She knew she needed to make a plan, but her mind balked against it. Instead she moved over to the sofa and picked up The Final Mistress. Beneath it, to her shock, was Strange Season. She hadn’t seen the book since the last time she’d read it in Thrifty Drugs.
She took the book over to the couch and opened it. The spine was creased, and several of the pages were dog-eared. She flipped past the scenes she’d already read, quickly becoming absorbed in the melodrama of Patrice’s love life. Patrice simply couldn’t accept her feelings for Maxine; Maxine called her a tease and threw a vase at her, and then apologized profusely and made love to her on the floor of her penthouse foyer. （Lily glanced up to make sure Lana was still in her bedroom when she read that scene.） Patrice’s ex-boyfriend, the one who had left her at the beginning of the book, returned and begged her forgiveness. Patrice took him back and told him she’d done something crazy, then confessed her affair with Maxine.
Lily had a bad feeling about the confession. She read the scene with growing unease. Patrice’s boyfriend was simply too understanding. “You’ve just made a mistake,” he said to her soothingly. No she hasn’t! Lily thought. But even she didn’t see the surprise ending coming. On the pretext of taking Patrice out to lunch, Patrice’s boyfriend delivered her to an insane asylum. The book ended with Patrice sedated in a hospital bed, whispering Maxine’s name.
Lily wanted to throw the book across the room. She was so incensed by the ending that when the doorbell rang she started in surprise. She looked toward the kitchen, wondering if Lana would wake up, but when the doorbell sounded a second time, she decided she should answer it and take a message for Lana.
Lily hurried out into the building’s foyer and opened the front door. To her shock, standing on the front stoop was Aunt Judy.
45
You are here!” Aunt Judy exclaimed, and immediately pulled Lily into an embrace. She smelled like the Ivory soap from Lily’s family’s bathroom, along with a trace of ginger and garlic as if she had come straight from the kitchen. The fragrance was so familiar it made Lily cling to her for an unselfconscious moment, as if she were a little girl again. Aunt Judy squeezed her back and said, “You worried us so much. What were you thinking? Nobody knew where you were!” Then she held Lily at arm’s length and studied her closely. “You look all right. Have you eaten?”
Lily’s eyes pricked with tears. Aunt Judy looked the same as ever; she had always been a small, thin woman in black-framed glasses, a product, she said, of spending too many hours peering at math books in dim lighting. “How did you find me here?” Lily asked.
Wordlessly Aunt Judy reached into her purse and extracted two pieces of paper. One was the scrap on which she’d written Kath’s address. The other was the note she’d left at Kath’s house, with Lana’s address. She realized her aunt had tracked her down like a detective, and now—Lily’s heart plummeted—Kath would never receive that note.
“Can I come in? What is this place?” Aunt Judy asked.
Lily stepped back to let her aunt inside. “I’m staying with a—a friend.”
She saw Aunt Judy consider taking off her coat and shoes—her fingers briefly touched the top button of her raincoat—but then she seemed to decide she wouldn’t be staying for long. She turned to Lily and said, “You need to come home.”
Startled, Lily responded, “I can’t.”
Aunt Judy came farther into the living room and walked around the perimeter, taking in the furniture, the books （Strange Season, Lily noticed with relief, was facedown）， the framed headshot of Tommy Andrews. She sat down on the sofa, and Lily saw her look askance at the nude woman table lighter. But Aunt Judy only said, “Why not?”
Lily sat down stiffly across from her. “Mama told me—we had a fight. She doesn’t want me there.”
“Your mother told me you had a fight, but she didn’t say she doesn’t want you at home.”
Lily wondered if her mother had failed to explain the whole truth.
“Who is this friend you’re staying with?” Aunt Judy asked.
There it was already: another opportunity to choose whether to lie. A friend from school. She graduated last year. She lives with her brother; he’s not home. She glanced toward the rear of the apartment, wondering when Lana would hear them and emerge from her nap. No. She couldn’t bring Lana into this lie without her permission.
“Lana Jackson,” Lily said finally. “She lives here with—with Tommy Andrews. That’s Tommy in that picture. She sings at the Telegraph Club, which the police raided on Friday night. It’s a bar for ho-homosexuals. Wallace Lai saw me outside after the raid. I was there.”