“But what? Out with it.”

“I will never think of her as Mrs. Leon Greene.”

“So, you’re still smarting on behalf of Julia.”

“I suppose I am,” I said, remembering seeing Denise Dell in the Summit Drive breakfast room just days after we had buried Julia Greene. “Julia shouldn’t have died all alone in a foreign country while Denise lived in her house and slept with her husband. I can’t forgive him for that,” I said, even though I knew Julia had forgiven him—a fact I had never parted with, not even to Irene or Jonathan. I kept Julia’s letter in a desk drawer.

“Forgiveness works both ways. What if Leon reads these scripts and guesses what you’re up to, and he never forgives you?”

I thought about how Leon had declared Julia’s gift to the NAACP a betrayal, every bit as bad as adultery. An unforgivable betrayal. I said with false insouciance, “It’ll be a test for him, won’t it? If he truly hates anything with the tiniest Communist tinge, he’ll turn them down no matter what, even if they are perfect for Denise. When I was reading them last night, I could see her in these roles. She’s no Bette Davis. Bette Davis can do anything, but Denise can deliver a comic line.”

“Love or patriotism. You’d make Leon choose. His wife or his principles.”

I shrugged. “Life is full of choices.”

“You are tempting fate.”

“My middle name.”

“It’s too much to risk. What about Max?”

“What about him? He’s still in Mexico as far as anyone knows.”

She stubbed her cigarette out with more energy than the act required. “I want to go on record that in my opinion this is a reckless act.”

“Not my first.”

“And, no doubt, not your last.” She went back to typing so I knew she was sulking. I sorted through the mail till she finally spoke again. “Who will you ask to front for Max?”

“Charlie. He’d be grateful. He can be trusted.”

“He can be trusted because you’re sleeping with him?”

“That has nothing to do with it. No one else will know.”

“What about your pal Jonathan Moore? You and he are thick as thieves. He’s a bad influence. All those wild parties where people drink too much and dance around bonfires and take off their clothes. Everyone in this town knows about Casa Fiesta. The FBI could hang out there and—”

“The FBI at Casa Fiesta?” I laughed. “Those grim middle-aged men in their sweaty suits driving gray sedans? Not likely they could infiltrate Casa Fiesta. Besides, I won’t tell Jonathan, or anyone else. This stays strictly within these walls.”

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