“Yes. I understood your epitaph when I read the notebooks.”
Agnes looked startled—had she forgotten she’d told her what it was? She appeared about to say something, but closed her mouth and looked out to her side.
“We both lost daughters,” Polly said, and her eyes stung.
“Pol—” Agnes reached her hand out, and Polly clasped it for a moment. But she needed it to drive, and took it back.
“I know,” Polly said. “I can’t get—” But her thought was interrupted by the sight of something in the road. Was it a mirage? No—it wasn’t. “Hold on—what’s that?”
Agnes visored her eyes and squinted. “It’s a bicycle.”
“And a person?”
“Looks like. Some dope.”
“I wish someone else were going to get there ahead of us,” Polly said.
“Ha! That’s honest.”
It became a bicycle and a person, then a woman, and then—Seela Lee.
“Oh good Lord,” Agnes said. “This feels like a prank. Let’s turn around and gun it.”
“Okay!”
But they knew that would never be the choice they’d make.
Polly slowed down and parked gingerly.
“Must we?” Agnes said, but she was already opening her door.
Don’t ask what happened, Polly reminded herself. Dick had always hated when she asked what happened if the answer was clear to anyone with eyes. Seela had fallen off her bike. The details were unimportant.
“Are you all right?” Polly asked.
Seela flailed. “Ouch! Dammit.”
Agnes bent over. “Is anything broken?”
“I can’t believe it’s you. Just my luck.” Seela moaned. She looked at her hands. Polly winced.
“Those are nasty cuts. I think we should go to the hospital,” Polly said. “Do you feel all right? You didn’t hit your head, did you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Feel it,” Agnes commanded. “Is anything sore?”
Seela put her fingers to her hair and lightly touched it, portraying an ingrained habit of not interfering with what the hairdresser had wrought.
“Seela, put your fingers in your hair! Your appearance is the least of your worries right now,” Agnes snapped.
Seela made a face but did as told and felt all around her head. When her fingers parted the lacquered back, Polly saw a bald patch underneath.
“I don’t feel a bruise.”
“Good. In that case I won’t make you go to the hospital. I’ll clean out the cuts. Is Archie at the house?” Agnes asked.
“He’s playing golf today.”
Good. Polly did not want to see him. “You should rest. You have had a shock, you know.”
Seela looked up at her lugubriously. “Go away. Someone else will come along.” She winced and drew air in over her teeth.
“Don’t you mean, Thank you so much, Agnes and Polly. You are my saviors.”
“Oh bug off.” Seela got on all fours and yelped. Blood seeped through the knees in her slacks.
“All right. Let’s go, Agnes,” Polly said, irritated, but not meaning it—of course.
“No,” Seela said. “I want to get home.” She moved one knee upright and shrieked.
“Maybe you should get over to the grass? We’re very close.” Vain old woman, Polly thought. Not wanting anyone to see her like this.
Agnes moved closer to Seela. “Oh, for God’s sake, Seela, suck it up. Polly, you get under that arm, and I’ll get under this one.”
Polly found a secure grip in Seela’s armpit. If Dick could see her now!
“On a count of three,” Agnes said. “One, two, three!” Wobbling and grunting and doing some fancy stepping to keep their footing, they got her upright. Seela gritted her teeth. Polly heard bells as if she were the one who’d fallen, but located the source as Seela’s charm bracelets. Plural. How did some people not know when to stop?
They got her into the backseat of the car with lots of wincing and whimpering. Polly was drained and perspiring. She started the car.
“What about my bike?” Seela said.
“Someone can come back for it,” Polly said.
“It might get stolen.”
“It’s mangled.”
“Couldn’t we put it in the back somehow?”
“By ‘somehow’ do you mean magic?” Agnes said. “No. No bike.”
The drive was labored. Polly tried to avoid jostling Seela, but it was a bumpy road—the reason for the accident to begin with. A lot of pained groans came from the backseat. “You’ll be fine,” Agnes said, not without sympathy.
When they arrived, Agnes went in to announce what had happened. When she came back out, she said Nora was gathering towels and bandages.
They got Seela into the den, shouldering her skinny body under a barrage of instructions and pained gasps.
“Put a towel under me,” she commanded. “I don’t want to get blood on the upholstery. It’s Brunschwig and Fils!”
She pronounced the l, like “fills a glass.” Polly and Agnes exchanged glances. Some people didn’t know French, that was fine. Invoking a brand name was another matter. They’d been raised to notice class distinctions, and the fix was in too deep to be free of that training, even if they found it as tasteless as what they’d been taught was gauche.
Agnes pressed a towel between Seela’s hands.
“What should I do?” Polly asked.
“Moral support,” Agnes said.
“You’ve got it.”
Polly couldn’t bear to watch the antiseptics being applied. It made her own skin shrivel. She began to look around instead. She’d never been in this room before and was both impressed and embarrassed by its sheen. The wood was polished to a mirrored surface. The pictures were by recognizable artists. The sofas were covered with silk—in a beach house! It was a show-offy room dedicated to hobby and play, complete with a card table set up and ready to go. Along one wall ran cases full of collections, much like the ones they had on the Point. Polly walked along them slowly, perusing the items. There were netsukes and snuff bottles, rocks, sea glass and shells, very high/low, all mixed up. Seela must have been advised by one of her decorating gurus; it went beyond her level of chic. Stop it, Polly chided herself. The woman is right here, miserable— Then she saw it. The wampum belt. The one that Archie had claimed had been stolen, the one he tried to pin on Robert. Polly recognized it instantly; she had studied the picture carefully when it appeared in the Gazette, on the off chance she might spot it somewhere. It was a beadwork rendering of a series of scenes depicting animals and houses. Archie claimed that it had belonged to Joseph Orono, a claim Agnes said was as likely as was the rampant claim in Philadelphia that a house had been a stop on the Underground Railroad. Yet it was old and valuable no matter whose it had been.
As far as Polly knew, and she would, there’d never been any correction to the claim that the belt was stolen. When had Seela and Archie recovered it?
“Agnes, can you come here for a sec?”
“What is it?”
Agnes looked over, and Polly tipped her head toward the case. Agnes pushed herself up and came over to have a look. Polly saw her recognize the belt immediately. Unlike Polly, Agnes had seen it many times before. She opened the case and took it out, dangling it between her pinched fingers.