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Beverly thinks that Bedelia Du Maurier is someone she’ll never really get used to. She’s a blank slate, a beautiful glass chandelier, something lovely and austere and completely untouchable, and all Beverly wants to do is touch.
“You know I have a schedule today,” Bedelia says easily, that tone of hers veering towards curt as she buttons her cashmere coat from the bottom up. “If I could stay in bed all day with you, you know I would.”
Beverly is still seated in the breakfast nook, one leg curled beneath her body, tongue curled around her yogurt spoon. Bedelia is in all her regalia, out to meet a mysterious former client at a mysterious location that Beverly will ascertain later, and Beverly is in her underwear and tank top, the morning paper spread out on the table.
“I suppose Jack Crawford has plans enough for you this morning,” Beverly says, just as crisp and neat as before. She wraps a blood-red wool scarf around her pale neck. “Unless you’ve turned off your phone.”
Beverly arches an eyebrow, watching Bedelia dress for the winter weather. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”
Bedelia spares her a withering glance as she slides a pair of dark leather gloves over her hands. The go on like butter, obviously lined in some sort of fur. Beverly thinks of the sterile snap of latex gloves over her own fingers. A study in contrasts.
Beverly could kiss her goodbye, but instead, she watches, planning her next move.