eighteen

Ford doesn’t just give a party; he gives an all-out soirée. The Fine Line, Ink Posters hang off street lanterns and the restaurant banners dangle below. Servers walk around passing out meatballs and salmon puffs off silver trays. Champagne with floating raspberries is served in tall flutes. Max, Francie, Willa, and I stand outside around a bistro table facing the Savannah River.

A wooden sailboat, a 1700s replica, bobs against the current. Jazz music plays from the outdoor speakers and the crescent moon appears ready to take a dive into the river and swim in its own reflected waters. Larry Ford comes to say hello. “Where’s that handsome husband of yours?”

“Nashville,” I say. “Business.”

“I promised him some ad money in his e-magazine. You can tell him it’s only because I love you. I’m loyal.” He winks and then hollers toward an entering group of friends.

Francie laughs out loud and slaps her hand over her mouth.

“What?” I ask.

“I just think it’s funny that Cooper hates the Fine Line but goes after our customers.”

I shake my head. “Francie, Cooper does not hate the Fine Line. And he goes after every business in Savannah.”

“Okay, maybe hate is too strong a word.” She blows her bangs off her face with a quick breath. “But he doesn’t love it. Is that better?”

I try to smile but can’t. It’s Willa who answers. “He doesn’t like anything that takes Eve away.”

For a full minute, there’s only the sound of the piped-in jazz music and the overlapping voices of other partyers. “Well,” Max finally says, “I wouldn’t want anyone to take Eve away, either.”

“Good point,” Francie agrees.

The conversation takes a hard right into Max’s stories. “Okay, you know my friend Mark? The one y’all met last year?”

“He’s hilarious,” Francie says.

“And a little crazy. Last night, he finally wanted to prove that his girlfriend was cheating on him. He decided to spy on her.”

“There has to be an easier way to catch a cheater,” Francie says. “These days, it takes nothing less than sneaking a peek at a cell phone.”

“Well, Mark can’t do things the easy way. His girlfriend lives on the marsh side of the river, so he kayaked out behind her house with binoculars.”

“And?” I ask. “What did he find?”

“The tide went out; he was stranded and too proud to get out and slog up to her house. His cell phone didn’t have service, and so there he sat, curled up in the bottom of the kayak, trying to sleep until the tide came in.”

“Hilarious if it’s not you.” Willa shakes her head. “Did the girl find out?”

“Well, she’ll probably wonder why he has so many mosquito bites that he had to get a steroid shot today.”

“And did he prove his theory?” I ask.

“Nope.” Max shook his head. “He just sat there watching her watch a movie alone with her cat and a glass of wine.”

Laughter flows into the story and we drink another glass of champagne and tell more stories, taking turns trying to top Max’s tale but never able to do so.

Finally, I point at a flickering sign down the street—SAVANNAH STYLE. “That’s where Gwen works. Let’s go embarrass her and say hello.”

Walking as a foursome to the small tourist store, Francie comments on how she hasn’t ever noticed it.

“That’s because there’s nothing here you’d like.” I stop in front of the plate-glass window, where a glowing peace signs winks at us. A headless mannequin wears a flowing red sundress, and multicolored hookah pipes are displayed on a bright pink shelf surrounded by faux fur pillows. The scent of patchouli greets us at the door.

Gwen stands behind the checkout counter, her hair pulled up in a ponytail. Her tight black T-shirt declares SAVANNAH STYLE inside a neon circle. She looks up and sees us. “Willa, Francie,” She waves. “Hey, Max.”

No “Hey, Mom” for me.

Willa and Francie walk directly to the counter and I wander to a back aisle to catch my breath, not wanting my hurt to show. Max follows me and silently we browse the shelves that hold mood rings, stringed bracelets, salt rocks, and incense sticks.

A white-painted frame surrounds a burlap board where necklaces hang off small pins. I pretend to be interested in the dangling pendants, but I’m listening to my daughter laugh and talk to Willa as she once spoke to me—kindly and with warmth.

“Aunt Willa, I like totally love that skirt. Where did you find it?”

“I’ve had it since my first week in Colorado. I found it when I was cleaning out my boxes last week. Bohemian chic never goes out of style.”

“Don’t come looking in my room if it suddenly disappears from your cottage.”

Gwen laughs as my fingers reach for a gold chain; I absently lift the pendant in the air, with the chain still attached to the board. A shiver runs through me, the kind that settles in the back of my neck and reaches around to my throat.

Lying faceup in my open palm is a peace sign, a single symbol, nothing to give me the chills or the shakes that begin in my hand.

But I see the necklace on Mary Jo’s throat, the way it bobs up and down, the way she grabs at it as she backs away.

“Max.”

“Yeah?” He’s next to me, flipping through a novelty joke book.

“Have you seen this before?”

He looks in my palm and then unhooks the necklace from the display. “A peace sign? I think I have seen one before, maybe in the seventies in a tattoo parlor? Or on a T-shirt at a Grateful Dead concert?”

I smile but can’t find the laughter this deserves. “No, this necklace,” I say.

“No, why?”

I take it from his hand and walk to the front of the store. “Willa,” I call out.

Willa and Francie turn to me. Gwen falls silent in the middle of a sentence.

“Do you remember seeing this?” I hold the necklace high.

They both stare at the peace sign. Willa’s brows bend down over her eyes in concentration, as if I’m giving her a test, and she shakes her head. Francie takes the necklace and her eyes open wide. “Yes.”

I step toward the counter. “Gwen,” I say quietly, “Do you remember selling this necklace in the last few days?”

“I sell about a million of those necklaces a night.”

“A million?” Willa asks in an attempt to ease the tension.

“Well…” Gwen tries not to laugh.

Francie hands the jewelry to Gwen. “Was there some skinny crazy lady with dark hair who bought one lately? She’s about the size of a Polly Pocket doll.”

“Yes.” Gwen smiles at Francie. “She was so weird. She asked me like a gabillion questions about myself. She creeped me out, and she put it on even before she left.”

“Mary Jo,” Francie says, and turns to me.

A purple lava lamp behind Gwen wavers and burps its misshapen blobs upward. The ground below me does the same. “Gwen, what did she ask you? What did she say?”

“She wanted to know if I liked my school. She wanted to know how long I’d worked here. And she talked about my hair, how pretty it was. Supercreepy.”

I glance at the group. “Do not ever let her back in our studio. Ever.”

“The studio?” Gwen asks.

“Yes. This same woman came to us for a new logo.”

Gwen’s gaze jumps from Francie to Willa and then back to me again. “Is she like seriously crazy? Like I should be worried?”

“No,” Francie says, and shoots me a look. “Just obsessed with our work. Who wouldn’t be?”

Customers wait behind us, and Gwen opens the cash register. “I have to work, okay?” she says with her perfect eye roll.

I leave the store first and take slow, deliberate steps heading to the river for some fresh air.

They all follow, but Francie reaches me first. “Don’t go jumping to conclusions, Eve.”

“Really?”

“Okay, jump away.”

“Do you believe Cooper?” I ask. “Really believe his story?”

“Don’t ask me that, Eve. You’re my boss. I love you. I wasn’t there. I have no idea.”

“Do you believe him?” I ask again.

Silence shimmers between us like silver fog, her answer held back until she takes a deep breath and let out the one word: “No.”

I sink to an iron bench and she sits next to me as Willa and Max join us. I look up at my sister and my coworkers. “What the hell is going on?”

“Don’t ask me,” Willa says. “Apparently, my mind erased all the facts. I can’t get any of it straight.”

“I don’t know, either.” Francie places her hand on my leg.

It’s Max who’s silent and it’s Max whom I want to say something, anything. I look up at him. “It’ confusing,” he says. “But I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

“An explanation?” I say. “Are you kidding me? Some woman comes to our studio and insults us. She comes here and quizzes my daughter, my only child? Enough is enough. Somebody has to know what happened that night. And I have a feeling that somebody is stalking my family.”

“Stalking?” We are all startled by Gwen’s voice behind us. “Seriously, Mom?”

“Shouldn’t you be in the store?” I stand up next to my daughter.

“I came out to see if you were okay. You seem totally freaked-out. Who is this lady?”

“I don’t know, Gwen.”

“God, Mom. Why don’t I believe you?”

The discomfort, the alternating currents of disdain and accusation, keep us silent until Gwen throws a curt “Whatever” over her shoulder and stalks back to the store.

“What am I going to do?’ I ask, not to anyone in particular, but to the air where my daughter just stood.

No one answers because no one can.