“Bacon grease!” Cass said. “And I throw in some cornmeal to exfoliate.”
Lisa recoiled in horror.
“Not really,” Cass said, laughing. “I use what my mom and grandma use. Pond’s.” She stood up and swapped chairs with Hattie.
“Hey, did you see there’s another story about us in today’s paper?” Cass asked, picking up an old issue of People magazine. “Must be a slow news day.”
“When we talked the other day, that reporter, Molly Fowlkes, told me she’s obsessed with Lanier Ragan. But here’s a new wrinkle. She asked if I’d ever heard rumors back then that Lanier was having an affair with one of her husband’s football players.”
“Huh?” Cass stopped leafing through the magazine.
“Crazy, right? But Molly said that a few years ago, after she wrote a column about the ten-year anniversary of the disappearance, she got an anonymous phone call from a woman who claimed that her boyfriend at the time, who was a Cardinal Mooney football player, was sleeping with Lanier. She said she wanted Molly to know that Lanier wasn’t a saint.”
“And she had no idea who the woman was?” Cass asked.
“No. They didn’t have caller ID on their phones. She said she never wrote about it for the paper because she could never confirm the woman’s story. I told her I’d never heard anything like that. Have you?”
Cass was studying a magazine photo of Jennifer Lopez in a tight-fitting satin dress and held it up for Hattie to see. “You believe this chick is in her fifties? Wonder how much time she spends in the gym?”
“No telling. But it’s her job. She gets paid a bajillion dollars a year to look like that. You haven’t answered my question. Did you ever hear any rumors about Lanier Ragan sleeping with a high school kid?”
“Don’t think so,” Cass said. She picked up a pen and began working on the celebrity crossword puzzle at the back of the magazine.
“Look this way, Hattie,” Lisa said. “I need to re-glue those eyelashes.”
* * *
At the end of the afternoon, Hattie was slumped in a folding chair on the front porch of the house, guzzling from a cold bottle of water. A late afternoon rainstorm had set in, and thunder boomed ominously off to the east. Trae collapsed on a chair next to her.
“Damn,” he said, pulling his damp shirt away from his chest. “How do you people live in this climate? I feel like I’m living in the rinse cycle of a dishwasher.”
“Welcome to Savannah,” Hattie told him. “But wait until October. The humidity lifts, and it’s still plenty warm enough to hit the beach. Christmas is chilly, but the skies—oh God, they’re so blue, and the air is crisp, and the camellias are amazing. I bet they don’t have camellias like ours in L.A. And then in February, right around Valentine’s Day, the azaleas start to bloom. Every downtown square looks like something out of a postcard. I’ve got this one azalea in my yard—actually, the color is really close to that coral you want to paint the front door here.…”
“Okay, I’m sold,” Trae said, laughing. “Where do you live? Here on Tybee?”
“No. I’ve got a little bungalow in Thunderbolt.”
“Thunderbolt? That’s a real place?”
“Very real. It used to be a fishing village, with all the shrimp boats tied up along the Wilmington River. We bought it before we got married, and I’ve been fixing it up ever since.”
Trae looked surprised. “I didn’t know you were married. So, what, you’re divorced?”
“No. I’m a … God, I hate this word. Widow. Married young, widowed young.”
His face colored. “I’m sorry. For assuming, and for your loss. I know it’s none of my business, but what happened?”
“Hit-and-run by a drunk teenaged driver on the Lazaretto Creek Bridge,” Hattie said. “Hank was on his motorcycle.”
“Jesus,” Trae whispered. “I’m sorry, Hattie. Tell me they caught the little shit and threw his ass in prison.”
“I wish,” Hattie said. “It’s been seven years now. The officer who worked the case still calls to check in with me. And every time I get that call, it feels like a fresh stab in the heart.”
Trae reached over and squeezed Hattie’s hand. He let his hand linger there, for just a second longer than necessary. His hand was warm, and she realized she felt comforted.
“Hey,” he said, breaking the awkward silence. “I’m starved. And I am not eating any more craft service food today. How about dinner? Is there a place on this island where I could get a decent martini?”