couples who had spoken to Aubrey while he and I were in line at the movies. They gave me a smile and wave, and huddled to talk to the man and woman with whom I’d been sharing a pew. After that, I was beamed on even more radiantly, and the movie couple introduced me to the pew couple, who asked me about twenty questions as rapidly as they could so they’d have the whole scoop on the pastor’s honey. I felt like I was flying under false colors—we’d only had one date. I began to wish I hadn’t come, but ~ 110 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
Aubrey’d asked me, and I had enjoyed the service. It seemed now I had to pay for it, since there was no quick exit. The crowd had bottlenecked around the church door, shaking hands and exchanging small talk with Aubrey.
“What a good sermon,” I told him warmly, when it was finally my turn. My hand was taken in both of his for a moment, pressed and released. A smooth gesture, in one quick turn showing me I was special, yet not presuming too much.
“Thanks, and thanks for coming,” he said. “If you’re going to be home this afternoon, I’ll give you a call.”
“If I’m not there, just leave a message on my ma- chine and I’ll call you back. I may have to go over to the house.”
He understood I meant Jane’s house, and nodded, turning to the old lady behind me in line with a happy “Hi, Laura! How’s the arthritis?”
Leaving the church parking lot, I felt a distinct let- down. I guess I had hoped Aubrey would ask me to Sunday lunch, a big social event in Lawrenceton. My mother always had me over to lunch when she was home, and I wondered, not for the first time, if she’d still want me to come over when she and John Queens- land got back from their honeymoon. John belonged ~ 111 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
to the country club. He might want to take Mother out there.
I was so dismal by the time I unlocked my back door that I was actually glad to see the message light blinking on the answering machine.
“Hi, Roe. It’s Sally Allison. Long time no see, kiddo! Listen, what’s this I hear about you inheriting a fortune? Come have lunch with me today if this catches you in time, or give me a call when you can, we’ll set up a time.”
I opened the phone book to the A ’s, looked up Sally’s number, and punched the right buttons. “Hello!”
“Sally, I just got your message.”
“Great! You free for lunch since your mom is still out of town?”
Sally knew everything .
“Well, yes, I am. What do you have in mind?” “Oh, come on over here. Out of sheer boredom, I have cooked a roast and baked potatoes and made a salad. I want to share it with someone.” Sally was a woman on her own, like me. But she was divorced, and a good fifteen years older. “Be there in twenty minutes, I need to change. My feet are killing me.”
~ 112 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
“Well, wear whatever you see when you open your closet. I have on my oldest shorts.”
“Okay, bye.”
I shucked off the blue and white dress and those painful sandals. I pulled on olive drab shorts and a jungle print blouse and my huaraches and pounded back down the stairs. I made it to Sally’s in the twenty minutes.
Sally is a newspaper reporter, the veteran of an early runaway marriage that left her with a son to raise and a reputation to make. She was a good re- porter, and she’d hoped (a little over a year ago) that reporting the multiple murders in Lawrenceton would net her a better job offer from Atlanta; but it hadn’t happened. Sally was insatiably curious and knew every- one in town, and everyone knew that, to get the straight story on anything, Sally was the person to see. We’d had our ups and downs as friends, the ups having been when we were both members of Real Murders, the downs having mostly been at the same time Sally was trying to make a national, or at least regional, name for herself. She’d sacrificed a lot in that bid for a life in the bigger picture, and, when the bid hadn’t been ~ 113 ~
~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
Aubrey’d asked me, and I had enjoyed the service. It seemed now I had to pay for it, since there was no quick exit. The crowd had bottlenecked around the church door, shaking hands and exchanging small talk with Aubrey.
“What a good sermon,” I told him warmly, when it was finally my turn. My hand was taken in both of his for a moment, pressed and released. A smooth gesture, in one quick turn showing me I was special, yet not presuming too much.
“Thanks, and thanks for coming,” he said. “If you’re going to be home this afternoon, I’ll give you a call.”
“If I’m not there, just leave a message on my ma- chine and I’ll call you back. I may have to go over to the house.”
He understood I meant Jane’s house, and nodded, turning to the old lady behind me in line with a happy “Hi, Laura! How’s the arthritis?”
Leaving the church parking lot, I felt a distinct let- down. I guess I had hoped Aubrey would ask me to Sunday lunch, a big social event in Lawrenceton. My mother always had me over to lunch when she was home, and I wondered, not for the first time, if she’d still want me to come over when she and John Queens- land got back from their honeymoon. John belonged ~ 111 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
to the country club. He might want to take Mother out there.
I was so dismal by the time I unlocked my back door that I was actually glad to see the message light blinking on the answering machine.
“Hi, Roe. It’s Sally Allison. Long time no see, kiddo! Listen, what’s this I hear about you inheriting a fortune? Come have lunch with me today if this catches you in time, or give me a call when you can, we’ll set up a time.”
I opened the phone book to the A ’s, looked up Sally’s number, and punched the right buttons. “Hello!”
“Sally, I just got your message.”
“Great! You free for lunch since your mom is still out of town?”
Sally knew everything .
“Well, yes, I am. What do you have in mind?” “Oh, come on over here. Out of sheer boredom, I have cooked a roast and baked potatoes and made a salad. I want to share it with someone.” Sally was a woman on her own, like me. But she was divorced, and a good fifteen years older. “Be there in twenty minutes, I need to change. My feet are killing me.”
~ 112 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
“Well, wear whatever you see when you open your closet. I have on my oldest shorts.”
“Okay, bye.”
I shucked off the blue and white dress and those painful sandals. I pulled on olive drab shorts and a jungle print blouse and my huaraches and pounded back down the stairs. I made it to Sally’s in the twenty minutes.
Sally is a newspaper reporter, the veteran of an early runaway marriage that left her with a son to raise and a reputation to make. She was a good re- porter, and she’d hoped (a little over a year ago) that reporting the multiple murders in Lawrenceton would net her a better job offer from Atlanta; but it hadn’t happened. Sally was insatiably curious and knew every- one in town, and everyone knew that, to get the straight story on anything, Sally was the person to see. We’d had our ups and downs as friends, the ups having been when we were both members of Real Murders, the downs having mostly been at the same time Sally was trying to make a national, or at least regional, name for herself. She’d sacrificed a lot in that bid for a life in the bigger picture, and, when the bid hadn’t been ~ 113 ~
~
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