Houses of Stone by KATHY (booksvooks .TXT) 📕

be Mrs. Fowler, the woman she had seen in the restaurant wearing the preposterous violet-trimmed hat. She was not wearing it that afternoon, but her dress was covered with nosegays of purple blossoms and the parlor into which she led her guests looked like a petrified garden. There were violets everywhere— on the wallpaper, on crewel-embroidered pillows, on the teacups and saucers. The tea set was plain silver, possibly because Mrs. Fowler had inherited it from an ancestor who didn't share her mania.

Cameron Hayes had tried to prepare Karen when she called him on Sunday to announce her imminent arrival. "She wants you to come to tea on Tuesday. Sorry about that, but the older folks around here insist on their little rituals. I think you'll find the place is ideal for you, if you don't mind letting her pretend she's doing you a big favor. She needs the money, but she'd never be vulgar enough to say so."

In the hope of making a good impression Karen had packed a dress she had bought in a fit of inexplicable insanity the year before—pink voile, with a gathered skirt and elbow-length puffed sleeves. She had been shopping with Sharon and Joan at one of the outlet malls, and they had assured her she looked marvelous in the dress. And, of course, it had been on sale—a perfectly good reason for buying it. She had never worn it until today, and as she studied her reflection she was tempted to tie her hair back with a big pink bow to complete the picture of girlish innocence. That would be going too far, she decided. Even an elderly Southern lady might detect a touch of caricature.

Mrs. Fowler's approving expression told her that her instincts had been correct. Cameron Hayes's expression had left her in some doubt as to his reaction.

His face was just as unreadable as he stood by Mrs. Fowler, waiting to hand the teacup she was filling to Karen, but she knew he didn't want to be there. It was a necessary part of the ritual, the pretense that she was a friend of a friend, properly introduced, not a stranger engaged in a crass commercial transaction. He too had dressed for the occasion, in a coat and tie. He looked tired, Karen thought—or maybe just bored. On the surface the relationship between him and his hostess was friendly, but there were undercurrents—a sweetly barbed comment here, a meaningful glance there—that aroused Karen's curiosity.

Apparently she passed the test. After she had finished a second cup of tea and accepted a macaroon from the doily-covered plate Cameron passed her, Mrs. Fowler edged delicately toward the rude subject of renting her apartment. "Normally I wouldn't dream of such a thing, but since you're a friend of Cameron's, and a literary lady . . . Perhaps you'd be willing to speak to our little literary society sometime. We read only the classics, of course. Modern literature is so vulgar, don't you think?"

Karen said, "Mmmmm," and smiled. Not for any reward on earth, up to and including a free suite at the Ritz, would she have consented to address a little literary society. She could imagine what this one was like—a group of superannuated ladies and gents, like the ones she had seen breakfasting with Mrs. Fowler. They'd consider any writer postdating Charles Dickens vulgar and modern.

Mrs. Fowler led the way, tottering on her high heels and leaning heavily on Hayes's arm. The place was ideal—an apartment over the garage, far enough from the house to give Karen the privacy she wanted, hidden from it by a high hedge. It offered garage space for her car and living quarters above—kitchen, bath, one bedroom and a tiny living room. The furnishings were shabby and there were definitely too many violets in evidence, but it was clean, and the price they agreed upon, with Cameron's tight-lipped assistance, was reasonable.

Mrs. Fowler said she could move in next day. "I'll get Belle in here to clean first," she remarked, with a disparaging glance at the spotless, dust-free room. "Around noon, my dear; is that all right with you?"

Karen would have preferred to move in immediately. The place had obviously been cleaned within the past twenty-four hours; Mrs. Fowler was still trying to maintain the impression that she hadn't had the slightest intention of renting the apartment. But it wasn't worth arguing about. She prevailed upon her landlady to accept a check for the first week's rent and Mrs. Fowler handed over a set of keys. "Don't you worry about me bothering you," she called, as they started down the path toward the front gate. "Cameron explained you were busy with some thrilling project. You'll be absolutely private if that's what you want."

Hayes waited until they were out of earshot before he spoke. "I hope you don't mind my mentioning your 'thrilling project.' I wasn't more specific."

Karen reached for the gate. His hand was there before hers; she let him open it for her. "That's all right," she said. "Anything that will fend off invitations to tea, literary meetings, and so on."

The lines in his face smoothed out into a faint smile. "I'm afraid you made too good an impression. If you give her an opening, she'll overwhelm you with unwanted hospitality."

"I understand." She let him open the car door too. When in Rome . . .

He dropped her at the motel, where she had left her car. "I'll meet you at Miz Fowler's tomorrow, at noon," he said. "Will you be all right this evening?"

"Of course. You don't have to help me move in tomorrow, I'm perfectly capable of carrying a few boxes."

"I'm sure you are. We ought to have a business discussion, though. A late lunch, perhaps."

"Yes, right." She wondered why he hadn't suggested dinner that evening, and then reminded herself the man might have a few other things to do than tend to her. "Thanks for taking the time to introduce me. I know you must be