Marcia Talley: Occasion of Revenge

“And you’re taking her seriously?”

“LouElla’s grasp of reality is rather on-again, off-again, isn’t it?” I said, more to reassure myself than my husband.

“Then let it go, Hannah. Relax.” He used his thumbs to knead the tension out of the muscles over my shoulder blades.

“I’ll try. Emily did call Virginia to warn her that LouElla was having one of her off days.” I gestured with my glass. “Wine?”

“You read my mind.”

I poured Paul a glass of Chablis and we sat down together at the kitchen table. “So, you were out gallivanting, huh? And I thought you’d be spending the afternoon making sure the math department computers wouldn’t go into meltdown tonight.”

“No, we didn’t need to do anything special with the computers.” Paul raised his glass. “Mark my words, Hannah, Y2K will go down in history as the biggest bust since Comet Kahotec.” He took a sip of wine and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “I had to write up a couple of MAPR reports is all, for some mids who have to appear before the Academic Board. But I finished early so I thought I’d catch the Einstein show.” He rested his elbows on the table and rolled the wineglass between his palms. “So, what does the old dear want this time?” he asked, referring to LouElla’s message.

“To warn me about smallpox virus on the loose.”

“Oh.” He smiled. “Is that all?”

“And to wish us a Happy New Year,” I said.

Paul laughed out loud. “Are you going to return her call?”

I shook my head. “She left me her number, but I doubt I’ll use it.” I grinned. “That would be one sure way to spoil our evening.”

Paul grinned back. “Speaking of which, what’s the plan for tonight?”

“Emily and Dante already took their admission buttons and have gone with Chloe to the magic show at St. John’s, then they’re going to get their faces painted and after that, I think it’s the Punch and Judy Show. ”

Paul glanced around the kitchen where there was absolutely no evidence of a meal being prepared, raised an eyebrow, and asked, “Dinner?”

“We’re stopping by Mother Earth to pick up Daddy and Ruth, then we’ve reservations for dinner at McGarvey’s.”

Paul carefully positioned his glass in the wet ring it had made on the tabletop. “McGarvey’s? I thought you’d had enough of that place.”

I shrugged. “Daddy’s choice. I think he’s hoping to run into Darryl. He actually liked the guy.”

“I thought Darryl would be arrested by now.”

“Younger tells me he needs proof. Based on what the clerk at the post office said, he’ll probably be able to get a search warrant. He’s looking for the fake ID Darryl used to set up the post office box. And credit card receipts. There’s also the possibility he’s been taking advantage of his position as a waiter to steal credit card numbers from customers at McGarvey’s.” I remembered my recent lunch there with Deirdre and was glad I had paid cash. “There may be merchandise, too, although Younger suspects Darryl’s already fenced most of it.”

“And in the meantime?” Paul asked.

“In the meantime we have to live with the creep.” Captain Younger had asked me not to tell anybody what I had learned about Darryl at the post office for fear it would leak back to him. I had sworn Paul to secrecy, of course, but it took every bit of willpower I possessed not to set Ruth’s mind at ease. I tugged at Paul’s hand. “C’mon. We need to get dressed.”

Paul remained firmly seated. “If Ruth’s going with us, who’s minding the store?” He nibbled playfully on my fingers.

“She’s arranged for some temporary help.”

“Are the kids going to join us?” Paul asked, referring to Emily and her husband.

I smiled. “No. Dante didn’t want to rent a tux.”

“Tux? What for?”

“Dinner at McGarvey’s is special tonight. Black tie.” Before Paul could groan, I laid my fingers lightly on his lips and cooed, “And I’ll be wearing my new electric blue number.”

Paul clutched at his heart with both hands. “Short skirt? Spangles? Back bare all the way down to your ratsgazabo?”

I nodded. “The very same.”

“My goose,” he said, “is cooked.”

“I certainly hope so.” I told Paul that the kids planned to pick up a bite somewhere on Main Street and that we’d meet them at the laser light show at City Dock around eleven. Then we’d wander over to the sea wall where we’d have an unobstructed view of the countdown clock and the fireworks.

“Isn’t midnight a little late for the wee one?”

I shrugged. “Lighten up, old man. It’s the new millennium, a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

Paul looked around. “Does that mean nobody’s home?”

“Just us chickens.”

“How about a little Afternoon Delight?” He took my hand and pulled me around the table and into his lap.

Outside our kitchen window, the winter sun had set. The bare branches of the trees danced in black silhouettes against the tangerine-and-pink sky. “Five o’clock is afternoon?”

He kissed me then, soft and long, his tongue just tickling my lips in a way that drives me crazy. Later, much later, as I stood in the shower with the hot water sluicing over my head, I remembered something. First thing after the holiday, I’d call Captain Younger about it. It was about the mailboxes. Maybe Virginia wasn’t putting things into mailboxes at all. Maybe she was taking things out.

New Year’s Eve in Annapolis, Maryland-asymphony of lights and music and laughter. Streets in the historic district, closed to the usual traffic, thronged with people in a holiday frame of mind. Paul and I, our formal wear covered with casual coats, joined the celebration, wandering up Maryland Avenue, taking advantage of the late-night hours to window-shop and spoil our dinner with the cookies and hot, spiced cider-champagne, if we were lucky-many shops put out for their customers.

Peggy Kimble snagged us as we strolled by Galway Bay and charged us with desertion for passing up their Irish shindig in favor of the one at McGarvey’s. Looking sheepish, I blamed it all on my father. The petite hostess, stunning in a white tux jacket and black slacks, good-naturedly shamed us into having a drink at the bar. When the staff began setting up for dinner, we waved a cheery good-bye and moved on.

At Aurora Gallery I oohed and aahed over a jeweled enameled pin, but Paul was being obtuse. As we left the store, Jean shot me a conspiratorial wink; she’d place the jewelry on hold. When my birthday rolled around in February and Paul turned up, clueless, she’d need to look no further than her hold drawer for a suggestion.

I dived into Nancy Hammond’s studio to admire a cut-paper-and-tempera painting of a Caribbean isle that had me pining for last year’s vacation in the British Virgins. I batted my eyelashes. Paul claimed he had forgotten his checkbook. Besides, he pointed out reasonably, I hadn’t even found a place to hang the painting L.K. Bromley had given me.

We strolled around State Circle with hundreds of revelers, then cut through the alley next to the roped-off pit where our favorite Indian restaurant had burned to the ground two Christmases ago. Like most Annapolitans, I wanted to bury the owner of this eyesore up to the neck in his own rubble.

We wandered up to the Court House where I thought we might meet up with Emily and Dante, but they’d apparently moved on. “Let’s go.” I pulled on the sleeve of Paul’s overcoat.

“This looks interesting.” Paul planted his shiny black Corfams on a carpet of flattened cardboard which had been taped securely to the floor. From the table in front of him, he selected a red plastic disposable cup with a number taped to the side. He stared inside, as if contemplating a sip of its contents, a particularly unappealing cocktail of peacock blue paint. He looked from the cup to me to the dozens of paint-by-number portraits set up on easels around the room-Einstein, Shakespeare, Napoleon, Churchill, Kennedy, Elvis-all waiting for the next Leonardo da Vinci to step up, paintbrush in hand.