The Cherry Cola Book Club - By Ashton Lee Page 0,48

the always-spotlighted City Hall, eventually entering the oldest residential neighborhood of Cherico. Tree-lined Perry Street was its crown jewel, featuring a good many more restored Queen Anne cottages than Miss Voncille’s fixer-upper on Painter Street on the other side of town. Here was where the Crumpton sisters, Councilman Sparks, and other well-to-do families resided, not necessarily side by side, but well within shouting distance of each other.

“The crepe myrtles are lush this year,” Miss Voncille noted, making small talk during the short drive. “Especially the pink ones. Personally, I prefer the whites. I think they named them after Natchez in the southern part of the state.”

He nodded enthusiastically. “I think I read that somewhere, too. And as you’ll soon see, those are the only kind I have in my yard.”

A minute or so later they had pulled into the driveway of 134 Perry Street, and the front porch lights enabled Miss Voncille to appreciate the sprawling, superbly manicured lawn, dotted with the crepe myrtles Locke had described. She had, in fact, driven the length of Perry Street over the years just to admire its perfection but had never had a reason to pay particularly close attention to Locke Linwood’s house and grounds. She knew only that he and his wife lived there and religiously attended her genealogical lectures at the library, and that was the extent of her interest. Now, however, the ante had been upped, and the time had come for a sincere compliment.

“If your decorating is anything like your landscaping, I know I’m going to love your house,” she said, as he opened the passenger door and helped her out.

“Pamela did all the decorating. Most all the furniture is from her family. She was an Alden from over in the Delta, you know, and they had all that soybean money,” he explained as they headed in. “I just sold life insurance for my keep.”

The living room they entered was as graciously appointed as Miss Voncille envisioned it would be: It included a spotless wool dhurrie on the hardwood floor, a mahogany linen press against one wall, an English bookcase against the other, a Victorian what-not in the corner, and an Oriental ceramic cat lamp on an end table beside a comfortable contemporary sofa. It was both eclectic and elegant, while at the same time calling to mind the museum-like quality that Locke had confessed to previously.

“Your wife had the touch,” Miss Voncille said, her eyes roving around the room in awe. “This is just lovely. Puts my jungle to shame.”

Locke shook his head with authority. “Nonsense. Architectural Digest is not for everyone.” Then he gestured toward the sofa in front of them. “I’ll give you the rest of the tour later. But first, why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll go get us those sherries we talked about?”

While he was gone, Miss Voncille passed the time studying the oil portrait of Pamela hanging beside the bookcase. It had obviously been done when she was very young—perhaps somewhere in her twenties—and it was easy to see why Locke had fallen hard. Here was a gently smiling woman with shoulder-length brunette hair and light brown eyes that suggested a benevolent prescience. They seemed to be looking off in the distance at something wonderful to behold.

“How old was your wife when that was painted?” Miss Voncille asked as soon as Locke had returned and handed over her nightcap.

He settled in beside her and took a sip of his sherry. “That would have been a year or so after we were married, so she was about twenty-five. She wanted one done of me, but I told her I couldn’t sit still long enough. The truth is, I didn’t want anything in the room to distract from her beauty.”

“And nothing does,” Miss Voncille remarked. “She aged very well, too, I always thought. I would never have known that—” She broke off, realizing just in time where she was going.

But Locke rubbed her arm gently as he finished her sentence. “That she was so ill there at the end?”

Miss Voncille sipped her drink and nodded.

“My Pamela was a trooper. She spent a fortune on designer scarves to cover up the chemo, and she did it with the same great style she used throughout this house. She wouldn’t have made her exit any other way.”

He rose from the sofa and headed toward the bookcase, pulling a letter out of a leather-bound journal. “I’d like to take the time to read this out loud to