Toured to Death by Hy Conrad Page B

keeping that quiet. I guess money and power are useful, after all.”
    â€œGo figure.”
    â€œThere were rumors, of course. All kinds of nastiness. I know this barely made a blip on the world’s radar. But in our little world, it didn’t die down for years. Darling, if you thought boarding school was full of rumors and backbiting, that’s nothing compared to . . .” She bit her lower lip. “I didn’t mean boarding school. What do you call it? You know, before college?”
    â€œWe call it high school.” There were times when, purposely or not, Georgina made it clear that her world was not yours.
    â€œRight. High school. Well, this was ten times worse.”
    They had reached another set of wooden stairs from the beach up to the hotel. Georgina sat on the third step. Amy joined her, and together they gazed out in the general direction of Italy. The Portuguese fado had faded into ricocheting echoes. The silence between them grew almost palpable, as if one was afraid of saying too much and the other was afraid of asking it.
    Even without music or words, the air was alive with sounds: a pair of evening birds chirping in a thicket, the gentle stroke of the waves—and the approaching sound, followed by the sight, of two pairs of legs slogging through the edge of the surf.
    Amy could just make them out in the moonlight. Burt Baker was in a pair of shorts, his crutches maneuvering clumsily forward in the soft sand. Martha Callas was a few steps behind, kicking the foam in an almost natural display of exuberance. Her long, sunburned limbs flung bony and loose from her red, one-piece swimsuit and reminded Amy of a boiled crab struggling to climb out of a pot. As always, her silver hair was piled high in sprayed swirls, adding half a foot to her already substantial height and making her head into an almost surreal interpretation of a human bullet. Even in the forgiving moonlight, she looked ridiculous.
    Every thirty seconds or so, a wave would break, threatening to knock the jurist off his crutches. At those moments, Martha would lose her flailing, crab-like demeanor and regard the judge with the wary eye of a lifeguard.
    â€œShe’s hoping he falls,” Georgina hissed.
    â€œYou’re cruel.”
    â€œShe wants to rescue him. If there’s one thing I know, it’s the rites of middle-aged courtship.”
    Amy thought it over. “I suppose Burt Baker could be considered a catch. Divorced?”
    â€œWidower,” Georgina said with assurance. “And too good of a catch for Martha Callas of Dallas.”
    â€œShe looks stupid,” a third voice offered.
    Amy and Georgina swiveled their heads and peered up the length of shadowy stairs. Ten steps above them, a small silhouette sat crouched, arms hugging its knees.
    â€œHolly, sweetie. Come join us.” Georgina patted the worn wooden ledge right above her own. “Come on. We were just dishing Martha.”
    â€œI wasn’t dishing anyone,” Amy protested.
    The silhouette clumped down the steps, then collapsed right next to Georgina’s hand. “She’s so pathetic.” Holly was in a T-shirt and cutoff jeans and looked miserable.
    â€œShe is,” Georgina agreed, turning back to refocus on the frolicking duo. “But then, so are you, dear—if you don’t mind my saying so.”
    â€œMe?”
    â€œThis isn’t Wuthering Heights . You can’t just sit in the dark, pitying yourself. That’s no way to get anything done.”
    â€œI’m not pitying myself.”
    â€œYou know very well what I mean. It’s natural for you to be a little jealous.”
    â€œMartha Callas is a pig.”
    â€œWell, we prefer a little more style in our dish, but that’s a start.”
    â€œAnd I’m not jealous. I’m just . . .”
    â€œNothing wrong with a little jealousy.”
    â€œI’m not jealous.”
    Georgina sighed. “Yes, dear.