The Lady in Residence

by Allison Pittman

  Arya shot her a familiar look that said, Don’t fill my girl’s head with nonsense, but acquiesced to Bea’s enthusiasm. She folded her arms and took on a mock-serious tone. “And do you have money, young lady?”

  Dini took her cue, fetching the silver dollar she had ever-ready in her pocket. Palming it, she reached down and behind Bea’s ear, dropped it into her fingers, and touched the metal to the girl’s little lobe. “Here. You can use this.”

  Bea’s eyes grew wide, then suspicious. “Is this real money?”

  “It’s unicorn money,” Dini said, making a mental note to get more from the bank this week.

  “Can I keep it, then? Daddy already gave Mom money to pay for the snow cones.”

  “Put it in your pocket and say, ‘Thank you,’” Arya said. “Go wait with your dad. You can come back when we’re at the front of the line.”

  Bea complied with the smallest protest, and both Arya and Dini kept their eyes trained on her until she was safely at Bill’s side. As they watched, Dini told Arya everything—how Quin showed up in running gear, how he carefully transported her book, how he’d read what she told him to read, and that she could keep the picture. As they inched forward in the raspa line, she told her friend too about the text she saw, seeing it clearly even as she dug her toe into the grass.

  “Relax,” Arya said, soothingly, “maybe she’s his sister.”

  “Dying? With a heart-eyes emoji?”

  “Okay. Maybe not a sister. But come on, Dini, I know you like the guy, but he is here for just a week, right? There was going to be heartbreak sooner or later.”

  “My heart isn’t broken.”

  “It’s okay if it is.”

  “It isn’t. But why not just tell me he had a date or a girlfriend or whatever Yolanda is.”

  “Because right now it’s not your business,” Arya said, never one to placate. “Who knows why men do what they do? Better to find out now rather than later, though, right? There’s a guy in our church group—”

  “I’m not done,” Dini said. “We—he and I—are not done. He has the Christmas picture.” Arya stared, blinking behind her pale aviator sunglasses. “The Christmas picture, Arya. I’m meeting him later this evening. I’m going to get to see it.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Arya didn’t sound convinced. “So you’re fine with him spending the afternoon with another woman and just being the girl sitting and waiting for a text?”

  “I’m waiting to see the Christmas picture.”

  Arya put up her hands, causing a cascade of bangles to fall to her elbows. “I’m very happy you found someone to feed into this little obsession of yours, but don’t throw your self-esteem out the window for the sake of some old picture.”

  Dini thought about laying out the whole story—reminding Arya again of a tale she had shared many times—but try as she might, Dini had never been able to bring her friend to share her enthusiasm. “It’s not just an old picture,” she said, checking herself for petulance. “It’s my holy grail. It’s a treasure I thought was gone forever.”

  The man behind them cleared his throat, and they moved up in line.

  “Be honest,” Arya said, leaning in. “Do you want to see this photo? Or do you want to see him?”

  “He has more than the photo.”

  “That didn’t answer my question. Why don’t you text him right now, tell him to leave everything at the front desk. You can pick it up next week and mail it to him when you’re done.”

  “He has my book.”

  “He can leave the book.”

  “We have the rest of each other’s stories.”

  “And he has a girl who texts him love emojis. Look, I just don’t want you to get hurt. This is the first I’ve ever seen you excited about a guy. Ever. At least a real live human guy. I’d get it if he came with the ghost, but there’s a very good chance that he won’t. So, I say take your ghost and run.”

  As Arya spoke, Dini’s phone was ringing, the screen lit up with only “Q” and the 571 area code.

  “It’s him.”

  “Calling you? How old-fashioned and gallant.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Answer it,” Arya said, with a tone that could register anywhere between indulgent and annoyed.

  Dini swiped the screen and said, “Hello?” while taking a step away from the line.

  “Dini? It’s Quin.”

  “I know. Your—my phone told me.” She slapped her palm to her forehead as Arya snickered.

  “Yeah, well…things here, um, wrapped up quicker than I thought they would and, well, I was wondering if you’d be able to get together a little earlier than we talked about.”

  “How much earlier?”

  “Like now earlier?”

  “Now? I’m a little busy right now.”

  “What are you doing?”

  Before she could think to tell him that if his afternoon activities were none of her business, hers were none of his, she said, “I’m getting a raspa at an outdoor jazz festival.”

  “That is oddly specific. Is it close? Are you downtown?”

  “Where are you right now?” She heard him ask who she presumed to be the Lyft driver, and he named an intersection. “Oh,” she said, “you’re just a block away. See if he’ll bring you to Travis Park. We’re close to the raspa truck. Speaking of, do you want one?”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “It’s like a snow cone. Shaved ice and syrup. There’s a million flavors.” She turned to the board and started reading. “Cherry, blueberry, banana, strawberry, raspberry, coconut …”

  “Coconut lime?”

  Her eyes made a grid of the poster. “Yes. Sure. I’ll get you one. My treat. You should be here in about five minutes.” She closed the call and wilted under Arya’s mocking glare. “What? Don’t you want to meet him?”

  “I’m just saying you could have left him to wiggle on the line a little bit. He cheats on you, and I’m buying him a raspa.”

  “He’s not cheating.” Dini slipped her cell phone into her back pocket and found the neatly folded five-dollar bill—the emergency cash she’d carried since she was twelve years old. She tucked it between her fingers and brought her hands through an elaborate display, front and back, and front again, making it magically appear in her palm. “I’ll pay for Quin’s.”

  By the time they arrived back to Bill and Bea, Dini could see Quin getting out of a car at the edge of the park. “That’s him.” Her hands were full, as she was carrying three drinks, so she used her elbow to distinguish him from the other people in the park. It wasn’t difficult. He’d changed clothes since breakfast and was wearing a pair of tapered chinos and an untucked shirt that seemed to be made of some sort of calico.

  “You’re kidding,” Arya said, and as she did, the first notes of the Dink Maxwell Quintet started up, much to Bill’s delight. He took his raspa from Arya, kissed her cheek, and said, “I love these guys” loud enough that Dini was sure the saxophonist heard him.

  “Why kidding?” Dini shouted, bending to give the bouncing Bea her treat.

  “He doesn’t seem your type.”

  Because her voice would never get his attention across the expanse of the crowd and the blaring music, she gestured broadly, waving the cups like someone directing a plane. The moment he caught her eye, raising his hand in recognition and directing his steps with new determination, she brought the cups close to her, fearing she’d lose her grip. “Why wouldn’t he be my type?” She didn’t think the question would carry over to Arya’s ears, but all of her friend’s senses tended to be sharper than the average woman’s.

  “He looks kinda like a square.”

  “A square? Do people still say square?”

  “Sorry. I just never pictured you with Mr. Tight Pants and Laura Ingalls Shirt.”

  “I think technically that makes him a hipster,” Bill contributed, jabbing the spoon into his ice in rhythm with the band.

  “Hipster. Square. Nerd, whatever.�
�� Arya spoke through a smile as frozen as the ice in her Styrofoam cup. “Let’s not forget that this Kevin spent the afternoon with another woman and probably has no intentions of being honest with you about it.”

  “His name is Quin.”

  “Like I said, whatever.” This she tossed over her shoulder while stepping directly into Quin’s path, hand outstretched. She introduced him to Bill and to Bea as if he had walked into her parlor or a major acquisitions merger meeting and not simply up to the edge of her checkered blanket. By the time he was face-to-face with Dini, he looked relieved.

  “This is for you,” she said, handing him his cup. “Coconut lime.” She took a small envelope and sprinkled some of the contents onto her own watermelon ice then held the packet out to him. “This is chamoy. It’s like a spicy red pepper. Gives it a kick.”

  “I think I had enough of a kick at breakfast.” When he spoke, he leaned in close, his words cutting through every note and measure of the music, finding and fitting her ear.

  “Fair enough.” She handed the packet to Arya, who in turn held it out of Bea’s reach.

  They sat, a silent arrangement that put Bill and Quin in the chairs, Arya and Dini on the blanket, and Bea floating between and around them.

  “These guys”—Bill gestured with his spoon—“it’s their first time playing here. I’ve been following them for a while, though. We saw them just a few weeks ago, didn’t we, babe? At that place at the Blue Star? Anyway, they’re amazing.”

  He continued talking, something about the challenging poly-rhythms and off-the-wall guest musicians. Dini listened in, her lips wrapped around a plastic spoon that delivered ice and heat and sweet in a single bite, as incongruous as the music coming from the stage. From her vantage point, she could keep her eyes fixed on Quin, proud of him, somehow, for how he leaned forward in his canvas chair, intent on Bill’s monologue, breaking his gaze away only to look appreciatively at the band and nod in agreement.

  She felt a touch on her knee and wrested her attention away.

  You should go, Arya mouthed, pointing away lest Dini not understand. She sent a look over that said, Are you sure? And Arya gave a silent command for Dini to save herself and Quin from Bill’s musical discourse.

  “Well, then.” Dini attempted to rise gracefully to her feet the way Arya had earlier, but the combination of the heels on her boots and the fact that she, in fact, did not practice yoga every day meant the necessity of a steadying hand on Quin’s arm. “I suppose we should go.”

  Quin looked up. “You sure?”

  “What?” Bill sounded disappointed. “You’ll miss Argyle Avenue.”

  “What time do they come on?” Dini asked.

  “Seven.”

  Dini didn’t have to look at a watch to know that was more than two hours away. “We, um—”

  “We have”—Quin stood—“I have some documents and pictures and things to go over with Dini. I’m sure she’s told you. About the Menger ghost?”

  Bea twirled to the center. “What ghost?”

  Dini jabbed Quin’s arm. He couldn’t have known the level of Arya’s protectiveness. “He said we have to go. To the Menger.”

  Bea’s unicorn sticky face looked unconvinced, but she said nothing more.

  “Let me know how it goes,” Arya said, emphasizing goes. “Okay? Promise?”

  “Promise,” Dini said. She leaned in to kiss her friend’s cheek. “I’m fine. It’s all fine.”

  Quin and Dini said their goodbyes and made their way across the park, neither speaking until they’d made a comfortable space between themselves and the din of the music.

  “Your friends are nice,” Quin said, making the breach into conversation.

  “They are. Arya was my first real friend. They take good care of me.”

  “And, boy, does he love jazz.”

  “Yes. Yes he does.” Dini tipped her cup, allowing for a drink of the melted ice and thick, spicy syrup. “How about you? Do you love jazz?”

  “Promise not to tell?” He was looking deep into his cup.

  “I promise.”

  They came to a mutual stop, and he looked straight into her eyes as if delivering devastating news. “I hate it. I hate everything about it.”

  Dini matched his serious tone. “It is the absolute worst.”

  “I am so glad we got that out of the way. I consider the air totally cleared.”

  “Totally,” she said, trying not to picture the emoji on his phone.

  They stopped at a trash can next to an imposing, four-story redbrick building with windows advertising MAGIC on the top floor, RIVER SWEETS CANDY next to it on the ground.

  “I work here sometimes,” Dini said before tapping the last of her raspa from the bottom of the cup.

  “The candy store?”

  “No, the theater.” She led him the few steps around the corner, where a green awning bloomed over a doorway advertising the Magician’s Company Theater. “I do shows. Cards mostly and close-up stuff.”

  “Rabbits in hats?”

  She laughed. “I’m not good with animals. Or maybe they’re not good with me. I tried a bit with a mouse up the sleeve, and let’s just say that we were both relieved to be rid of each other.” She took him closer to the door beneath the awning, its glass surface packed with show bills and posters. “There I am.” She pointed to an eight-by-ten flyer featuring her name, Dini Blackstone, in a dominating font that called to mind the four suits in a deck of cards. The D a spade, the B a club, and hearts and diamonds interspersing the rest. She herself was dressed in a form-fitting leather halter dress, short enough to reveal a generous amount of leg in torn fishnet stockings and spike-heeled ankle boots. Her hair was all one color then—something like a sunset pink—and she leaned on a green felt-covered table, a spread of cards fanned behind her.

  Dini didn’t spend any time looking at the poster—she’d seen it a million times. Had it framed in her hallway. Used it on her business cards. Not the ones she put in children’s birthday party goodie bags. Rather, she watched him look at it. How his eyes fixated and his neck, between his ear and his collar, flushed the same shade of sunset pink.

  Tearing his eyes away at last, he said, “It’s not exactly sexy penguin.”

  Dini laughed, spell broken. “I’m glad you’re not writing my Yelp reviews.”

  “I can’t review what I haven’t seen. Do you have any shows this week while I’m in town?”

  “Not here.” She took the first step leading them back to Alamo Street. “But if you’d really like to see me? See a show, I mean, I have one Wednesday.”

  “That could work.”

  “It’s an afternoon matinee. Out of town, so we’d probably need to leave here by noon.”

  They came to a light just as the WALK signal lit, and blended in with the throng crossing the street.

  “Perfect,” he said when they got to the other side. “I should be all wrapped up Tuesday evening.”

  “Wrapped?” Now they were engulfed in the crowd gathered in front of the Alamo. They stopped again, this time at his behest, and stared at the monument tucked back behind the trees and ropes.

  “You know? I didn’t want to say anything on the tour, but I thought it would be …”

  “Bigger?”

  “Yeah. Like more …”

  “Imposing? That’s what people say, tourists, when they have this huge John Wayne icon in their minds and it’s, well, not quite that.”

  “Still, I want to go see it. Be a tourist.” He nudged her playfully with his elbow and started walking.

  “You should have time before you go. You say you’ll be wrapped up on Tuesday? Wrapped up with what, exactly? I thought you were here to learn about Hedda. And Sallie.”

  “Sallie!” He slapped his forehead as if just remembering a long-lost thought. “What a—I mean, you told part of the story on the tour. I knew she died—”

  “Was killed.”

  “Yes, killed—”

  “Murdered by he
r husband.”

  “But that bit about it taking her three days to die. Three days? Why do you leave that out of your tour talk?”

  Dini shrugged. “Some of the hosts include it, but I don’t. I don’t like to think about her suffering. It’s horrible enough, isn’t it? How we can be so entertained by other people’s pain? If I can give her a little bit of dignity, I want to do that.”

  “And it was right down there?” They stood at the corner of Crockett and Alamo Plaza, one Häagen-Dazs shop and a tourist center away from the entrance to the Menger Bar.

  “No, actually it was on the other side. Back then the hotel also had a brewery, and the bar was a part of it. The bar as it is now didn’t come until sometime after Prohibition.”

  “Well, Prohibition’s over. Do you want to go in? Have a drink? Play a round of Hedda and Bert?”

  Is he flirting with me? Dini thought about their kiss—Hedda and Bert’s—and wondered if he was thinking about it too. After all, he’d only read half the book. He didn’t know how it ended. She knew her lips were raspa stained, but he didn’t know how they tingled with the lingering spice. And hadn’t she been flirting too? Taking him over to see her picture, knowing—because the photographer told her endlessly—how good she looked, how her curves filled everything out just right. “Queen of hearts, “he’d said, clicking away. Queen of broken hearts, more like it.

  “No,” she said and charged on, not letting herself surmise whether or not he was disappointed. “We came here—I came here—to see the Christmas picture.”

  “Right. The Christmas picture. Let’s go.”

  They turned toward the front entrance and were soon within steps of a man dressed in the bedraggled layers of the homeless. He was weaving in an irregular pattern on the sidewalk, and as he approached, Dini felt Quin’s hand on the small of her back, tugging her closer. Her first instinct was to pull away. First, because the man approaching was a regular on the plaza and—as far as she knew—harmless. Second, because her body wasn’t used to touch of any kind. She’d made herself available to Bea’s physical affections and even granted Arya the opportunity for a true, long hug when the occasion allowed. But she’d never been one to allow random physical confrontation. Not with strangers. Not with men.