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“I’m not being sarcastic. Their relationship reflects an archaic attitude.”
“Not to Mrs. Pettijohn. I’m sure not to Sarah Birch, either. They’re devoted to one another.”
“As long as Miss Davee is boss.”
He shook his head. “You’d have had to grow up here to understand.”
“Thank God I didn’t. In the Midwest—”
“Where people are more enlightened and all men are created equal?”
“You said it, Smilow, not me.”
“Not just sarcastic, but condescending and self-righteous, too. If you have so much bloody scorn for us and what you perceive to be our archaic attitudes, why’d you move down here?”
“For the opportunity it afforded.”
“To right all our wrongs? To enlighten us poor, backward-thinking southern folk?”
She scowled at him.
“Or do you find our way of life enviable?” Further baiting her, he added, “Are you sure you’re not jealous of Davee Pettijohn?”
She mouthed, Fuck you, Smilow.
Then she finished her soft drink and stood up to toss the empty can into a metal trash receptacle. The clatter it made roused everyone in the waiting room except the sleeping woman.
Steffi said, “I can hardly stomach women like Davee Pettijohn. That all too obvious southern belle affectation of hers makes me want to throw up.”
He motioned her toward the door. They stepped out into the warm, humid
air. The eastern sky was turning a grayish pink, harbinger of dawn. Upon reflection he said, “I’ll grant you that Mrs. Pettijohn has it down to an art.”
“What I’m thinking is that she’s artful enough to use it to get away with murder.”
“You’ve got a cold heart, Steffi.”
“You’re a fine one to talk. If you were an Indian your name would be Ice Flows in Veins.”
“True enough,” he said, taking no offense. “But I’m not so sure about you.”
She had reached the driver’s door, but didn’t get in. Instead she paused and looked at him across the roof of her car. “What about me?”
“No one questions your ambition, Steffi. But I’ve heard that work isn’t all that’s keeping your blood hot these days.”
“What have you heard?”
“Rumors,” he said.
“What kind of rumors?”
Smiling his chilly smile, he said again, “Just rumors.”
* * *
Loretta Boothe raised her head from her sagging position and watched Rory Smilow and Stefanie Mundell make their way across the parking lot to a car where they paused to chat before getting in and driving away.
They had entered the emergency room with a burst of energy and purpose, which Loretta knew both possessed in abundance. They seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the atmosphere. She disliked them equally. But for different reasons.
