Shadow Notes by Laurel Peterson (cool books to read txt) 📗

of it, and needed all one’s wits to pull off a con. When the waiter returned with the drinks, I asked for a large glass of water and prayed for the best. Mary Ellen lifted her gin in a silent toast and drank half of it down.

She said, “I recommend the duck, the Caesar salad with chicken and any of the fish dishes, especially the scampi.” By the time the waiter returned to take our order, she’d finished her drink. She ordered the scampi and another martini. I ordered the Caesar salad.

“So,” she said. “You’re still rebelling, is that it? And you’ve come to me because I’m the sure-fire way to get back at your mother. Never mind that she’s locked up for murder, being gone for fifteen years isn’t enough rebellion for you?”

Her sharpness stung. Had I been merely rebelling all this time? I considered it self-protection, not some extended adolescent tantrum. I put part of the truth on the table. “I want to know about my mother and Hugh. She won’t tell me. I also need employment, and if it’s something my mother doesn’t approve of, maybe it will annoy her enough to get her to open her mouth.” Which appeared to be sewn shut with braided titanium fishing line.

“The girl has guts.” She laughed again, with a little meanness. “But really, Clara, why would I help you? Having her locked up in jail is amusing. And what’s in it for me, aside from pissing off Constance? I haven’t had any trouble doing that for the last thirty years.”

The waiter brought her second martini. She took a long sip, but not as big as the first one. I looked out at the water. The clouds had lowered again, and whitecaps skipped across the tops of the slate waves. I felt more than saw Mary Ellen swing her UGG-fitted foot rhythmically, in sync with the muted music issuing from speakers above our heads. I thought of the blood on Mother’s hands in my dream. I couldn’t be fainthearted.

I smiled that good society girl smile again. “But what a betrayal to have her own daughter working for the woman she hates the most. Can you really top that, Mary Ellen?”

Her lips pinched together, probably to keep her from shrieking yes. She leaned across the table, her eyes feverish and bright. “I’ll tell you about your mother on one condition. You give as good as you get.”

I hedged because she would expect it, and to recover my breath at her malice. “I’ve been gone for fifteen years.”

Her eyes glittered. “You know enough. I promise you.”

“Fine. But the deal comes with sponsorship into the Women’s League and invitations to your parties, as well as that job with your politician brother and his campaign.”

“Want a plaid headband, too?” she mocked. She tapped one long nail on the table. “You don’t know what you’re asking, Clara. Some secrets should stay buried, and there are people in this town who will do whatever it takes to make sure they do.”

My heart flip-flopped in a moment of self-doubt. What if I didn’t really want to know what Mother had hidden all these years?

The waiter arrived with our meals, setting them carefully in front of us, wiping the edges of the plates of imagined bits of stray food. He bowed slightly and left, but not before Mary Ellen ordered her third martini. I asked for more water. I hadn’t even lowered my drink to the level of the olives, and already I felt woozy. Mary Ellen enjoyed her food and ate all of it—unusual for a woman of her skeletal shape—sopping up the extra sauce, or perhaps the gin, with bread. She seemed to have forgotten what I’d asked and chatted casually about a garden club open house planned for Christmas and her family’s upcoming post-holiday trip to Vail. Only when we’d made it to double espressos and chocolate mousse (for Mary Ellen—I couldn’t eat that much) did she finally say, “Agreed.”

Our conversation had gone so far afield since my initial demands that it took me a minute to figure out what she was referring to, which might also have been influenced by my finishing the martini and her droning voice. She must have seen my confusion, because she said, “Friday at noon, my house. Women’s League planning meeting for the Christmas Bazaar. We need lots of slave labor, since the event is less than two weeks away. You can interview Saturday evening at my brother’s campaign fundraiser. I’ll put in a good word for you—you do have some skills, don’t you?”

I described my employment history.

“Good. The money’s a pittance, but it’s not like you need it.” She sniffed and waved at the waiter for the check. I started for my wallet, but she said, “Oh please.”

I tried one last time through the fog in my head to get information. “Were my mother and Hugh having an affair?”

She looked at me with what seemed like pity, if it were possible for her to feel such a thing. “Of course. For years.” She leaned across the table and tapped that long, red nail on the table again. “Broke it off not long ago, though. I don’t think Hugh was happy about that. I heard he kept coming around. Somebody told me Constance was thinking about getting an order of protection.”

“You ‘heard’? ‘Somebody told you’?”

She stared at me. “You really don’t understand how much your mother hates me, do you?” The waiter set the bill on the table, and Mary Ellen, without glancing at it, dropped a stack of twenties and handed it back. She threw her wallet into her purse. “We are enemies, after all. I don’t know everything firsthand.” She gave me that malicious smile again. “But you do.”

Her driving on the way back to the Women’s League headquarters was no less assured than it had been on the way out. I wondered what neuroscience would have to say about a specimen like her. She parked in