A gentle breeze carried the scent of spring blossoms and stirred the fresh green leaves overhead as she arrived at Frederick and Vera’s. Rosemary adjusted her cardigan as she approached the Georgian facade with its clean stonework and a front garden that favored charm over fuss.
Without bothering to knock, Rosemary let herself in the front door and closed it behind her before letting Dash loose from his lead. Into the parlor he raced with a short yip of pure joy, and while Rosemary stowed her cardigan and his lead in the coat cupboard, Vera’s voice echoed from within.
“You’re late,” she called, an unusually sharp edge to her tone that immediately put Rosemary on alert.
Vera sounded tired, a state Rosemary had, throughout their lifelong friendship, rarely witnessed. Full of vim and vigor, Vera was the sort of person who could attend three parties in one evening and still have energy for a nightcap. But recently, that had all changed, and not merely due to her delicate condition.
Not that anyone could tell from looking at her, Rosemary thought as she rounded the corner and took in her sister-in-law’s appearance. At least, not from the waist up. Jet black hair perfectly coiffed in finger waves that would have taken at least an hour to achieve, makeup flawless despite the afternoon hour, Vera perched on the edge of a velvet settee in the same jade green as her eyes as if posing for a photograph in a home and garden magazine.
If, that is, the visage of a woman well into her second trimester of pregnancy were considered appropriate for such a publication—which, naturally, it was not.
The telltale signs of discomfort were there only for those who knew where to look. Rosemary could tell by the ramrod-straight set of Vera’s shoulders that she was attempting to alleviate pressure on her ribs, and the hint of tension around her carefully painted lips suggested that behind them, her teeth were gritted against some unpleasantness.
“The baby still hasn’t dropped?” Rosemary asked with genuine sympathy, settling down next to her friend.
“No,” came Vera’s icy reply, delivered with the sort of venom usually reserved for critics who panned her performances. “He has not. And will, I suspect, be a carbon copy of his father with the most infuriating habits. Either that, or I’m carrying the spawn of Satan himself. I’m not entirely certain which would be worse, but I’m positive no little girl would torment her loving mother quite so thoroughly.”
The baby’s apparent refusal to descend from its preferred spot beneath Vera’s ribs likely had little to do with malevolence or gender, but Rosemary wasn’t foolish enough to contradict a pregnant woman in distress and merely nodded sympathetically.
“I can’t draw a proper breath whether sitting, standing, or lying down, and what’s worse,” Vera continued, rising with obvious effort and spreading her arms out wide, “I look like a stuffed sausage wrapped in silk.”
“You do not,” Rosemary countered. “You look more beautiful than the Madonna herself.”
But Vera waved the compliment away. “The way I am carrying makes it quite difficult to tell I’m with child. Every time I encounter someone who doesn’t already know about my condition, they eye me with barely concealed speculation, trying to determine whether I’ve simply been overindulging at table or if there’s some other explanation for my expanding waistline.”
She sat back down with an indignant huff, immediately resuming the restless shifting that had become her constant companion—crossing and uncrossing her legs, adjusting cushions, searching for the comfortable position that remained perpetually elusive.
“Didn’t the doctor say the best thing you could do was walk about?” Rosemary suggested gently. “Perhaps our planned excursion to the park will dislodge the little tyrant and convince him to assume a more cooperative position.”
Vera couldn’t completely suppress a smile at that characterization, but it vanished as quickly as it had arrived. “I’d give my right arm for a good, strong G&T right about now, but even the smell of juniper makes my stomach turn something dreadful. I’ve made poor Freddie relocate all our spirits to his study—it looks like a bootlegger’s secret cache in there now, bottles hidden behind law books and filing cabinets. But at least I can manage to keep my dinner down these days.”
“And how is my dear brother faring through all this domestic upheaval? I feel as though I’ve hardly seen him since the Christmas holidays.”
The question prompted another crinkle of Vera’s carefully powdered forehead, which in turn caused Rosemary’s own brow to furrow with concern. Before she could probe deeper into what was obviously a sensitive subject, Frederick’s head appeared around the door frame like a cautious turtle emerging from its shell, his blue eyes searching and finding his sister.
“I’ve been working, sister dear,” he announced with perhaps a touch too much brightness, entering the room properly to kiss Rosemary on the cheek. The greeting was warm enough, but she noticed he approached his wife with a certain wariness, as though testing the atmospheric pressure before attempting affection.
Rather than lean into her husband’s embrace as she normally would, Vera remained rigidly upright and turned her carefully painted lips into a pronounced frown.
“He’s always either buried in his study working on mysterious ‘projects’ or off gallivanting at that club of his,” Vera said, managing to make the word ‘club’ sound like something one might scrape off the bottom of one’s shoe. “I barely see him from one day to the next, and when I do, he’s distracted and secretive.”
Frederick’s expression grew pained as he ran his hand through curls already unruly for that exact reason. “It can’t be helped, my love, as I’ve explained repeatedly. There are certain obligations—”
“But what about when the baby arrives?” Vera’s voice rose slightly, taking on the sort of dramatic projection that served her well on stage but was rather overwhelming in a domestic setting. “I most certainly did not sign up to manage motherhood entirely on my own, Frederick Woolridge. When I agreed to marry you, I was under the distinct impression I was wedding a gentleman of leisure, not someone who would become a slave to mysterious paperwork and secret meetings!”
For anyone to characterize her previously mischievous and fun-seeking brother as a slave to anything more demanding than his tailor’s fitting schedule would have left Rosemary flummoxed not much more than a year ago. Frederick had always been the sort of man who considered a full social calendar far preferable than any proper employment. That he was now apparently burning the midnight oil over business matters struck her as entirely out of character, and it occurred to her once more just how dramatically circumstances could shift when one wasn’t paying proper attention.
“I’m hardly chained to my desk, darling,” Frederick protested with the air of a man who had made this argument before and suspected he was fighting a losing battle. “And you’re off to the theater regardless. We’ll have a nice dinner together when you’ve returned. I just need to finish sorting through some preparations in my—” The words caught abruptly, and he seemed to reconsider his phrasing. “Some correspondence.”
With that rather unsatisfying explanation, he made what could only be described as a strategic retreat towards his study, pausing to ruffle Dash’s ears. The little dog fell into step behind him like a furry shadow and disappeared down the corridor.
“You see?” Vera gestured towards the doorway through which her husband had just escaped. “He’s been holed up in there every single evening this week, emerging only for meals and the occasional guilty kiss. As if he isn’t absent enough during normal working hours.” She stared after him for a long moment, her expression cycling through irritation, hurt, and something that might have been genuine worry before she shook her head as if to clear an unpleasant thought.
“Listen to me,” she said, turning back to Rosemary with a self-deprecating laugh, “obsessing over the whereabouts and activities of my own husband like some sort of suspicious fishwife. There’s a sentence I never imagined I’d utter, for multiple reasons. Tell me honestly, Rosie—am I losing what’s left of my mind?”
Rosemary considered the question with the gravity it deserved. “Yes, I’m afraid so, but you’re in excellent company. Every woman who’s ever carried a child has temporarily misplaced her sanity. It’s practically a requirement of the condition, from what I understand.”
“How reassuring,” Vera replied dryly, though her mood lightened fractionally. “I shall blame everything on the baby’s malevolent influence and absolve myself of all responsibility for unreasonable behavior. It’s the baby’s fault I’m suspicious, the baby’s fault I’m uncomfortable, and certainly the baby’s fault that I’ve developed this inexplicable craving for pickled herring at the most inappropriate hours.”
“A perfectly sound strategy,” Rosemary agreed. “But enough wallowing in pregnancy-induced paranoia. Tell me about your plans for this afternoon while I explain what detained me during my walk.”
She reached into her handbag and produced Eva’s decorative tin, presenting it with a small flourish. “My new neighbor insisted I bring these for you. Eva Hanson Schweitzer—decidedly eccentric but possessed of genuine kindness and uncommonly good judgment regarding people’s characters.”
Vera’s eyes immediately brightened at the prospect of unexpected treats, her condition having amplified her already considerable appreciation for well-prepared food. She opened the tin with the reverence of someone unveiling a precious artifact and immediately selected one of the golden biscuits within.
“These are absolutely divine,” she declared after the first bite, closing her eyes in obvious pleasure. “What manner of eccentricity are we discussing? The harmless sort who collects ceramic figurines, or the more interesting variety who reads tea leaves and predicts doom?”
“The variety who invites perfect strangers in for tea and proceeds to analyze their character with disturbing accuracy,” Rosemary explained, settling more comfortably into the chair opposite Vera’s settee. “She had a visitor while I was there—the neighborhood tax assessor, of all people. A nervous, superstitious fellow named Pembridge who’s been receiving anonymous threatening letters.”
“Threatening letters?” Vera paused mid-chew, her theatrical instincts immediately piqued by the hint of drama. “How deliciously mysterious. What sort of threats? Promises of violent retribution? Demands for money? Vows of supernatural vengeance?”
“Nothing quite so melodramatic, though the language was interesting—very theatrical, actually. And Mr. Pembridge is convinced it’s all tied to today being Friday the thirteenth. The poor man was clutching a rabbit’s foot like a lifeline and knocking on wood at every opportunity.”
Vera waved dismissively, her mouth occupied with another biscuit. “Complete hogwash,” she managed after swallowing. “All of it—the superstitious nonsense, the dramatic language, the supposed significance of threatening letters arriving on Friday the thirteenth. As if the universe maintains some sort of cosmic calendar and arranges misfortune according to arbitrary dates. People who genuinely believe in such silly superstitions are fundamentally weak-minded, in my opinion.”
“That’s rather rich coming from someone I’ve personally witnessed crossing her fingers for luck before every single performance,” Rosemary pointed out with considerable amusement. “And let’s not forget your insistence that everyone in the company tell you to ‘break a leg’ rather than wish you well directly.”
“That’s entirely different,” Vera countered, reaching for yet another biscuit with the determination of someone making an important point. “Those traditions shouldn’t be taken literally, any more than one would interpret proverbs as absolute truth. They’re simply routines and rituals that help actors mentally prepare for performance. It’s about creating the proper psychological state, not truly believing that spoken words can influence cosmic forces. Some actors are genuinely invested in the mystical aspects, I’ll grant you, but for most of us, it’s merely—”
The crash that interrupted her explanation was spectacular enough to make them both jump. An ornate gilt mirror that had hung above the mantelpiece—a wedding gift from Vera’s great-aunt, if Rosemary remembered correctly—now lay in thousands of glittering fragments scattered across the hardwood floor like fallen stars.
The silence that followed was profound enough to hear the ticking of the mantel clock and Dash’s distant barking from Frederick’s study.
“Well,” Vera said finally, her voice carefully modulated to betray no emotion whatsoever. “That was… remarkably unfortunate timing.”
Rosemary pressed her lips together firmly, marshaling every ounce of self-control to suppress the laugh that threatened to escape. The cosmic irony of the situation was simply too perfect.
“Don’t you dare,” Vera warned, her tone carrying genuine menace. “Don’t you dare mention seven years of bad luck or suggest this has anything whatsoever to do with supernatural forces expressing their displeasure with my skepticism.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Rosemary replied solemnly, though her eyes sparkled with mirth. “The nail must have been loose. These old houses settle, after all, and mirrors are quite heavy.”
“Everything all right in there?” Frederick’s voice carried from his study, accompanied by the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Perfectly fine!” Vera called back with aggressive cheerfulness. “Just a minor domestic mishap, nothing that requires masculine intervention!”
She stood with obvious determination, surveying the glittering chaos with the air of someone preparing for battle. “I’ll clean this up immediately. Can’t have broken glass lying about where someone might step on it.”
Rosemary moved to assist, but Frederick emerged from the corridor before she could do more than locate the dustpan from its position beside the fireplace tools. Dash bounded after him with characteristic enthusiasm but stopped short when he spotted the shattered mirror, his canine instincts apparently warning him away from the sparkling debris.
“Careful there, old boy.” Frederick scooped up the dog before he could decide to investigate the interesting new development any further and surveyed the destruction, his expression dancing with barely-concealed amusement.
“Having a spot of bad luck, darling?”
The cushion Vera hurled at his head would certainly have found its mark if Frederick hadn’t possessed the reflexes developed through years of dodging various projectiles launched by the woman who finally became his dramatic wife. He ducked smoothly, his laughter filling the room as he handed Dash to Rosemary for safekeeping.
“I suppose I deserved that,” he admitted, retrieving the dustpan and beginning to sweep up the larger fragments with practiced efficiency. “Though I notice you didn’t deny the bad luck assessment.”
“The mirror fell because the nail was loose,” Vera declared with the sort of lofty finality usually reserved for closing arguments in murder trials. “Any other explanation is complete rubbish, and I won’t hear suggestions to the contrary.”
Frederick’s expression softened as he worked, and he glanced up at his wife with genuine affection. “Didn’t you mention wanting to arrive at the park early this evening? Something about seeing some of your theater colleagues before the performance?”
The reminder seemed to improve Vera’s mood considerably.
“I did indeed,” she confirmed, her irritation beginning to ebb. “Several of the cast members planned to gather beforehand to socialize and compare notes before the performance, and I promised to make an appearance despite my current ungainly condition.”
“Then you should go and enjoy yourself,” Frederick encouraged, continuing to collect mirror fragments with methodical care. “I’ll take care of this mess and anything else that needs attention. You run along and perhaps the fresh air will persuade our stubborn offspring to reconsider his current arrangements.”
Vera’s expression softened completely at this demonstration of husbandly consideration. She approached Frederick carefully, mindful of the broken glass, and kissed him with obvious warmth.
“You’re forgiven for the bad luck comment,” she informed him regally. “This time.”
“Your mercy knows no bounds.” Frederick’s eyes twinkled with suppressed laughter.
“Come along then, Rosie,” Vera said, gathering her handbag. “Let’s see if a stroll through the park can improve both my disposition and this baby’s sense of timing. And perhaps we’ll encounter some of your mysterious neighbors along the way—I’m quite curious to meet this observant Eva and her superstitious tax assessor.”
“Dash!” Rosemary called.
Frederick glanced at the hearthrug, where the little dog had curled himself into a tight ball. “I wouldn’t bother. He looks quite tuckered out.”
Rosemary eyed him skeptically. “Or he knows you always have something for him to nibble.”
Frederick chuckled. “That too. He can stay behind.”
Indeed, Dash had made himself comfortable on the hearthrug and showed no inclination to move, apparently content to supervise Frederick’s domestic efforts from his cozy position.
“Of course,” Rosemary replied, giving the little dog an affectionate pat. “Enjoy your afternoon with Uncle Frederick, you lazy thing.”
