it makes the most unearthly clattering noise.”
She looked up, taking in the two-story Victorian with its gables and turret and white-columned porch. The truth was, for all her complaining, the old place, even with its miles of trim and fussy gingerbread forever in need of paint, was more solid that those spanking-new Mulberry Acres townhouses Sissy had dragged her over to look at the other day, their walls so thin you could hear someone sneeze on the other side.
“I could take a look at that dishwasher for you, if you’d like,” Gabe offered.
“Really, Gabe, you’re far too kind. ...” She paused, thinking, Don’t be a fool, it’d be the perfect excuse to ask him to stay for supper. But what about after that?
Rushing ahead before she could change her mind, she finished, “... but I wouldn’t dream of it. Really, I can have that nice Mr. Crockett look at it, and it won’t cost me a cent. It’s still under warranty.”
Cordelia felt weak and cowardly. How could she expect to fight the likes of Dan Killian, and her own stiff-necked daughter, when she couldn’t even get up the nerve to invite Gabe Ross to supper?
She felt a stab of misgiving ... and of longing, too, for the company of a man across from her at the kitchen table. A man whose talk went far beyond whether the Robert E. Lee Rebels stood a chance of beating the Wilston Wildcats this year, or what business Corky Oakes had displaying those condoms right up next to the cash register in his drugstore for any five-year-old to see.
Stooped side by side in the herb garden, they worked their way up the narrow gravel pathway between the rows, snipping and tying the last of summer’s bounty—miniature chives, winter savory, golden oregano, lemon thyme, bee balm, purple basil. The scent, like the most heavenly potpourri, drifted up around Cordelia, and she thought of the little net bags of verbena she would make up for Netta to put at the back of every drawer. Tonight, she would chop and store the basil in olive oil, and hang the rest of the herbs to dry in the attic. And tomorrow, she and Netta would make up quarts of tarragon and rosemary vinegars.
It was dusk by the time they finished, the last of the sun’s rays skimming the top of the weeping willow that overhung the gazebo. An ache had crept into her back, and her hands stung with tiny cuts caused by the prickly herbs. But she didn’t mind; in fact, she felt better than she had all day.
Gabe, with a flourish, handed her a bouquet of mint. “For Netta’s sun-tea,” he said, “which I wouldn’t say no to a glass of right now.”
And if I asked you to stay for a plate of Netta’s good chicken stew, what would you say to that?
But just then the distant trilling of the phone reached her ears.
Dashing back through the kitchen door, Cordelia headed for the heavy black telephone that had stood on the cherry stand in the hallway for nearly fifty years. Could it be Dan, calling to say he’d decided to give her the money after all? Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in the back of her teeth. Silly, she told herself. It’s probably nothing — Dr. Bridges’ office calling to confirm my appointment next week, or Nat Duffy down at the Sunrise Nursery letting me know the seed catalogues I ordered have come in.
Cordelia snatched up the receiver and heard the crackling of long-distance, then a man’s voice, deep yet oddly musical.
“Cordelia? It’s Win. Listen, I just got a call from Sissy. She sounded pretty upset, so I thought I’d better see how you were doing. I’ve seen the newspapers, and she filled me in on the rest. ...”
Cordelia felt her panic subside. It was only Win, dear thoughtful Win, who still called her every birthday and Mother’s Day. And who besides Win ever bothered to send her snapshots of Chris, like the one she’d gotten just last week—a photo of the two of them at East Hampton, Win, tall and blond and tanned, his arm slung about the awkward-looking
She looked up, taking in the two-story Victorian with its gables and turret and white-columned porch. The truth was, for all her complaining, the old place, even with its miles of trim and fussy gingerbread forever in need of paint, was more solid that those spanking-new Mulberry Acres townhouses Sissy had dragged her over to look at the other day, their walls so thin you could hear someone sneeze on the other side.
“I could take a look at that dishwasher for you, if you’d like,” Gabe offered.
“Really, Gabe, you’re far too kind. ...” She paused, thinking, Don’t be a fool, it’d be the perfect excuse to ask him to stay for supper. But what about after that?
Rushing ahead before she could change her mind, she finished, “... but I wouldn’t dream of it. Really, I can have that nice Mr. Crockett look at it, and it won’t cost me a cent. It’s still under warranty.”
Cordelia felt weak and cowardly. How could she expect to fight the likes of Dan Killian, and her own stiff-necked daughter, when she couldn’t even get up the nerve to invite Gabe Ross to supper?
She felt a stab of misgiving ... and of longing, too, for the company of a man across from her at the kitchen table. A man whose talk went far beyond whether the Robert E. Lee Rebels stood a chance of beating the Wilston Wildcats this year, or what business Corky Oakes had displaying those condoms right up next to the cash register in his drugstore for any five-year-old to see.
Stooped side by side in the herb garden, they worked their way up the narrow gravel pathway between the rows, snipping and tying the last of summer’s bounty—miniature chives, winter savory, golden oregano, lemon thyme, bee balm, purple basil. The scent, like the most heavenly potpourri, drifted up around Cordelia, and she thought of the little net bags of verbena she would make up for Netta to put at the back of every drawer. Tonight, she would chop and store the basil in olive oil, and hang the rest of the herbs to dry in the attic. And tomorrow, she and Netta would make up quarts of tarragon and rosemary vinegars.
It was dusk by the time they finished, the last of the sun’s rays skimming the top of the weeping willow that overhung the gazebo. An ache had crept into her back, and her hands stung with tiny cuts caused by the prickly herbs. But she didn’t mind; in fact, she felt better than she had all day.
Gabe, with a flourish, handed her a bouquet of mint. “For Netta’s sun-tea,” he said, “which I wouldn’t say no to a glass of right now.”
And if I asked you to stay for a plate of Netta’s good chicken stew, what would you say to that?
But just then the distant trilling of the phone reached her ears.
Dashing back through the kitchen door, Cordelia headed for the heavy black telephone that had stood on the cherry stand in the hallway for nearly fifty years. Could it be Dan, calling to say he’d decided to give her the money after all? Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in the back of her teeth. Silly, she told herself. It’s probably nothing — Dr. Bridges’ office calling to confirm my appointment next week, or Nat Duffy down at the Sunrise Nursery letting me know the seed catalogues I ordered have come in.
Cordelia snatched up the receiver and heard the crackling of long-distance, then a man’s voice, deep yet oddly musical.
“Cordelia? It’s Win. Listen, I just got a call from Sissy. She sounded pretty upset, so I thought I’d better see how you were doing. I’ve seen the newspapers, and she filled me in on the rest. ...”
Cordelia felt her panic subside. It was only Win, dear thoughtful Win, who still called her every birthday and Mother’s Day. And who besides Win ever bothered to send her snapshots of Chris, like the one she’d gotten just last week—a photo of the two of them at East Hampton, Win, tall and blond and tanned, his arm slung about the awkward-looking
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