Miss Bloodworth. And then there was the ‘America Eats’ project to discuss. It’s not ready to go yet—we’re still looking for ideas. Anyway, when I got to the hotel, I thought I had time to catch forty winks. Slept longer than I intended. Sorry.”
He was wearing a plaid sport shirt, the collar unbuttoned, and pressed khaki trousers. In his thirties, well-built and tall, he moved with the easy confidence of an athlete. Somehow, Lizzy was always aware of his commanding maleness. But the sun-bleached blond hair that fell across his forehead gave him a boyish look—that, and his quick, disarming grin. He wasn’t quite handsome, she thought; his features—a firm jaw, high cheekbones, pale eyes—were too craggy for that. But he was striking. When they were out together, people noticed him.
“It’s no matter,” she said, accepting his apology for being late. She made a quick mental note to ask Ophelia about the “America Eats” project, but she didn’t want to get into that now. There was too much on her mind—and in her heart. She stroked Daffy, glad for his substantial reality under her fingers.
He took out a cigarette. “It’s what, now—nearly nine? And still hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk.” He scraped a match with his thumbnail, the flame briefly illuminating his face. “Swear to God, Liz. I don’t know how you Alabamians tolerate the summers.” He pulled on his cigarette. “It gets warm in Washington, but nothing like this. The heat is exhausting.”
“We’ve learned to live with it,” she said quietly, willing her voice not to shake. “We take things slow. We don’t get . . . all fired up.”
That was a lie. We don’t get all fired up? She was so angry now that she knew that if she allowed it, if she gave in to it, the explosion would be volcanic. On her lap, Daffy stirred and yawned, stretched out a paw, then fell asleep again. The tree frogs sang in the magnolia next to the porch. Somewhere down the block, an owl hooted eerily. The smoke from Ryan’s cigarette drifted toward her.
Ryan leaned back in the chair, relaxing, stretching out his long legs. “Well, at least we won’t have to worry about that hurricane—the one that made such a mess of the Florida Keys yesterday. I heard on your little radio station that it’s heading across Florida this evening. It’ll end up in the Atlantic tomorrow.” He pulled on his cigarette again. “I also heard that Huey Long will be here in Darling tomorrow.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “At the baseball field. Good place for Long’s wild pitches.” He chuckled at his joke.
“At the baseball field?” She was surprised. “That’s a switch.”
“Security reasons, the radio said. I gather that it was originally scheduled for the courthouse square.” He paused, peering at her. “You’re looking very pretty tonight, Liz. I can’t quite see what you’re wearing, it’s so dark. But that’s your blue dress, isn’t it? My favorite.”
He spoke in a brisk Yankee accent, hard-edged and clipped and very different from the slow Southern drawl Lizzy was used to. It was strong, definite, confident. It had always intrigued her. It didn’t tonight. And she didn’t respond to his compliment. Or linger for more small talk. It was time to get this over with.
“I think there’s something you’ve forgotten to tell me,” she said. His face was a pale blur in the dark. She kept her voice determinedly even and conversational. Daffy stirred beneath her fingers, and she felt the comforting rumble of his throaty purr.
“Oh, yeah?” Lazily, he propped his feet on the railing. She heard the smile in his voice. “What did I forget to tell you? That you’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen all day—all week, for that matter? That I spent almost every minute of the long drive here just thinking about you?”
His voice was lightly teasing, the way he might speak to a little girl. It suddenly struck her that he had used that patronizing tone to her before. Why hadn’t she recognized it then?
The anger flared, a hot, sour taste at the back of her throat. “You forgot Eloise,” she said, glad for the dark. “The boys,” she added in the same controlled tone. “Back home in Philadelphia. Where you and Eloise live.”
He turned his head swiftly, as though she had slapped him. He was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was rueful. “Be sure your sins will find you out.”
“A wife and children aren’t sins,” Lizzy objected mildly. Her heart was beating hard, and it took an effort to keep it from altering her breath. “For most of the men I know, they’re something to brag about, something to share.” She forced herself to smile into the dark. “You know—family photos in the wallet. The boys’ accomplishments, Eloise’s cooking, or perhaps her piano playing. That sort of thing.” In spite of her efforts, her voice tightened. “Or maybe that’s just what we do here in the South. Maybe up north, folks are different.”
The tip of his cigarette glowed bright as he inhaled. He swung his feet off the railing. The air seemed to be charged now with tension and his voice was edgy when he replied. “You’re right, Liz. You’re right. Of course, you’re right. I should have told you. I meant to, when the time came. But the time never seemed to come. And I just—”
She heard the squeak of the rocker as he leaned forward again, elbows on his knees. His hands were clasped. He dropped his head. “I just . . . needed some space, that’s all. A little time. And to tell the truth, I wanted to know you better.” A quick glance up at her, then back down. “You’re pretty damned special, you know. There’s nobody like you. Such a talented writer, yet so modest about it, hidden away down here in this dowdy little town. You’re so . . . so Southern. So soft, but you’ve got a spine like a steel spike. And so beautiful, although you never seem to know it.”
He paused, and in the silence, the Grahams’ radio next door began playing “Stars Fell on Alabama.” They listened, saying nothing. At the end, he cleared his throat.
“Yeah, that’s just how it’s been for me,” he said. “The way it is in that song. Just the two of us, stars falling all around. That’s how it’s been for me, anyway. I like to think you felt it, too.” His voice broke. “Honest, Liz, I didn’t plan this. It just happened.” His sigh was regretful. “I’m making excuses for myself, when there aren’t any, not really. But I just wanted to . . . well, enjoy you—and our own private fairyland—for as long as I could. I knew it wasn’t going to last.”
She sucked in her breath, refusing to allow herself to be taken in. She didn’t doubt that he was being honest, but it only revealed his selfishness. “And you were never concerned about how I might feel?” she asked. “That is, when you finally got around to telling me that you’re married.”
The flaring anger prodded her to ask him how many other special women he had found in his travels around the country—and what he would do if one of them wanted to turn their friendship into an affair, or even a marriage. Would he go so far as bigamy, like the man she’d read about recently, who had one wife in Chicago and another in Denver—and children by both? In these days when men could be gone for weeks at a time, traveling for work, anybody might have more than one family and keep both of them in the dark. But what kind of man was it who would do such a thing?
“Of course I was concerned about you.” His voice rose. “I’ve been trying to think what to do. It’s been on my mind for—”
She couldn’t let him finish. “What about Eloise? Were you concerned about her? And the boys. Were you going to tell them about all the new friends you’ve been making down South?”
His voice grew gruff. “My family is a whole other story, Liz. I’d rather not get into it right now. All I can say is that I didn’t mean it to go this far—you and me, I mean. I knew that I had to tell you, but I kept . . . well, putting it off. I enjoyed the time we had together. I always looked forward to seeing you, to hearing about your writing, about the funny episodes in that law office where you work, about all the things you and your friends do to keep busy here in this little town. There was always a reason not to tell you.” Rubbing his jaw, he added, half reluctantly, “If it means anything, I’m sorry. I apologize.”
Finally. I’m sorry. I apologize. The words she’d been waiting for. She could end it now. Her fingers tightened involuntarily in Daffy’s fur. Annoyed, he stopped purring and jumped off her lap.
“I’m sorry, too, Ryan,” she said. “Very sorry. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m not especially hungry. I’m afraid the diner is closed, but I’m sure you can find something to eat at the hotel.” She stood.
He put out a hand. “No, wait, Liz, please. I need to ask what you’re going to do. I mean, who have you told? Who knows about . . . this?”
Lizzy had thought about this and decided that it was better to keep Ophelia out of it, since she had to continue to work with him. But he ought to hear the rest.
“Verna Tidwell,” she said. “I believe you’ve met her occasionally. And Mr. Duffy, at the Darling Savings and Trust. They know.”
“Duffy?” he asked sharply. “What’s he got to do with this?”
“Mr. Duffy is my friend,” she said simply. “As a banker, he’s in the business of assessing people’s honesty. He didn’t want to see anybody . . . tricked.”
“Tricked?” Ryan sounded startled. “But that’s not what I—”
“Verna and Mr. Duffy,” she repeated firmly, not wanting to hear any more protests. “And me, of course.” When she had thanked Verna for her investigative work and asked her to thank Mr. Duffy, too, Verna had said that it would be their secret. The story wouldn’t go any further. With a crooked smile, she added. “It isn’t exactly the sort of thing that my friends and I are eager to spread around our dowdy little Southern town, you know. Even if it is the most sensational bit of gossip in a very long time. We don’t often get to hear about men keeping their families a secret.”
If he heard the sarcasm, he didn’t let on. He stood too. “And my wife? You’re not going to tell her, I hope.” He sounded as if he was almost begging. “It would only make things difficult for me. At home, I mean.”
Lizzy sighed. There it was again. The selfishness. “Of course not,” she said. “What’s between you and your wife is your business.”
“Well, I guess I can be grateful for that.” He hesitated. “I suppose this is quits, then? I won’t be seeing you again?” He spoke tentatively, as though he might be hoping for a hint that she might reconsider.
Lizzy thought about the supper she had planned, the anticipation she had felt about the evening, the hopes she had nurtured—innocently, naively romantic, but hopes just the same. She was swept by a wave of fierce disappointment. And buoyed by an equally fierce resolve.
“Yes,” she said emphatically. “We won’t be seeing each other again.”
Her last few words were underlined by the shrill shrieking of the fire siren on the courthouse bell tower.
Startled, Ryan looked around. “Good Lord, what’s that? What’s that noise? What’s going on?”
“That?” Lizzy squared her shoulders. “Oh, that’s our town fire siren—just our firebug providing us with a little local excitement. I’m afraid we’ve heard it so often lately that we’re getting used to it. Goodnight, Ryan.”