Lorna looked like some of the earlier pictures of her mother—broad-shouldered and thick-waisted with an impressively large head. But while Pauline had gone for the bouffant hairstyles of the 1960s, usually colored with flat brown, do-it-yourself dyes, Lorna had her graying hair cut into a mannish bob, parted on one side and close-cropped in the back. She had big square eyeglasses she was in the habit of yanking off her face and staring at, as if to say, “How did those get there?”

The house had been redecorated since Desmond’s last visit. Lorna’s youngest daughter had started up an interior decorating business in Pensacola and had used Lorna’s house as a testing ground and showroom. The living room was a mad, overgrown garden of floral chintz slipcovers, floral curtains, floral swags over the window frames and doors, and big, ceramic vases stuffed with silk peonies and roses and lilacs and magnolias and irises. There were so many clashing patterns and colors, the overall effect was similar to one of those op art pieces so popular during the LSD craze of the 1960s.

“I love what she did in here,” Desmond said, trying to focus his eyes.

“Yes,” Lorna barked. “It’s very feminine.”

“I see you’ve moved your collection of memorabilia,” he said.

“It clashed with the new decor, so we stuck it out here.” She led them out to a glassed-in sunporch on the side of the house. There was a ceiling fan spinning at the far end, but with the windows cranked shut and the sun beating on the roof, the room must have been over a hundred degrees. Two long tables were set up under the windows along one wall, and on them, Lorna had stacked up, in no discernible order, album covers, newspaper clippings, photo albums, and plastic bags of Pauline Anderton’s stage outfits. Desmond stood in the intense heat, gazing down at the collection. Much of it had been bleached or rotted by the sun, some of the dresses appeared to have mildew stains on them, and everything was covered with dust. Even if there was something marginally appropriate about it, it was still heartbreaking.

Lorna must have been able to read the disapproval on Desmond’s face. “My mother wasn’t the least bit sentimental about her career or anything else,” she said, enunciating every word with her careful, schoolteacher diction. “‘Hit the high C and get the hell out of there.’ That was one of her mottos. She wouldn’t approve of me keeping any of this stuff in the first place, so I’m not worried she wouldn’t approve if some of it is getting a little worn. It isn’t a museum, you know.”