“If Rosalyn couldn’t make him quit, no one can,” Noel reminded me, but I ignored that.
“To top it off, her name is Helen. Helen Honeycutt!” I mocked. “What a stuffy, old-lady-sounding name that is.”
Infuriating me even further, Noel had laughed. “You’re just jealous because she’s so cute. When I showed you her website, remember, you admitted that she was.”
“I did not!” Before he could argue further, I conceded. “Well, maybe I said something like that, trying to be nice. You know me, ever the sweet Southern belle. The truth is, I thought she looked rather mousy, like a dietician named Helen ought to look. And, Noel? If anyone ever calls me cute, just shoot me, okay?”
With another laugh, he said, “No one would ever call you that, my dear.” I didn’t rise to the bait, but he couldn’t let it go. “You can think what you want, Tansy old girl. Both Linc and I think that the new Mrs. Justice is quite a looker.”
“Oh, she won’t be called Mrs. Justice, remember?”
Noel sighed in exasperation. “Surely you’re not going to hold that against her, too. She took her maiden name back after her divorce, Emmet told me, and now she’s keeping it for professional reasons.”
“Yeah, he told me, too. And I wanted to say, ‘Well, la-di-da.’ She has a cooking spot on a noon show in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, for God’s sake. We’re not talking Julia Child.”
“That’s for sure,” he snorted. “She’s a hell of a lot better looking than Julia Child ever was.”
“She has bouncy hair,” I said peevishly. “I’ve never liked women with bouncy hair.”
“Maybe that’s what Linc likes about her. Bouncy hair.”
With a dismissive wave of my hand, I’d said, “Linc doesn’t count. Any woman would look good compared to that wife of his, the skinny bitch.”
Noel tried not to laugh, but couldn’t help himself. It’s what I love best about Noel. Although he’s one of the movers and shakers of a very hoity-toity Atlanta society, and looks like he stepped off the cover of Town & Country magazine, the man has a truly wicked sense of humor. He would not have laughed, though, if I’d told him how I really felt after seeing the Bride’s website. He would’ve scolded me instead, and sworn that I was neurotic about growing old. I catch enough flak about being the oldest in our group—well, except for Emmet, that is. The truth is, it shocked me to see how young Helen looked, even though there’s only twelve or thirteen years difference in our ages. Her smooth, pink-cheeked face, the perky butt and bouncy hair—they reminded me of how much I resent younger women. Doesn’t matter if they’re pretty or plain, fat or skinny; in my present state I hate every woman in the world who’s younger than me.
Noel startled me out of my reverie by asking if I was still there, and I’d blurted out, “The thing is, I will never understand Emmet, and this surprise marriage of his. After Rosalyn—” My voice caught in my throat and my eyes filled, but Noel wasn’t having it.
“Stop it, Tansy,” he’d said harshly. “You’re not the only one who’s still grieving for Rosalyn, you know. All of us are.”
That was when I went too far. It’s what I’ve been doing lately, pushing him to the limit. I know I do it, but can’t seem to stop myself. With a snarl, I said, “Oh, yeah, right. Grief sure didn’t stop Emmet from finding someone else, did it?”
With a sharp intake of breath, Noel’d hung up on me before I could retract my hateful words. I’m not sure I would have, anyway. Until this sudden marriage of his, Emmet—the grieving widower—had my unwavering sympathy. Kit and I had worried about him for months after Rosalyn died, and we’d made a point of checking on him every day. The three of us would cling to one another for comfort when he broke down. And break down he did, in the worst kind of way. Only a few days after Rosalyn’s funeral, Emmet had ended up in Emory University Hospital with some pretty scary symptoms. Then a few months later, he’d worked himself into such a state of exhaustion that he landed in the hospital yet again. Following that had been the nights—and yes, days—of heavy drinking, the most destructive of all. We were actually relieved when Emmet decided his only hope was a change of scenery. First he sold the fabulous home that Rosalyn’s parents had given them as a wedding gift, then he decided to relocate. Although none of us wanted Emmet to move from Atlanta, or to leave CNN where he’d made such a name for himself, we had no choice but to support his decision to do so. Otherwise, our group seemed to be in danger of losing him and Rosalyn both.
God, that was such an awful period of time, those first weeks after the accident! Looking back, I’m not sure that any of us handled it well. Sudden deaths, I think, are the hardest. As difficult as it is to see a loved one suffer from some horrible disease, at least we have time to prepare ourselves for losing them. And we can accept the loss better, I think. Both my mother and Noel’s had died of cancer, and our fathers of heart failure, but they were older, their deaths more in the natural order of things. Rosalyn had only been fifty-five when her car skidded on ice and plunged down a mountain. It’s been over a year ago now, yet I still can’t believe that she’s gone. I’m always reaching for the phone to call her, to tell her some stupid story about my stupid life. Kit’s even worse. Not too long ago, she scared the crap out of me one night, banging on my door in hysterics. It was after midnight, and she’d driven all the way from Highlands to my flat. A dream about Rosalyn had upset her so badly that she’d gotten up, dressed, and driven to Atlanta. She stayed for only a few days that time; after Rosalyn’s funeral she’d been here for several weeks because she couldn’t stand to be alone.
In retrospect, I think that we should have joined forces to keep Emmet from leaving Atlanta so hastily. If only he hadn’t taken that job in Fort Lauderdale! It was a step down for him, if nothing else. He’d had offers from all over, even the big networks in New York. In his younger years, Emmet had been ambitious enough to give consideration to each of them, though we knew he’d turn them down. A born-and-bred Atlanta belle, Rosalyn didn’t want to live anywhere else. And why should she? She and Emmet were the golden couple, the undisputed royalty of an elite social scene that Rosalyn had reigned over since her debut into society. Rosalyn Harmon Justice was everything us lesser beings aspired to be. She came from an old family so well-off that Moonrise was a mere summer home for them. Classically beautiful, with a rare, old-fashioned charm, she also had a rugged, hotshot husband, and an adorable daughter whose trophy case overran with the blue ribbons she’d won with her show horses. For many years, Rosalyn was the envy of every woman in Atlanta.
I’d never tell Noel this, but despite my mean-spirited remarks about Helen, I can’t help but feel sorry for the girl. I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes, even though Emmet Justice is one of the most attractive men I’ve ever known (and that’s saying a lot). I know for a fact that he’s not an easy person to live with. Emmet even admits it himself. He’s hard-nosed and opinionated, with such a sharp tongue he can tear you to shreds before you realize what’s happened. I’m sure he’s fully capable of giving a woman’s heart the same treatment. I adore Emmet; we all do, but he’s not anything like Linc, the dearest man on earth. Or Noel, who might be a maddening pissant, but is also disgustingly nice, as even I have to admit. No, Emmet would be thrilling to bed, but not to wed. I love him, but I wouldn’t want to be in love with him, and I pity the woman who is.
IF MY BED wasn’t so cozy and warm, and my eyelids weren’t so heavy, I’d get up again to see if the lights are still off at Moonrise. Every night since we’ve been here, it’s been the same. The Bride gets up from the bed she shares with her new husband, then slips downstairs in the dark. I know this because she always turns on a small lamp in the room that she’s using as her office, writing that little heart-healthy cookbook of hers ( just as I predicted!). One night