The witching hour

Twelve

IT WAS AN hour later that Rowan called the hotel. She had packed the few light summery things she had. In fact, her packing had been a bit of a surprise to her, as she watched her own choices and actions, seemingly from a remove. Light silk things had gone into the suitcases, blouses and dresses bought for vacations years back and never worn since. A load of jewelry, neglected since college. Unopened perfumes. Delicate high-heel shoes never taken out of the box. Her years in medicine had left no time for such things. Same with the linen suits she’d worn a couple of times in the Hawaiian Islands. Well, they would serve her well now. She also packed a cosmetic kit which she hadn’t opened for over a year.

The flight was arranged for midnight that night. She would drive in to the hospital, go over all the patient histories in detail with Slattery, who would be filling in for her, and then go on to the airport from there.

Now she must make her reservation at the hotel and leave word for Michael that she was coming in.

An amiable southern voice answered her at the hotel. Yes, they did have a suite vacant. And no, Mr. Curry was not in. He had left a message for her, however, that he was out but he would call within twenty-four hours. No, no word on where he was or when he’d return.

“OK,” Rowan said with a weary sigh. “Please take this message down for him. Tell him I’m coming in. Tell him my mother died. That the funeral is tomorrow at Lonigan and Sons. Have you got that?”

“Yes, ma’am. And let me tell you how sorry we all are to hear about your mother. I got kind of used to seeing her on that screened porch whenever I passed.”

Rowan was amazed.

“Tell me something, if you will,” Rowan said. “The house where she lived is on First Street?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Is that in a neighborhood called the Garden District?”

“Yes, Doctor, it sure is.”

She murmured her thanks and hung up. Then it is the same stretch that Michael described to me, she thought. And how is it they all know about it, she wondered. Why, I didn’t even tell that woman my mother’s name.

But it was time to go. She went out on the north deck and made sure the Sweet Christine was thoroughly secured, as she might be for the worst weather. Then she locked the wheelhouse and went back into the house. She set the various household alarm systems, which she had not used since Ellie died.

Time now to take one last look about.

She thought of Michael standing before that graceful old Victorian on Liberty Street, talking of foreboding, of never coming back. Well, she had no such clear feeling. But merely to look at everything here made her feel sad. The house felt cast off, used up. And when she looked at the Sweet Christine she felt the same way.

It was as if the Sweet Christine had served her well, but did not matter anymore. All the men she’d made love to in the cabin below deck no longer mattered. In fact, it was quite remarkable really that she had not taken Michael down the little ladder into the snug warmth of the cabin. She had not even thought of it. Michael seemed part of a different world.

She had the strongest urge to sink the Sweet Christine suddenly, along with all the memories attached to it. But that was foolish. Why, the Sweet Christine had led her to Michael. She must be losing her mind.

Thank God she was going to New Orleans. Thank God she was going to see her mother before the burial, and thank God she’d soon be with Michael, telling him everything, and having him there with her. She had to believe that would happen, no matter why he hadn’t called. She thought bitterly of the signed document in the safe. But it didn’t matter to her now, not even enough to go to the safe, look at it, or tear it up.

She shut the door without looking back.