“He has a fixed address,” Slick protested, but Kitty rolled on.

“Then he sails into town and do you notice he doesn’t talk to anyone? But he targets this Francesca who’s all alone, because that’s what they do. These men find a vulnerable woman and arrange an ‘accidental’ meeting and they’re so smooth and seductive that she invites him into her home. But when he visits he’s very careful no one sees where he parks his truck. Then he takes her upstairs and does things to her for days.”

“It’s a romantic story,” Slick said.

“I think he’s feebleminded,” Kitty said. “Robert Kincaid uses his cameras as hand weights, and he plays folk music on his guitar, and as a child he sang French cabaret songs and covered his walls with words and phrases he found ‘pleasing to his ear.’ Imagine his poor parents.”

“What about you, James Harris?” Maryellen asked. “I’ve never met a man who doesn’t have an opinion: is Robert Kincaid a romantic American icon or a drifter who murders women?”

James Harris flashed a bashful grin.

“Clearly I read a very different book from you ladies,” he said. “But I’m learning a lot here tonight. Carry on.”

At least he was trying, Patricia thought. Everyone else seemed bent on being as unpleasant as possible.

“The lesson of Bridges,” Maryellen said, “is that the man gets to hog all the conversation. Francesca gets less than one page to summarize her entire life. She’s had children and survived World War II in Italy, and all he’s done is get divorced—and maybe kill people, according to Kitty—yet he goes on and on and on about his life for chapter after chapter.”

“Well, he is the main character,” Slick said.

“Why does the man always get to be the main character?” Maryellen asked. “Francesca’s life is at least as interesting as his.”

“If women have something to say they should just say it,” Slick said. “You don’t have to wait for an invitation. Robert Kincaid has hidden depths.”

“Once you’ve washed a man’s underwear you realize the sad truth about hidden depths,” Kitty said.

“He’s…,” Slick groped for words. “He’s a vegetarian. I don’t think I’ve ever met one of those.”

Thanks to Blue, Patricia knew exactly what Kitty was about to say.

“Hitler was a vegetarian,” Kitty said, proving her right. “Patricia, would you cheat on Carter with a stranger who showed up on your doorstep, with no people, and told you he was a vegetarian? You’d want to at least check his driver’s license first, wouldn’t you?”

Patricia saw Grace, facing her from the other side of the room, stiffen. Then she noticed Slick staring, too, and realized Grace’s gaze was on the hall door behind her. Full of dread, she turned.

“I found your photograph, Hoyt,” Miss Mary said, standing in the doorway, dripping wet and stark naked.

At first Patricia thought she wore some kind of flesh-colored sheet that hung in folds, and then her eyes focused on the angry purple varicose veins scrawled across Miss Mary’s thighs, the livid veins in her sagging breasts, her slack, pendulous belly, and her sparse, gray pubic hair. She looked like a cadaver washed up on the beach.

No one moved for five long, terrible seconds.

“Where’s Daddy’s money?” Miss Mary shouted, voice cracking, staring furiously at James Harris. “Where’s those children, Hoyt?”

Her voice echoed around the room, this shrieking hag from a nightmare, waving a small, white square of cardboard in front of her.

“You thought no one would recognize you, Hoyt Pickens!” Miss Mary howled. “But I have a photograph!”

Patricia heaved herself up out of her chair and scooped the fuzzy blue afghan from its back. She wrapped it around Miss Mary, who kept waving the photograph.

“Look!” Miss Mary crowed. “Look at him.” And as the afghan closed around her, Miss Mary saw the photo in her hand and her face went slack.

“No,” Miss Mary said. “No, that’s not right. Not this one.”

A horrified Mrs. Greene came running from the den.

“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Greene said.

“It’s all right,” Patricia said, shielding Miss Mary’s nakedness from the room.

“I went to answer the phone,” Mrs. Greene said, taking Miss Mary by her shoulders. “I was only gone for a second.”

“Everything’s all right,” Patricia said, loud enough for everyone to hear as she and Mrs. Greene herded the old lady out of the living room.

“This isn’t right,” Miss Mary said, allowing herself to be led away, all her fight gone. “Not this one.”

They got her to the garage room, Mrs. Greene apologizing all the way. Miss Mary clutched the photograph to her chest as they dried her with towels and Mrs. Greene got her into bed. Patricia went back into the living room but found everyone already in the hall. James Harris was making plans to visit Seewee Farms to meet Horse, and to attend St. Joseph’s, and to meet Leland, and Patricia wanted to ask Grace why she’d been so quiet, but Grace slipped out the door while Patricia was apologizing for Miss Mary, and then everyone drained out the front door, leaving Patricia alone in the hall.

“What’s going on?” Korey called down. Patricia turned and saw her on the upstairs landing. “Why was Granny Mary shouting?”

“It’s nothing,” Patricia said. “She was just confused.”

Patricia went out onto the porch and watched Kitty’s headlights reverse down the driveway. She made a mental note to call everyone the next day to apologize, then went back to the garage room.

Miss Mary lay in her hospital bed, clutching the photo to her chest. Mrs. Greene sat next to her, making up for her previous lapse with extra vigilance now.

“It’s him,” Miss Mary said. “It’s him. I know I have it somewhere.”

Patricia pried the photograph from between Miss Mary’s fingers. It was an old black-and-white shot of the minister from Miss Mary’s church in Kershaw surrounded by grim-faced children clutching Easter baskets.

“I’ll find it,” Miss Mary said. “I’ll find it. I know. I will.”

CHAPTER 10

She sat with Mrs. Greene, reassuring her that it wasn’t her fault, while they waited for Miss Mary to fall back asleep. After the old lady began to breathe deep and regular, she stood in the driveway and watched Mrs. Greene’s car back out and wondered how tonight had gone so wrong. It was partly her fault. She’d ambushed everyone with James Harris and they’d ambushed him back. Partly it was the book. Everyone felt irritated at having to read it, but sometimes they humored Slick because they all felt a little sorry for her. But mostly it was Miss Mary. She wondered if she was getting to be too much for them to handle anymore. If Carter got home from the hospital before eleven she’d bring it up with him.

An intolerably hot wind screamed off the harbor and filled the air with the hiss of bamboo leaves. The air felt heavy and thick and Patricia wondered if it might be making everyone restless. The live oaks whipped their branches in circles overhead. The lone streetlight at the end of the driveway cast a slender silver cone that made the night around it blacker, and Patricia felt exposed. She smelled the ghost of used incontinence pads and spilled coffee grounds, and she saw Mrs. Savage squatting in her nightgown, shoving raw meat in her mouth, and Miss Mary standing naked in the doorway, a skinned squirrel, hair streaming water, waving a useless photograph, and she ran for the front door and slammed it behind her, pushing it hard against the wind, and shot the deadbolt home.

Something small screamed in the kitchen, then all over the house. She realized it was the phone.

“Patricia?” the voice said when she picked up. She didn’t recognize it over the interference at first. “Grace Cavanaugh. I’m sorry to call so late.”

The phone line crackled. Patricia’s heart still pounded.

“Grace, it’s not too late at all,” Patricia said, trying to slow down. “I’m so sorry about what happened.”

“I called to see how Miss Mary is doing,” Grace said.

“She’s asleep.”

“And I wanted you to know that we all understand,” Grace said. “These things happen with the elderly.”

“I’m sorry about James Harris,” Patricia said. “I meant to tell everyone, I just kept putting it off.”

“It’s unfortunate he was there,” Grace said. “Men don’t know what it’s like to care for an aging relative.”

“Are you upset with me?” Patricia asked. In their five years of friendship it was the most direct question she’d ever asked.

“Why would I be upset with you?”

“About inviting James Harris,” Patricia said.

“We’re not schoolgirls, Patricia. I blame the book for the quality of the evening. Good night.”

Grace hung up.