Free Magnolia City by Duncan W. Alderson Page B

want her when he found out what was behind the postigos?
    Would Garret?
    Would any man?

Chapter 3
    H etty had underestimated the difficulty of dating two men at the same time. She’d seen it merely as a matter of logistics, making sure they didn’t show up in the Warwick lobby on the same night, avoiding the least mention of one to the other, storing each in different compartments of her mind. She trusted in the Darwinism of desire: The one most suited to be her mate would eventually prevail through the rituals of courting. As the female in her season, all Hetty had to do was wait for a sign, a scent, a flash of bright plumage, and she would know. He’s the one. She couldn’t let tribal customs cloud her judgment, doing her best to ignore the drumbeats of gossip her dating life was stirring up in the distance. “You should hear what the old ladies are saying about you,” Wini reported with glee. “I won’t repeat the monikers . . . unless you want me to.” Hetty declined the offer. She’d expected to be misunderstood. What she hadn’t counted on was the inconstancy of her emotions. Biology wasn’t everything. The human heart had four chambers, after all, each one spacious enough to house her passion for the right kind of man.
    Adding to her confusion was the frenzied pace of life in the city that spring. Thanks to businessman Jesse Jones, Houston had won the bid over San Francisco to host the Democratic National Convention in June. As April’s wet nights melted into the humid, radiant mornings of May, it seemed the whole town was under construction. A vast coliseum was being erected that would seat twenty-five thousand cheering, sweating delegates. Contractors were throwing up hotels to house the expected one hundred thousand visitors, outfitting penthouses with palm courts and terraces elegant enough to entertain the most distinguished guests. Streets were closed, traffic a tangle. The ground often shook under Hetty’s feet when she was downtown shopping. Overhead, prop planes buzzed by heading to the new municipal airport.
    Within the secluded niches of No-Tsu-Oh, all was in a flurry. Word got out that only six women would be invited to play hostess at the Hospitality House. Nella was determined to be one of them.
    “I’m just so glad I was never interested in politics,” Hetty overheard her mother telling Lockett one afternoon. “Now I can declare myself a Democrat without feeling hypocritical.”
    “I think we should all strive to be bipartisan at a moment like this,” Lockett answered, then murmured something in a confidential tone.
    Hetty sat at the dining room table eating the ham sandwich Lina had made her for lunch. She looked into the drawing room. She could just make out the profiles of the two women huddled together in the art moderne armchairs. Nella fanned herself with one of the black lace fans that were scattered around the apartment. Lockett’s normally raucous tones had been hushed in order to convey insider information she’d gleaned from her husband, the congressman. There were to be lots of parties, she was telling Nella, but only two were significant: The first was the opening Sunday brunch at the Cupola Club, at which Mrs. Woodrow Wilson would be in attendance. “That’s the one we have to go to. There’s going to be another breakfast for her on the Roof at the Rice, but anyone can go to that by paying a dollar and a half.”
    “How democratic,” Nella said.
    “Exactly. Which is why we want to be at the other one. But”—Lockett leaned forward, panting—“wait till you hear what’s happening later in the week!” She went on to describe the second party, at which attendance would be mandatory for Old Houstonians of any note: a private reception Saturday night at Bayou Bend in River Oaks. Hetty could hear her mother moan in the other room. She knew she’d been itching for an invitation for years now, ever since the estate became one of those magnetic centers to which the