In the Shadow of Lakecrest(28)

“You’re probably right. But his nightmares are so terrible. I have to do something.”

She looked at me with a concerned sympathy that reminded me of her mother, Aunt Nellie, sitting at my kitchen table during a long-ago visit. She’d come to the rescue with some of her daughters’ hand-me-downs and a stack of dollar bills shortly before I left for St. Anne’s, when Ma had been desperate enough to ask for help. Whenever the nuns at school talked about saints, I pictured them with Aunt Nellie’s face.

“What’s up, toots?” Blanche asked. “You don’t seem like yourself.”

“The weather, I guess. Not seeing the sunlight for weeks.”

“It’s not that. Or—not only that. Ever since you got married, you’re so serious. Like the Lemonts sucked all the life out of you!”

She smiled and tilted her head to show she was teasing. But she wasn’t, not really.

“It’s harder than I expected,” I said, “being stuck out there at Lakecrest. Matthew’s so busy I barely see him. And when I do . . . well, he’s not the same fellow who swept me off my feet.” The admission felt like a betrayal, but it was a relief to tell the truth.

“I had no idea you were so unhappy.”

I considered saying, I’m scared. Or I think I made a terrible mistake. But one confession would lead to another, and what would Blanche say then? Serves you right?

“Any girl who gets married has to make adjustments,” I said, stoic. “I do have one thing to look forward to. Matthew has promised we’ll go to Africa for a delayed honeymoon.”

“What a hoot! Imagine you, a big-game hunter!”

“Hardly. I’ll be admiring the lions and elephants from a safe distance, I promise.”

“When are you going?”

“April. Hopefully.”

“You can’t wait that long to have some fun! Why don’t you two come to the club? I’ll make sure you get a prime table. Champagne, if you want it. The real deal, from France. The ma?tre d’ has connections.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Matthew’s always so tired.”

“It’s only . . .” Blanche turned away and back, the very picture of indecision. “My boss, Mr. Pitz, moved me up from coat-check girl to hostess because of you. He wants to class up the place, get the word out that Mr. and Mrs. Matthew Lemont have been coming to Pharaoh’s. It would really help me out if you stopped in. Just once.”

I was grateful she’d trusted me with the truth and immensely sad that she’d had to do it. How unfair for Blanche to be put in that position, when she was the only person in Chicago who couldn’t care less that my last name was Lemont.

“Of course we’ll come,” I said. “It’s been forever since Matthew took me dancing.”

“Thanks for being so nice. I feel awful, having to ask.”

“I’m happy to do it.”

“I don’t know how I can possibly return the favor, but if there’s anything you ever need, don’t forget that I’m on your side. If that mother-in-law makes you miserable, call me up and complain, and I’ll listen for hours. All right?”

I never would have said I loved Blanche before that moment, but I did, just then.

“Let’s make this a weekly date,” I said. “You and me, for lunch. What do you say?”

Blanche nodded happily.

“And I insist on paying. I’ve got the money, so why not?”

“I’ve always wondered how that works. Does Matthew give you an allowance?”

“I can buy whatever I want on credit, and the bill’s sent to the Lemonts. I never have to carry a penny. Matthew’s bank even sends a monthly payment to my mother. He’s hoping she’ll visit, when she’s up to it.” The story of my mother’s lingering illness couldn’t be dragged out much longer, and I wondered if Blanche knew it was a lie.

“Can’t blame him for being curious.” Blanche said. “Isn’t it strange to think that your husband has never met your mother?”

“The thought of her in the same room as Hannah is enough to give me nightmares!”

We laughed, and I felt such a rush of warmth toward my cousin that I reached out and squeezed her hand.

“I’m so lucky to have you,” I said. “Someone to trust with all my secrets.”

Most of them, anyway.

“We’re family,” Blanche said. “That counts for something.”

“That counts for everything.”



I had recently discovered the novels of Agatha Christie, and I expected Mr. Haveleck to fit the Hercule Poirot model: a stickler for details with a precise but soothing manner. The man who greeted me after I tapped on his glass office door looked so disheveled that I doubted he could find his own cuff links, let alone Cecily Lemont. Uneven streaks of pomade cut across his black curly hair, and his shirt was creased, the collar askew. Had he slept in his clothes?

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked, ushering me in. He pushed a stack of papers off a chair so I could sit down. The one window in the room overlooked an alley, but I was grateful for the gloominess. It hid the full extent of the mess.

“I’m sorry to barge in like this, without an appointment,” I said. “My name is Kate—that is, Mrs. Matthew Lemont.”