Who is Maud Dixon?(74)

Meg gave Florence a bewildered look. “Of course you can stay,” she said emphatically to Helen. “The more the merrier.”

“Come with me to the kitchen,” Florence said. “I’ll make you a drink.”

“That’s alright. I don’t drink.”

“Then I’ll get you a water.” She put her hand on Helen’s upper arm as if to pull her.

Helen shot Meg a questioning look. Meg, in turn, asked Florence, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

Helen was enjoying this, she realized.

“Let’s all just go into the living room, okay?” Meg said, leading Helen by the arm. Florence trailed behind them like a dog on a leash.

Meg introduced Helen—as Florence—to the group grandly. It was the same way she’d introduced Florence just days before. Florence looked over at Nick to see if he’d notice the name and remember that it was the same one Amy had called her by, but he just nodded and said, “Sup.”

Florence sat down stiffly on the couch. Helen ensconced herself in an armchair and lit a cigarette. She looked entirely at ease. She was tanner than she had been the last time Florence saw her, but other than that she looked just the same. No bruises, no cuts, no broken bones.

Florence felt herself reluctantly pulled back into her old role, that of the supplicant, being careful, trying to accommodate Helen’s sharp angles. If Helen wanted to play this game, she thought, fine, she’d play.

“So where are you from?” she asked Helen.

“Florida,” Helen said with a smile.

“Whereabouts?”

“Port Orange.”

“Never heard of it.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s neither here nor there.”

“That’s okay. Here and there are overrated.”

Helen smiled with something like delight. Florence thought she saw something else in her eyes—surprise, maybe. She reluctantly felt herself flush with pleasure.

“Have you been traveling for long?” Florence went on.

“Oh, a week or so.”

“Where? Here in Morocco?”

“A bit. I was in Rabat most recently.”

“What brought you there?”

“I was taking care of some business.”

“What line of work are you in?”

“Manufacturing.”

“What do you manufacture?”

“Cogs, mainly.”

Florence started laughing. “Cogs.” She couldn’t help it. “For boats, I presume?”

“Oh, for all seagoing vessels, really.”

The rest of the group was following their banter with new attention, turning their heads from one to the other like spectators at a tennis match.

“Do you guys know each other or something?” Meg asked slowly.

“Heavens, no,” said Helen.

Florence just shook her head, a smile still on her face.

For the next few hours, the evening proceeded as these evenings do. Helen and Florence relinquished the group’s attention. Everyone continued to get drunker and drunker. But Florence didn’t let another drop of alcohol pass her lips, and Helen didn’t partake of anything besides cigarettes. It was as if they were slowly moving toward the foreground of a picture, getting sharper and sharper, while everyone else receded into blurriness.

Finally, at around midnight, after the rest of the group had shared a joint and fallen into a collective daze, Helen stood up and held her hand out to Florence. “Shall we?” she asked, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Florence nodded and took Helen’s hand. She was surprised to feel herself shudder violently. It was like touching a ghost.





42.



Helen steered her into the first room at the top of the stairs—the one that used to be hers but now bore the traces of Florence’s occupancy.

“Making yourself at home, I see?” Helen asked, looking around.

Florence blushed. She felt like she’d been caught trying on Helen’s underwear. She was, in fact, wearing Helen’s underwear. “I thought you were dead,” she said by way of excuse.

In the pocket of silence a burst of laughter wafted up from downstairs.

“Clearly you were quite broken up about it.”

“Helen—what’s going on?”

“Sit,” Helen commanded, pointing at the bed.

Florence obeyed.

“I had to go to Rabat,” Helen said.

“But you just disappeared. I thought you were dead. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t tell you—for your own benefit.”

Florence blew out her breath in exasperation. She didn’t want to wait for Helen to mete out information at whatever pace she saw fit. She didn’t like playing the fool anymore. “Is this about Jeanette Byrd?” she asked.

Helen narrowed her eyes. “Where did you hear that name?”

“A man from the embassy was here yesterday. Jeanette Byrd is dead. She’s buried in your compost pile. It’s pretty clear that they think you murdered her. No, correction, they think I murdered her. They think I’m Helen Wilcox.”

“And why would they think that?” Helen asked, gesturing around the room.