Cypress and Leroy followed the maitre d’ to a table for four by the windows of one of those restaurants advertised in the “Preferred” section of tourist magazines. What they were doing in a place like this was beyond her. It was just like being on the road, searching for a meal that wasn’t Howard Johnson’s Americana or terribly prepared French cuisine adapted to American tastes, available in the “better” hotels. Cypress kept looking around to see who was going to join them, but all she could set her eyes on was lace: ½ leno alternating with 2/1 leno; allover 2/2 Mexican lace in one, in ivory, natural cotton.

“My oh my, how they want us to know this is frequented by genteel society.” Lace table cloths, lace curtains . . . yes, Cypress checked, lace borders on the napkins. “Oh these poor people,” Cypress thought, “these poor people would never imagine that I grew up in all this goddamned lace. I’ve spent my life getting out of lace-y places.”

And the French accents grated, rather than soothed her. After all, foreign white folks were just as indisposed to the colored as American ones. But foreigners could be more dangerous, if you didn’t understand what they were saying. Yet this was where Leroy’s business was to be made clear to her.

Cypress had, to her mind, dressed for the occasion. Her shoulders lay bare under the thinnest of satin straps; the blouse fell over her bosom, sensually peach. Huge lime flowers that had never been seen on earth spread over the deep blue of her crepe skirt. Her eyes were shaded in greens, her lashes aqua. Lips, blackberry and ripe. Her hair flew about her head in wafts held with ebony combs.

Between nibbles of peppercorn pâté and sips of Charbaut et Fils champagne, she slipped coyly into the role of the Southern belle being courted by a Northern industrialist. Cypress preened, blushed, giggled, and delighted Leroy with her antics: Tallulah at dinner; Zelda after cocktails; Miz Fitzhugh with an aperitif. What held her series of caricatures together was her expert use of a white laced hankie that her mother had given her. This hankie spun in the air, as Leroy and Cypress played damsel and gallant.

Cypress was just about to describe the antics of po’ white trash in Carolina when she noticed the maitre d’ showing a couple to their table. In a grey linen suit and ivory silk blouse with her initials on the collar, the woman carried a bone leather clutch-purse. Her hair was straightened by one of those permanents that never turn back—makeup straight out of Cosmo. The man was in an openweave beige jacket, with a flamingo shirt that opened easily at the neck. His shoulders were broad and highlighted by the startlingly white cravat that fell beneath his lapels. Cypress squirmed, trying not to make a face.