Cat on the Scent

            Sarah Vane-Tempest slept at the hospital for two nights. When her husband was moved out of intensive care and onto the critical list, she allowed Miranda to take her home.

            Exhausted, raccoon-eyed, Sarah invited Miranda in for tea.

            “Honey, I brought some quiche. I’ll warm it up for you while you take a shower. By the time you’re finished the food will be ready.”

            “If the hospital calls, come get me even if I’m in the shower.”

            “I will, and don’t worry. You’ve worried enough for three women.” Miranda smiled. “Anyway, Blair Bainbridge is taking a turn with your husband. I had no idea they’d gotten that close.”

            “Outsiders. They both feel like outsiders since their families aren’t from Virginia. Oh, well, it is like the Cotswolds, so H. mostly loves it here.” Vane-Tempest had been born in a particularly lovely part of England.

            “Go on now.” Miranda pushed her in the direction of her bedroom.

            She warmed the oven and unwrapped her homemade breads, the dishcloths slightly damp to prevent them from drying out. She hummed a hymn as she set the table.

            Miranda held that the way a woman organizes her kitchen tells you everything you need to know about her—that and her shoes.

            Sarah’s kitchen, the latest in high-tech gadgetry, boasted an enormous brass espresso maker from Italy. It rested on the marble countertop.

            Velvet-lined drawers contained Tiffany silver for everyday use. The evening silver was locked in the pantry. Miranda couldn’t imagine using Tiffany silver for breakfast and lunch.

            The refrigerator, dishwasher, microwave, and double oven had black, shiny surfaces. At the top of the wall, six inches from the ceiling, a green neon line acted as molding. It was all very playful and hideously expensive, but at least it was extremely well organized.

            While the quiche warmed, Miranda opened the closet. Two Confederate uniforms hung there, each of them clean. Both sported the blue facings of the infantry.

            Sarah walked back into the kitchen, her slippers scuffling.

            Miranda turned around. “Two uniforms?”

            “You know how H. gets when he suffers these—deliriums.”

            “Mmm.” Miranda did know.

            Like many wealthy people, H. Vane-Tempest rarely glided into an activity. He jumped in with both feet, spent oo-scoobs of money for equipment, only to abandon the passion a year or two later. Since he had nothing to work for anymore, he needed constant new challenges to occupy his mind. He had bought every possible book on the War Between the States, going so far as to pester the government of England to let him see any correspondence Queen Victoria might have penned on the matter.

            Sarah sat down, eyes half closed as the moist aroma of fresh bread curled into her nostrils. “Rye?”

            “And cornbread.” Miranda opened the oven, removing the warming breads. Hotpads at the ready, she pulled out the quiche.

            They ate in silence, Sarah haggard from the crisis. Anyone who knew Miranda Hogendobber longer than a half hour would figure out that the good woman made a lot of room for both your personality and your situation.

            “Herb says port is fortifying. Might it pick you up?”

            “Put me down. I’m so worn-out I don’t trust my system,” Sarah replied. “Do you think he’ll be all right, Miranda?”

            “I don’t know. He’s in God’s hands.”

            “God’s hands are full.”

            Miranda smiled. “”Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal which comes upon you to prove you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice insofar as you share Christ’s sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad when his glory is revealed.“” She drew a breath. “First Peter. I forget the chapter.”

            “How do you remember all that?”

            Miranda shrugged. “Just do. When I was a little girl my sister and I would have memorizing contests. You’ve never met my sister, have you?”

            Sarah shook her head.

            “Lives in Greenville, South Carolina. Loves it.” She cut another piece of quiche for Sarah.

            “I’m full.”

            “Just a nibble. You need your strength.”

            Sarah poked at the bacon-and-cheese quiche. “You draw such comfort from the Bible.”

            “Were you raised in the church?”

            “Yes. Episcopalian. Very high church.”

            “I see.” Miranda sipped sparkling water. “You might enjoy a more, mmm… personal church.”

            “Perhaps,” came the noncommittal reply.

            Miranda marveled at how beautiful Sarah was, even exhausted. Impeccably groomed, hair the perfect shade of blond, eyes startlingly blue, strong chin, full and sensuous lips—Miranda noted these visual enticements. She herself felt no pull toward female beauty. It was rather like watching a sleek cat. She felt men paid dearly for such wives.

            “A cup of coffee?”

            “No. I’ve imbibed enough caffeine in the last two days to qualify me for a Valium prescription.”

            “Well then, I’ll just clean up and be on my way. Would you like me to call someone to stay with you tonight? I’d hate for you to wake up and be frightened.”

            “BoomBoom will come over, after one of her interminable Lifeline meetings. I don’t know why. She keeps meeting the same men over and over again.”