We walked through the open door into an enormous entry hall that buzzed with activity. I clutched Patrick’s elbow, wishing I owned something better than my faded linen blouse. The tinkling of a piano drifted from a nearby alcove, and Patrick moved toward it as if pulled by a magnet.
We entered a beautiful drawing room with flocked wallpaper and plush sofas and chairs. People gathered in clusters around the room while a man in a black suit played “It’s Only a Paper Moon” on the piano. The furnishings were expensive, but different from Willie’s. Willie’s furniture had an exotic feel, with sensual colors and curves. This was elegant, refined, and so clean I could practically see my reflection in everything.
“Not a single smoke or bloodstain,” I whispered to Patrick.
“Not that you can see,” said Patrick out of the corner of his mouth.
A circular mahogany table was covered with sterling frames of all shapes and sizes, boasting the legacy that was the Lockwell family. There were photos of babies, teenagers, grandparents, a golden retriever, the family at the shore, at the Eiffel Tower, all with smiling faces advertising how happy and valuable their lives were. There was even a photo of Charlotte in a small oval frame.
I stared at the pictures. If someone meant something to you, you put their photo in a silver frame and displayed it, like these. I had never seen anything like it. Willie didn’t have any framed photos. Neither did Mother.
“Josephine!” Charlotte was suddenly at my arm, looking radiant in a mint green cashmere sweater, her auburn hair held neatly in place by a black velvet headband. “I’m so glad you’re here!”
“Thank you for inviting us.”
“Well, don’t worry. I won’t leave your side. I know it’s horribly uncomfortable to be at a function where you don’t know anyone.”
I nodded. Charlotte understood. It was as if she’d heard my thoughts on the way over. Or perhaps my face was splotched again.
“Hello, Patrick. Did you have any trouble finding the house?” asked Charlotte.
“Not at all. But then a place like this is hard to miss, isn’t it?” said Patrick.
“Yes, a quality that my aunt is all too proud of,” whispered Charlotte. “They’re not exactly the understated type, if you know what I mean.”
“That’s a lovely photo of you,” I said, pointing to the frame.
“Oh, that’s a couple years old now. I just had a new photograph taken at Smith. Here, let me introduce you.”
Charlotte pulled both Patrick and me over to an attractive middle-aged couple across the room. “Aunt Lilly, Uncle John, these are my friends Josephine Moraine and Patrick Marlowe.”
“How do you do?” said Mrs. Lockwell. “Marlowe, I know that name. John,” she said, swatting her husband’s arm, “why do we know the name Marlowe? Is your mother in the Junior League, dear?”
“No, ma’am,” said Patrick. “My mother lives in the West Indies.”
“Is your father an attorney?” asked Mr. Lockwell.
“No, sir, my father is an author and a bookseller. We own a bookshop in the Quarter.”
“Well, now isn’t that quaint. We just love books, don’t we, John?”
Mr. Lockwell paid little attention to his wife and instead looked about the room, eyeing all the other women. “And where are you in school, Patrick?” asked Mrs. Lockwell.
“I just finished up at Loyola,” said Patrick, gratefully accepting a beverage from one of the waiters that was circulating.
“And you, Josephine? Have I seen you at Sacred Heart with our Elizabeth?” asked Mrs. Lockwell.
“Josephine lives in the French Quarter, Aunt Lilly. Isn’t that exciting?” said Charlotte.
“The Quarter. Oh, my,” said Lilly Lockwell, putting an affected hand to her chest. “Yes it is. What did you say your last name was, dear?”
“Moraine.”
“John.” She swatted her husband’s arm. “Do we know the Moraines in the Quarter?”
“I don’t believe we do. What line of business is your family in, Josephine?”
Mr. Lockwell looked at me. Mrs. Lockwell looked at me. Charlotte looked at me. Their faces felt an inch from mine.
“Sales,” I said quietly.
“What a lovely piano,” said Patrick, quickly changing the subject. “A Steinway baby grand, isn’t it?”
“Why, yes. Do you play?” said Lilly, speaking to Patrick, but with her eyes still fixed on me.
Patrick nodded.
“Well, then you certainly appreciate a nice piano.” Mrs. Lockwell smiled, raising her glass in a private toast to her Steinway.
“Yes, I have a B?sendorfer grand,” said Patrick.
Aunt Lilly’s eyes snapped off of me and locked onto Patrick.
“A B?sendorfer? Well, well, now, that’s a piano!” roared Mr. Lockwell.
“Indeed. You must play for us tonight, Patrick. Don’t be shy, now,” said Lilly.
“Oh, Aunt Lilly, don’t steal my friends. I was just going to give them a tour of your magnificent house,” said Charlotte, pulling us away from her aunt and uncle, who stood, heads cocked, staring at Patrick and me.
Charlotte didn’t give us a tour of the house. She grabbed a plate of canapés from a server, pulled us into a library on the main floor, shut the doors, and flopped down on a sofa.
“It’s exhausting, I tell you. And embarrassing. ‘And what did you say your last name was?’” said Charlotte, mimicking her aunt. “My apologies to you both. They drink like fish and ask the most probing questions!”
“Welcome to the South.” Patrick laughed.
We talked with Charlotte for over an hour in the library. I tried to keep my posture straight in the thick leather chair and from time to time put my hand to my neck to make sure I hadn’t lost Sweety’s pearls. Charlotte settled right in and kicked her shoes off, folding her bobby socks under her skirt on the sofa. Patrick focused on inspecting the books in the Lockwells’ collection, pausing only to comment on a certain title or volume. We hooted and howled when Patrick discovered Candace Kinkaid’s Rogue Desire tucked away on a high shelf.
A man poked his head into the library. “Can I hide out with you? Sounds like it’s more fun in here.”
“Dad! Come meet Josephine and Patrick,” said Charlotte.
An elegant man in a blue suit entered the library. “Well, now, you must be Patrick with the B?sendorfer grand.”
“Ugh—are they still talking about that?” said Charlotte.
“Yep. And, Patrick, I’m afraid that you’re going to have to play. My sister won’t stop until she hears what B?sendorfer fingers sound like on a Steinway. George Gates,” he said, extending his hand to Patrick. “And you must be Josephine,” he said, turning to me. “Charlotte hasn’t stopped talking about you.”
“Most people call Josephine Jo.” Patrick smiled. I shot him a look.
Mr. Gates discussed books with Patrick, inquiring about some rare volumes he wasn’t able to locate out East. He then convinced Patrick to get the piano recital over with, and they left the library.
“Your father’s so nice. Funny, too,” I told Charlotte.
“Yes. Is your dad funny?” she asked.
I looked at her, wondering if my expression gave me away. “My father . . . my parents aren’t together,” I told her.
Charlotte sat up at once and put her hand on my knee. “Don’t worry, Jo. Half of the married couples here tonight aren’t together. Not really, anyway. But they’d never be honest about it like you. Right before you arrived, Mrs. Lefevre told us that she held a gun to her husband’s head in the bedroom last night because he smelled like Tabu.” Charlotte shook her head, whispering. “Mrs. Lefevre does not wear Tabu. But a gun? Can you imagine the insanity of that?”
I shook my head, feeling the cold steel of my pistol against my leg under my skirt. Unfortunately, I knew that insanity all too well.
“No one’s life is perfect. I find it much more interesting when people are just honest about it,” said Charlotte.
Honest. But what would Charlotte think if I told her the truth? That my mother was a prostitute, that I didn’t know who my father was, that most men scared me, so I created make-believe dads like Forrest Hearne.
“Charlotte!” A tall, spindly girl with an overbite ran into the library. “Mother says you’re friends with that boy Patrick Marlowe. You must introduce me!”