Sparkle. Jennifer Greene
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was discovering the pale pink living room walls. Not red, not neon, not splashy or vulgar. But a quiet, clean pastel, recently painted. As far as Bren could tell, the apartment only had a bedroom, a bathroom and then this one big L-shaped room.
The fat part of the L had windows overlooking the street below. The skinny part of the L was the kitchen and eating area. Or it had been.
Bren heard the clomp of footsteps on the noisy stairs and spun around. Hard to tell who was more surprised, her or Poppy.
“I’ll be damned. Who’d have thought we’d have the same idea on the same night?” Poppy asked wryly, but her grin was wary. “Hey, if you want the place to yourself, go for it. I can come back another time—”
“I think it’s great you’re here. It’ll give us a chance to put our heads together and figure out what to do with the place at the same time.”
Poppy nodded. “I don’t even know why I came tonight. The curiosity bug just keeps getting to me. Who Maude Rose really was. How and why she picked us to give that stuff to, when I don’t remember her even speaking to me. In fact, I didn’t know she realized I’d defended her now and then. And I just…those jewels, you know? That whole thing’s still bowling me over.”
“I know. Me, too.” Bren, all her life, had felt easy around people, loved people in all their facets and colors and rainbow choices of personalities. But Poppy was a puzzle.
She’d looked nervous as a newborn colt when she’d first stepped in. Shed a dripping rain jacket at the door, dropped it. She was such a character, Bren thought. A full-grown ragamuffin. Gorgeous hair, all red and gold and blond, thick and glossy—but she wore it shaggy and rumpled, washed and dried as if it were polyester. The clothes appeared to be rejects from a rag bag—the jeans were too tight in the behind, dirty in the knees, thready at the hems; the flannel shirt was twice too big for her frame.
Poppy’s face fascinated her the most, though. Her dark eyes were bright with intelligence and sassy humor. She had a long, wide mouth, skin softer than a baby’s. The nose took up too much space. So did the chin. But there were so many contradictions in that face, so much character. Poppy seemed shamelessly irreverent, hopelessly blunt…so much her own woman, the way Bren had always wanted to be herself. Everything about Poppy seemed to capitalize a strong woman, unafraid to fight for whatever mattered to her…yet that essential gutsiness was shadowed by something else. Anger, Bren was almost sure.
Somewhere inside that brash, artsy package was a lot of anger at something. The way she walked, the way she moved, Poppy always seemed braced for someone to cut her or hurt her—and ready to lash out when and if anyone tried.
“Pink? You gotta be kidding me,” Poppy said when she saw the walls. She pushed out of her wet shoes, tromped around barefoot.
Bren hadn’t felt comfortable at baldly opening cupboards and drawers, but sheesh, as long as Poppy was doing it, she indulged in her curiosity, too. “Apparently it was rented furnished.”
“You guessing that by the crappy furniture?” Poppy said wryly. “Yeah, I’d guess the same thing. Thinking about an old lady trying to ease her tired bones on a cheap futon kind of makes me sick.” She spun around. “Did you see this?”
Bren nodded. She’d already noticed the picture on the far wall. It wasn’t a good print or even a poster. Just a picture cut out from a magazine of a stone hearth with a blazing fire. It put a lump in Bren’s throat. “Maude Rose never had the warmth of a real fireplace, I’m guessing.”
“Everything around this damn place makes me think she was so damn lonely that I’d like to hit someone. Pardon my French.” Poppy opened a kitchen cupboard. Bren came up behind her to view the contents. The two women exchanged glances.
The shelf held two plates, two cups, two saucers—all cheap, chipped pottery. But also on the shelf sat a half-used candle, rose-scented.
“Damn it,” Poppy said again.
Bren didn’t say it, but she felt the same way. The candle still had a whiff of that soft, vulnerable scent. Again she hurt for the old woman’s loneliness. For something inside Maude Rose that so few had ever seen. A softness. A yearning for something pretty, something gentle, something feminine.
“I’ve got to quit saying damn it around you,” Poppy grumped. “I think it’s because I know you’re a pastor’s wife. I mean, I swear. But not every two seconds.”
“It’s all right.”
Poppy started spinning around again. “Pretty obvious the furniture comes with the place. But I don’t think we should rent this place out—or let anyone else see it—until we’ve taken out some things. Like the candle. And the picture. And whatever else we find that belonged to Maude Rose that’s…”
“Personal.” Bren nodded. She shuffled through a handful of books on the stand by the TV. Dilbert. Garfield. Not reading books, just cartoons. On a wall shelf, she found records. Not CDs or tapes but old records—the kind that had to be played on a turntable. Only there was no turntable. Just the big, black disks. She read the labels to Poppy. “Night and Day, Frank Sinatra. Who’s Montavani?”
“Don’t know.”
“Cal Tjader. Ella Fitzgerald. Miles Davis. Wes Montgomery.” Bren recognized some of the names, not all. “I’d hate to think she loved this music and then had no way to play it.”
“Bren?”
“What?”
Poppy stood in the doorway of the bathroom. “I think we need a glass of wine. Or beer.”
“Oh, I can’t sta—” Bren clipped off her knee-jerk response. It must be the stranger living in her life that said, “Actually, I can stay for a while. And I think a little drink’s a good idea. Hmm, I’m trying to think of the closest place that might sell a bottle of wine—”
“Manny’s Bar. Maude Rose’s hangout. Which seems fitting. I’ll spring for it.”
By the time Poppy returned, she was soaked all over again, laughing at what a rotten, blustery night the storm had turned into. By then, Bren had filled a couple of grocery bags with things of Maude Rose’s. She wasn’t sure what to do with them but left them for Poppy to see so they could decide together.
“I guess I should have asked if you’d rather have a soda instead of something alcoholic,” Poppy said.
“You know,” Bren said mildly, “just because I’m married to a minister doesn’t mean that I don’t drink, don’t swear or can’t have a bitchy mood just like anyone else.”
“You just said bitchy.”
“Yes.” Bren glanced out the window. “And I see quite a bit of lightning, but none of the lightning bolts seemed to have shot me down, so I guess God must be in a forgiving mood today.”
Poppy squinted at her. “Was that a joke?”
“Oh, no. I never joke about God shooting me down with lightning bolts.”
Apparently that kind of teasing was what it took for Poppy to relax around her. Contrary to Bren’s claim, she really didn’t drink—at least, not normally. But when she started to sip that first glass, it seemed the right thing to do. It wasn’t that easy for her to relax around Poppy any more than the other way around. Slowly, though, they seemed to be finding their way around each other.
“So you left your jewels with Ruby,” Poppy said. “Mine, now, they’re still in my fridge.”
“Your refrigerator! You can’t be serious.”
“Can you imagine a thief opening the fridge for anything to steal? Besides which, I’ve just been so darn busy. I’ll do something serious as soon as I can catch some free time. Anyway, the point is, do you know what you’re going to do with your side of the loot?”
“No. Not yet.” She took another sip of wine, let the