She stumbled through the final verse, her voice faint and quavering.
At last, they were dismissed. Mary dashed down to the choir room, the two flights of spiral stairs making her dizzy.
Claudia hung back at the door and snickered as Mary passed her. “Someone isn’t ready for a solo.”
No, someone wasn’t. Someone never wanted it in the first place. Mary ripped off her choir robe and almost lost her balance.
“Steady there.” Edith braced her. “Mary, dear. Are you all right?”
Overcome by the compassion in the ancient gray eyes, Mary shook her head, her mouth screwed shut.
“You don’t look well. Your cheeks are too red, your eyes bleary.” Bertha pressed her hand to Mary’s forehead. “Land sakes, you’re burning up.”
“I am?” Mary felt her own forehead. It was indeed warm. “My roommate’s had the flu.”
“Go straight home, young lady, and put yourself to bed.”
As much as Mary would like that, she couldn’t. “I have to wait for Quintessa. She’d wonder where I went.”
“I see your young Navy friends are back. Such a shame you’re sick.”
“Yes. Such.” But a smile edged up. Now she had a legitimate excuse to skip lunch and the afternoon excursion she’d dreaded all night.
Mary headed out to the sidewalk. A friendly greeting, a quick explanation, and a polite good-bye. That was all. She could do it.
Quintessa waited, one hand wrapped around Jim’s elbow, the other stretched to Mary. “There you are.”
Mary held up one hand. “I caught Yvette’s flu, I’m afraid.”
Quintessa stopped short. “Oh, you poor dear.”
“Sorry you’re not feeling well.” The coolness of Jim’s voice should have felt like a balm to her fever, but it pricked her soul.
Mary worked up a cheery smile and turned to Arch. “I’m afraid that means I’ll have to abandon you to third-wheel status. I should go home.”
“I’ll go with you.” Quintessa dropped Jim’s arm and stepped closer. “You’ve been fussing over Yvette all week, and now it’s your turn to be fussed over.”
“Nonsense.” Mary eased back. “You told me Jim won’t be in town long, so you should enjoy every minute together. You certainly don’t want to get sick.”
“No, I don’t.” Quintessa embraced Jim’s arm and gazed up at him.
Now Mary really did feel sick. She turned for the Park Street subway station. “I’ll see you later, Quintessa. Have fun, everyone.”
“Hope you feel better,” Arch called after her.
Highly unlikely. Even chicken soup and hot tea couldn’t cure her.
In the length of the train ride home, Mary’s symptoms deepened and clarified. Every muscle ached, her face flamed, and her head felt stuffed full of wool. She longed to shed her heavy new coat—a dark, showy red. With a matching hat. She should shove them both in the nearest Salvation Army bin and retreat to safe, modest brown.
She huddled by the window, her cheek pressed to the cool glass. Should she even continue with the investigation? She was bound to stir up more trouble. Bound to.
But the work satisfied her and would distract her from Jim. This flu would keep her home from work all week. If she didn’t have anything to do, she’d go crazy. She could type up her remaining notes and organize her notebooks filled with all the carbon copies she’d kept.
Perhaps new patterns would emerge, new clues, new directions. Or perhaps she’d see the folly of her ways and give it up for good. Either way, she had a purpose.
Mary got off the El at the City Square Station. Breed’s Hill rose high and formidable before her, although she climbed it every day. She trudged up Main Street, light-headed. Before she tucked herself into bed, she needed aspirin and Yvette needed more cough syrup. They were out of both.
Maybe Quintessa would get sick too. Wouldn’t that be nice?
