Villa Hooey

“Please, make yourselves comfortable ladies. I’ll see what’s keeping the photographer.” Their hostess left the library, closing the French doors behind her.

Mavis peered out the window at the graying shadows of the afternoon. “I do hope they hurry, that weather front looks like it means business and I’m not one for adventure on the high seas.”

She gave a nervous giggle, sounding more like an adolescent girl than a woman in her seventies, and cast a sheepish glance at the other women.

“Honestly Mavis, what do you think this is, one of your cozy mysteries?” Janet Henderson paced the back of the room. Her short brown hair regularly trimmed and styled into submission, her khaki slacks maintaining their crisp edge despite the day’s activities. She looked like a soldier awaiting a mission.

Janet raised her voice, giving her impression of one of the matronly types encountered in a Mavis Payton novel: “Oh dear, will Mrs. Hodges come to our rescue in time for tea?”

“And,” she added, returning to her normal speaking voice, “in case you’ve forgotten, that’s the Mississippi River out there. A pontoon trip in April can hardly compare to a sea excursion.”

Mavis lowered herself into a nearby chair, sinking into the deep cushions of the heavy maroon brocade with a soft sigh. It had been a long day, her back was aching and she was ready to get off her feet. She had no desire to serve as target practice for someone else’s pent up frustration.

She fished a worn gold compact out of her oversized red handbag, fingering the abalone inlay as she searched for herself through the accumulated coating of face powder in the small round mirror that had belonged to her mother.

Sometimes a hazy view of one’s self was kinder than a clear one, particularly when one was looking less like herself and more like her grandmother with each passing day.

She rubbed her lips together, patted her unruly white curls, and snapped the compact shut with a certainty she didn’t feel.

“Hello? Hello! Carlos?” Zoë Newberg peeled the ear piece off and tossed the cell phone onto the firm surface of the tufted gold sofa.

The others watched as it bounced once and landed on the maroon and gold Persian rug.

Zoë flung herself into an ivory Queen Anne chair, draping her long legs over the delicate arms, the faded denim of her jeans a marked contrast to the lush Victorian décor surrounding them. “Piece of crap cell phone, dropped my call, again.”

She ran her nail-bitten fingers through her long red hair. “What is taking these people so long anyway? Some of us have lives to return to.”

“Oh my,” Mavis murmured, busying herself with the depths of her handbag in pursuit of a packet of Tums.

Zoë shot her a glance, dismissing her and turning to the others. “How about it, should we leave or just sit here, waiting?”

She avoided eye contact with Valentine Monroe, but she smirked, “Just how desperate are we for one more photograph in one more magazine?”

Red blotches streaked Valentine’s pale complexion and her blue eyes blinked back tears, “As I said before, I thought I had been invited! I don’t need this kind of humiliation.”

She turned to the others, a plea for empathy, but they averted their eyes. “So the sales for the MILLER’S DAUGHTER are soft, my fan base isn’t going to disappear—I’m not some one hit wonder.” She stared at Zoë with a fleeting surge of defiance.

Zoë coiled, prepared to strike back when their hostess returned, once again accompanied by the sullen man who had been filming them all afternoon.

Diane Smith ignored the undercurrent of tension and tiredness, offering a cheery smile, “We’re almost done. You’ve all been so generous with your time.” A hint of alarm crept into her voice, “Where’s Ivy?”

“Just freshening up sugar, no worries.”

Ivy Winters set her enormous purse on the floor beneath a marble-topped table and sashayed across the room, teetering on the narrow cylinders of her high heels, her ample bosom threatening to escape the low cut top of her figure-hugging honey colored dress. “Do you want me to sit or stand?”

Zoë muttered, “Whatever, just spare us the boudoir shot.”

Overhearing the comment, Janet snorted with laughter and the two women exchanged an amused glance.

A rolling boom of thunder shook the house and the lights flickered.

Ivy tossed her head back and laughed, her soft brown curls briefly animated before springing back into a loose formation around her full face. “The man upstairs don’t think much of your little joke girls!” She ran her hands along her curves, smoothing her dress, “Naturally I’m accustomed to encountering jealousy.”

Valentine, clutching the arm of the sofa like a tea bag clinging to the edge of a cup, looked from the window to Diane, “I knew we should have left earlier with the others.”

“I’m just grateful that we aren’t out on the river now,” Mavis said.

Hard rain pelted the window, blurring their limited view of the yard.

Diane busied herself with sliding furniture out of the way for the final photos. Her chin length bob moved forward as though a unit, the individual sandy hairs bonded together with an invisible net of hairspray. “Yes, I never dreamed of putting you, our honored guests, in harm’s way. The weather forecast predicted a storm to the north later tonight so this is catching all of us off guard. Fortunately the ladies’ guild left an hour ago, so they should have returned safely.”

“Yeah, good for them, but what about us?” Zoë said.

Diane continued, “It’s really best if we just sit tight for the time being, wait out the storm, which means we might as well wrap up the still shots.”

She attempted to move the women into a complimentary grouping. “Ivy, perhaps if you stand behind the couch, and Mavis, over here next to Valentine?”

The electricity cut out completely, leaving seven virtual strangers in an isolated Victorian mansion perched above the vast and swollen mighty Mississippi River, surrounded on three sides by flooded marshland.

Ivy laughed and snapped her fingers, “Who wants to mock the voodoo lady now?”

Main Page Author Novels Weblog Nonfiction