Authors: Stephanie Bond
she could sel them for a third of what she’d paid for them,
she could pay down her credit cards and maybe have her
Miata fixed. The thought of being able to get rid of the
dreadful Monte Carlo made her giddy.
“Why don’t you load up a few things and we’l take them
in,” Hannah suggested.
Carlotta narrowed her eyes. “You despise designer clothes.
How do you know about this place?”
“It’s next door to a place I shop, and the same people own
it. Stop stalling.” She grimaced at the overflowing closet.
“Good grief, Amelia Earhart could be in there.”
Carlotta emptied the contents of the Coach bag on her
bed, then went through her closet, choosing purses that
she’d grown tired of but that were stil in great shape,
many of them protected by dust bags. Hannah began
pul ing out clothes in clumps. “How long has it been since
you wore this?”
Carlotta studied the fitted orange tweed jacket. “I can’t
remember.”
Hannah tossed it on the bed. “It goes.”
“Wait a minute!”
“Jesus, Carlotta, the closet rods are bowed. You couldn’t
wear all this stuff in ten years!”
With a sigh, Carlotta relented and thirty minutes later,
they were piling clothes and shopping bags of accessories
into Hannah’s retro refrigerated catering van that was
covered in graffiti.
“When are you going to get this thing painted?” Carlotta
asked.
“It is painted,” Hannah said, clearly annoyed. “Some of the
best graffiti artists in Atlanta live in my neighborhood and
have left their mark on my ride.” She stepped back and
gestured to the words Do yourself written in stylized white
lettering, highlighted to look three-dimensional. “See the
signature—Zemo. He’s huge. This van is going to be in the
Smithsonian one day.”
“Right,” Carlotta said as she rearranged the bags stuffed
ful of clothes. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “It smel s
like garlic in here.”
“Last night’s gig,” Hannah said, closing the rear halfdoors.
“I made so many garlic rol s I swear this morning I crapped
a clove.”
“You really should write poetry.”
“I just might someday.”
Carlotta climbed up and swung into the cracked blue vinyl
bench seat and slammed the door hard to get it to stick.
When Hannah pul ed away from the curb, Carlotta waved
at a frowning Mrs. Winningham, then rol ed down the
window and lit the cigarette she’d been playing with for an
hour.
It was a breezy, cloudless spring day and she couldn’t
stave off the pang of sadness that Angela had been dead
for mere days and the world had marched on, with hardly
a pause. She wondered what Peter was doing—if he’d
returned to work yet, sold Angela’s car, spread her ashes,
ordered her grave marker. Would he order a double
headstone, with thoughts of someday being buried next to
his young wife, or was he already thinking ahead to
inviting another woman into his life?
Like her.
“Why can’t you let it go?” Hannah asked, wrestling with
the huge steering wheel with one hand, holding her
cigarette in the other.
“What?”
“You know what—Angela Ashford’s death. Everyone but
you thinks it was an accident. And if it was an accident,”
she said lightly, “doesn’t that sort of clear the way for you
to get back with the love of your life?”
Carlotta flicked ash out of the window. “I suppose so.”
“Wel , I’m no shrink, but either you think Peter kil ed her
or you’re conflicted about your feelings for him and are
going to some pretty extreme lengths to avoid the
situation altogether.”
Carlotta studied the cigarette she held, asking herself why
people did things that they knew would hurt them
eventually, and if she had a particular propensity for self-
destruction. She took a long draw, then exhaled. “Wel ,
like you said, you’re no shrink.”
Hannah frowned and replied by leaning forward and
turning up the volume on the radio, blasting Marilyn
Manson into the cab for the short ride south into Little
Five Points.
Carlotta felt torn over shutting out her friend, but she was
already so confused about Peter, she was afraid that
talking about him, that putting words to half-baked
feelings, might send her into an emotional abyss. What if
she did give in to years of pent-up longing and al ow Peter
into her life…and into her heart? Would he tire of her after
he felt he’d paid penance for abandoning her? After all,
how much did they really have in common now?
She slid her gaze sideways at Hannah, the tongue-pierced,
stripe-haired, smoking and cursing bondage queen…with a
heart of gold. Her best friend, but would Peter accept her
and her eccentricities? And how would he feel when he
discovered that she herself had had a couple of, er,
misunderstandings with the law? And she doubted that
Peter’s boss, Walt Tul y, would look kindly upon him taking
up with the daughter of the man who had stolen hundreds
of thousands of dol ars from their clients, the man
responsible for an embarrassing asterisk on the company
records.
So what could she really ever be to Peter—a
pastime…closeted?
“This is it,” Hannah said, throwing the van into park.
Carlotta looked up and took in their eclectic surroundings.
The people and shop owners in Little Five Points prided
themselves on their individuality. Antique book-shops,
organic restaurants, futon stores, bike shops, alternative-
music stores, hip T-shirt shops. The theaters and
playhouses and trendy eateries had caught on with the
younger Buckhead crowd determined to prove that they
were get-real cool despite their black American Express
cards, so the clientele was slowly changing from students
with pocket change to young professionals with loads of
disposable income. Ergo, next door to a retro used-
clothing store cal ed Rebound Rags sat Designer Consigner.
They loaded up armfuls of bags and clothing and headed
for the door. Carlotta felt a little sheepish to be taking her
personal items in to hock—it smacked of desperation. Her
mother, she thought, would be appalled at the notion of
Carlotta sel ing her clothes—consignment stores and yard
sales were too pedestrian for the Wrens.
Embezzlement, bail skipping and child abandonment, on
the other hand, were acceptable.
She fol owed Hannah into the store that was remarkably
wel merchandised for a consignment shop. A petite Asian
woman with a sleek bob and wearing a Chanel suit as wel
as anyone Carlotta had ever seen looked up from a table
where she sorted items that, presumably, the two women
standing in front of her had just brought in.
“I’l be right with you,” the Asian woman said in a clear,
cultured voice.
The two customers turned and Carlotta blinked in
surprise—one was Tracey Tul y…er, Lowenstein. Mrs. Dr.
“Carlotta,” Tracey said, her voice chil y. “How utterly
bizarre to see you again so soon.”
“Hel o, Tracey.” A flush blazed its way up Carlotta’s neck as
she saw Tracey take in the bulging shopping bags she and
Hannah held. Humiliation washed over her.
Tracey gestured to the dry-cleaner bags of clothing
stacked on the table. “My friend Courtney and I were just
dropping off some items for the Women Helping Women
clothing drive.”
The other woman smiled tightly without making eye
contact, as if Carlotta and Hannah might qualify as some of
the women who needed help.
“Wel …what a coincidence,” Carlotta said, lifting her chin.
“So are we.”
She ignored Hannah’s strangled noise as she lifted the
shopping bags to the table. After she jerked her head
meaningful y, Hannah did the same with the bounty she’d
carried in.
From the top of one of Carlotta’s bags, Tracey plucked a
nearly mint Kate Spade leather hobo bag from two
seasons ago. “Yes, underprivileged women wil appreciate
these items, even if they are hopelessly dated.” Then
Tracey made a face. “This stuff smel s like garlic.”
Carlotta smiled through clenched teeth as the woman
carelessly tossed the expensive purse back into the bag.
“You’re very generous, ma’am,” the salesclerk murmured
to Carlotta.
Carlotta tried to keep smiling as the woman gathered up
the bags and disappeared with them in a back room. There
went the extra cash she’d hoped to have.
When the salesclerk returned, Tracey snapped her fingers,
as if she were talking to a servant. “I’l be needing a receipt
so I can deduct this from my income taxes. I’m a doctor’s
wife and in our tax bracket we need all the deductions we
can get.”
Hannah coughed, disguised her muttered “bitch” as a
wheeze.
“Yes, ma’am,” the salesclerk said, then she smiled at
Carlotta. “If you’l write down your name and phone
number, I’l give you one as wel .”
Not that it mattered in her tax bracket, Carlotta thought
miserably.
Tracey snatched the receipt from the woman’s hand, then
turned to Carlotta. “Now that Angela is gone, I guess I’l be
seeing you at the club.”
Carlotta frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Tracey tossed her hair. “I mean, it’s pretty clear that you
and Peter Ashford are going to pick up where you left
off…if you ever stopped.” She gestured toward the back
room where the salesclerk had taken the shopping bags.
“You’re probably giving away all your old things because
you think that Peter is going to buy you whatever you
want now. Poor Angela, not even cold in her grave.”
Anger flared in Carlotta’s chest and she struggled to keep
her voice steady. “You don’t know what you’re talking
about.”
“Oh, it’s not just me talking,” Tracey assured her with a
cocked hip. “After you made a spectacle of yourself at the
funeral and the way that Peter fawned over you afterward
in front of everyone, trust me, everyone is talking.” Then
Tracey smiled meanly. “But considering the way you were
raised, no one is surprised.”
Carlotta flinched as if she’d been slapped, but Hannah
apparently wasn’t nearly so traumatized. “Mrs. Dr., how’d
you like my pointy-toed boot up your charitable ass?”
“We’re leaving,” Tracey said, looking them up and down
with contempt as she and her friend made their way
toward the entrance—but not without a parting shot.
“Really, Carlotta, you’ve gone to the dogs.”
Hannah lunged toward them, but Carlotta grabbed her
arm. Stil , it was enough to send Tracey and her sidekick
scrambling out the door.
When Carlotta turned back to the salesclerk, the woman
had a faint smile on her face. “Sorry about that,” Carlotta
murmured, then bent to write her name and number on
the receipt book.
“They have history,” Hannah added unnecessarily.
“So I gathered,” the woman said, her dark eyes shining.
She extended the receipt she’d written to Carlotta. “Thank
you very much for the donation.”
“You’re welcome,” Carlotta said, feeling guilty as hel as
she took the slip of paper.
When their hands brushed, a strange look crossed the
woman’s face. She clasped Carlotta’s hand. “Wait.”
From the sharp tone in the woman’s voice, alarm blipped
through Carlotta’s chest. “What is it?”
The woman had turned Carlotta’s hand palm up and was
studying it, a crease between her perfectly arched brows.
Carlotta glanced at Hannah, who only shrugged. After a
few awkward seconds had passed, the woman looked up.
“I don’t mean to worry you,” she said quietly, “but you are
facing danger.”
Carlotta squirmed. “Why would you say that?”
The woman’s cheeks turned pink. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I
have a gift…for seeing things. When I touched your hand, I
felt danger. Do you have a big, strong man in your life to
protect you?”
Hannah snorted. “No.”
Carlotta nervously withdrew her hand. “We’d better be
going, Hannah.”
The woman smiled. “My name is Amy, Amy Lin. I didn’t
mean to scare you, but please be careful.”
Carlotta studied the woman’s body language for some sign
of a con or impending sales pitch. Instead, Amy Lin’s eyes
burned with sincerity and…concern.
Without responding, Carlotta backed away and left the
store, with Hannah at her heels like an excited puppy. “Oh
my God, that was a psychic moment!”
“I don’t believe in psychics,” Carlotta said as she climbed
into the van.
Hannah catapulted herself into the seat and slammed her
door. “Wel , I do, and I’ve always wanted something like
that to happen to me.”
“If it makes you feel better, I wish it had happened to you,
too. That kind of stuff is wasted on me.”
“I wonder what she meant by you facing danger?” Hannah
bounced in the vinyl bench seat. “Ooh, ooh—maybe Peter
Ashford is the danger, and you need someone to protect
you from him.”
Carlotta sighed, exasperated. “It doesn’t mean anything,