before that?"
"Not stories," Esperanza corrected. "Mentions. Her name was almost always preceded by "Hosting the event was" or "Attendees included" or "Pictured from right to left are." "
Myron nodded. "Were these in some kind of column or general articles or what?"
"The Jersey Ledger used to have a social column. It was called "Social Soirees"."
"Catchy." But Myron remembered the column vaguely from his childhood. His mother used to skim it, checking out the boldface names for a familiar one. Mom had even been listed once, referred to as "prominent local attorney Ellen Bolitar." That was how she wanted to be addressed for the next week. Myron would yell down, "Hey, Mom!" and she would reply, "That's Prominent Local Attorney Ellen Bolitar to you, Mr. Smarty Pants."
"Who wrote the column?" Myron asked.
Esperanza handed him a sheet of paper. There was a head shot of a pretty woman with an overstylized helmet of hair, a la Lady Bird Johnson. Her name was Deborah Whittaker.
"Think we can get an address on her?"
Esperanza nodded. "Shouldn't take long."
They looked at each other for a long moment. Esperanza's deadline hung over them like a reaper's scythe.
Myron said, "I can't imagine you not in my life."
"Won't happen," Esperanza replied. "No matter what you decide, you'll still be my best friend."
"Partnerships ruin friendships."
"So you tell me."
"So I know." He had avoided this conversation long enough. To use basketball vernacular, he had gone into four corners, but the twenty-four-second clock had run down. He could no longer delay the inevitable in the hope that the inevitable would somehow turn to smoke and vanish in the air. "My father and my uncle tried it. They ended up not talking to each other for four years."
She nodded. "I know."
"Even now their relationship is not what it was. It never will be. I know literally dozens of families and friends - good people, Esperanza - who tried partnerships like this. I don't know one case where it worked in the long run. Not one. Brother against brother. Daughter against father. Best friend against best friend. Money does funny things to people."
Esperanza nodded again.
"Our friendship could survive anything," Myron said, "but I'm not sure it can survive a partnership."
Esperanza stood again. "I'll get you an address on Deborah Whittaker," she said. "It shouldn't take long."
"Thanks."
"And I'll give you three weeks for the transition. Will that be long enough?"
Myron nodded, his throat dry. He wanted to say something more, but whatever came to mind was even more inane than what preceded it.
The intercom buzzed. Esperanza left the room. Myron hit the button.
"Yes?"
Big Cyndi said, "The Seattle Times on line one."
Chapter 25
The Inglemoore Convalescent Home was painted bright yellow and cheerfully maintained and colorfully landscaped and still looked like a place you went to die.
The inner lobby had a rainbow on one wall. The furniture was happy and functional. Nothing too plush. Didn't want the patrons having trouble getting out of chairs. A table in the room's center had a huge arrangement of freshly cut roses. The roses were bright red and strikingly beautiful and would die in a day or two.
Myron took a deep breath. Settle, boy, settle.
The place had a heavy cherry smell like one of those dangling tree-shaped car fresheners. A woman dressed in slacks and a blouse - what you'd call "nice casual" -greeted him. She was in her early thirties and smiled with the genuine warmth of a Stepford Wife.
"I'm here to see Deborah Whittaker."
"Of course," she said. "I think Deborah is in the rec room. I'm Gayle. I'll take you."
Deborah. Gayle. Everyone was a first name. There was probably a Dr. Bob on the premises. They headed down a corridor lined with festive murals. The floors sparkled, but Myron could still make out fresh wheelchair streaks. Everyone on staff had the same fake smile. Part of the training, Myron supposed. All of them -orderlies, nurses, whatever - were dressed in civilian clothes. No one wore a stethoscope or beeper or name tag or anything that implied anything medical. All buddies here at Inglemoore.
Gayle and Myron entered the rec room. Unused Ping-Pong tables. Unused pool tables. Unused card tables. Oft-used television.
"Please sit down," Gayle said. "Becky and Deborah will be with you momentarily."
"Becky?" Myron asked.
Again the smile. "Becky is Deborah's friend."
"I see."
Myron was left alone with six old people, five of whom were women. No sexism in longevity. They were neatly attired, the sole man in a tie even, and all were in