Unformatted text preview: w. Michael wouldn't swim in it ever again. He'd said so. Well, come St. Patrick's Day, whatever the temper- ature, there would probably be a hundred Mayfair kids in there. So best to leave the heat on. She followed the terrace to the far end, near the cabana, where they'd found the blood in the snow, which meant that a fight had taken place. All clean now and swept, with only a little sprinkling of leaves. The garden was still down a bit from the snows of this mad winter, so unusual for New Orleans, but due to the warmth of the last week, the four-o'clocks had come back and she could smell them, and see their tiny little blooms in the dark. Hard to imagine all this covered with snow and blood, and Michael Curry floating under the surface of the water, face bleeding and bruised, heart stopped. Then another scent caught her-that same strange smell she'd picked up earlier in the hallway of the house and in the front parlor where the Chinese rug used to be. It was faint but it was here all right. When she drew near the balustrade...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10