Moonrise. Cassandra King

Annie.”

      “Surely she’s not pregnant!” Keturah Paulk says, putting a hand to her mouth.

      It’s tempting to let that rumor float, but I reluctantly tell the middle-aged crowd gathered around us that Helen is older than she looks, in her mid-forties, with a son about Annie’s age. It’s safe to say that she’s past childbearing age. “Guess it’s healthy eating that keeps her so youthful-looking,” I throw out casually. “She’s a dietician, you know.”

      This brings about the reaction I’d aimed for, and I wish Noel were here to witness my vindication. John Jeffers, one of my closest—and gayest—buddies, guffaws in delight. “Emmet Justice married to a dietician? That’d be like me marrying a gay-bashing right-winger, wouldn’t it?”

      Eyes round, Kathy Manning leans forward to whisper, “Does she allow Emmet to drink? He’s always been a heavy drinker, as all of us know.”

      “One glass of red wine at dinnertime,” I tell her. It’s a bald-faced lie, but I cannot resist, especially since Noel’s not here to correct me, and Kit sure won’t.

      “Maybe I could send her over to straighten out my husband,” Anne Sullivan says, and everyone laughs, including her husband, Claude. But Bootsie Woodruff, an influential dowager who’d been a close friend of Rosalyn’s mother, silences our laughter.

      With her great dignity and full-throated drawl, Bootsie grabs the attention of the crowd when she proclaims in a loud voice, “Frankly, I find the whole thing appalling—just appalling! Rosalyn Harmon was the finest woman I’ve ever known, and this much-too-sudden marriage of Emmet’s is a disgrace to her precious memory. I refuse to speak to him or that girl, either one.”

      Over Bootsie’s shoulder I see Noel motioning to me just outside the door of the lecture room, and I tug on Kit’s arm. We make our good-byes and the whispers follow us. Even though we’re out of earshot, I know the whispers are of sympathy and commiseration, unlike those that followed Emmet and Helen just moments before.

      “Quit the gossiping and get your fannies in here,” Noel hisses when Kit and I reach the door. “They’re about to dim the lights.”

      “I thought we had reserved seats,” Kit says with a frown as we make our way down the aisle, pausing only to wave at friends already seated.

      “Oh, we do, darling.” Noel’s blue eyes twinkle with mischief. “The esteemed poet asked the ushers to reserve several for her dearest friends.”

      “That would be us, then,” I mutter. “She sure as hell doesn’t have any others.”

      Seeing Linc seated in the front row, his walker folded away next to him, I shut my trap. Emmet and Helen have already seated themselves on one side of him, Noel on the other. Naturally he hogged the end seat so Kit and I have to be next to Helen, and I signal Kit with my eyes that I’ll go first. That way, I’ll sit next to the lovebirds, and Kit won’t have to endure the sight of them pawing each other like teenagers. Their fingers are entwined, I note in disgust, and his leg is practically on top of hers. At least Noel will be pleased; the fringed Cuban shawl has slid down on the Bride’s tanned shoulders, exposing enough cleavage for the men seated near us to get an eyeful. Well, they’d better enjoy the view; there sure won’t be any once the poet appears.

      Kit and I both stop to greet Linc before we take our seats, and I linger for a moment with my face pressed next to his, nuzzling his beard. He’s spruced up for the occasion, looking very professorial and distinguished. Those who don’t know about the stroke probably can’t see anything much different with him, especially with him seated. He’s made a really good recovery, considering the shape he was in, but I have to remind myself that I was in the waiting room after his surgery, when the doctor warned us to be cautiously optimistic. After you’ve had one episode like Linc had, he told us, the chances of having another quadruple . . . as do the chances of one being fatal.

      I sit down to fan myself with the program, which is better than having to look at Myna’s picture on the front cover, grinning like a nun in a cucumber patch. Like everything else at the Bascom, the lecture room is top-notch, one of the classiest I’ve ever been in, and I’ve been in quite a few. A tuxedoed trio to the side of the stage area is playing Chopin’s Étude op. 10 no. 3, and the lectern’s decked with a spectacular arrangement of Casablanca lilies. After Kit and I take our seats, hypocrites that we are, both of us greet Emmet and the Bride with enough sweetness to gag a maggot. Up close, I’m shocked to see how tired Helen looks. If her exhaustion is from carrying out her wifely duties every night, she needs to plead a headache and get some rest. Otherwise, she’ll lose her looks before she reaches fifty. Her big brown eyes are dark-smudged and weary, and for the first time I notice a fine web of wrinkles in the corners, faint lines on either side of her mouth. There must be a God after all.

      Emmet, on the other hand, looks better than I’ve ever seen him. Even though I’m downright disgusted with myself, I can’t help it—I like being seated near enough to watch him out of the corner of my eye. It’ll give me something to do instead of listening to Magpie’s reading. Besides, what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. I notice the men around us ogling Helen; it’s only fair that we women get to ogle Emmet. Emmet always attracts a crowd of admiring women. For a man who’s not even remotely good-looking, he has the most magnetism of anyone I’ve ever known. My God, I’ve known the man forever and still find him hot as a Fourth of July firecracker! It’s that intensity of his, I suppose, that draws women to him like bears to honey. Or maybe moths to flames would be a better analogy, for he’s a danger if there ever was one. He leans forward to wink at me, and damned if I don’t blush like a fool, fearing he read my mind.

      The other chick magnet of our group, Noel the golden boy, is flitting around the room beside himself at the turnout. Naturally, goody two-shoes is helping the ushers (college kids who get paid to work here) set up extra chairs. You’d think the fool had never been on the board of an organization like the Bascom’s, instead of chairing some of the most illustrious charities and foundations in Atlanta, including the High Museum. Noel’s always been that way, so nice and humble it makes you want to throw up.

      To my left, Helen lays a hand on my arm and bends over to whisper in my ear. While she asks me to identify some of the people around us, and I whisper my responses, my gaze is drawn to her neckline like a magnet. As bad as I hate to admit it, Rosalyn’s locket looks great on her, and I can see why Emmet wanted her to have it. I’ve always wondered if it hurt Emmet’s feelings, that Rosalyn never wore the necklace after all the trouble, and expense, it cost him to obtain it. His getting it made a good story, but the truth is, he could’ve been arrested for smuggling, and might still be locked away in a Cuban prison. I remember Rosalyn holding the necklace up to her throat and asking Kit and me what she should do. It wasn’t her, she said, but she adored it because Emmet thought so. Wear it, anyway, I’d advised her, even if only occasionally, but Kit talked her out of it. Make a point of telling Emmet how much you like it, was her suggestion, but for God’s sake, don’t wear the thing! It was heavy and gaudy and totally unsuitable for Rosalyn’s delicate frame. Since Kit always had more influence on Rosalyn than anyone else, that’s who she listened to.

      Instead of being the chunky piece of jewelry I remember, the gold locket is actually rather exquisite, I see now, suitable for the grand Spanish contessa who once owned it. The ornate inlay on the heart, which Kit called garish, is bold and eye-catching. Mainly, the necklace suits Helen in a way it never did Rosalyn, probably because Helen’s warm coloring is more Mediterranean, while Rosalyn’s was pure Nordic. Dulcinea and Queen Gertrude, I think, rather enjoying my literary flight of fancy. Before I can take it any further, the lights dim, Noel takes his seat, and the audience settles in for an evening of high culture.

      The ever-elegant George Landon, a close friend of Noel’s and one of my favorite escorts, takes the stage to introduce Myna Fielding-Varner, a poet of such renown (to hear George tell it) that Highlands should be genuflecting at the mere mention of her name. With a nod toward those of us in the front row, George tells the romantic story of how Dr. Fielding came to the University of Alabama as a lecturer several years ago, and how