tables in the sun and wait for Betsy. But as I parked, I saw her get out of her car and go into the bakery. Her bright red hair was pulledback into a single plait that reached almost to her waist, and for a second I saw that same hair tumbling over a church pew. Damn.
The bakery was attractive, decorated in blue and white with starched lace curtains and a blue ceramic Dutch shoe holding three almost real-looking white tulips on each of the six tables. Only three of the tables had people sitting at them. Takeout seemed to be the bakery’s big business. There was a line at the cash register, each person holding a sack that proclaimed OLDE HOLLAND BAKERY . The smells were wonderful.
Betsy was already sitting in a chair just inside the doorway, one of two chairs placed there for the obvious purpose of waiting. She looked up and smiled when she saw me.
“Thank you,” she said, as if she were relieved that I had shown up.
“You’re welcome.” That wasn’t the right answer, but it sufficed.
Betsy stood up, no taller than my own five feet, I noticed. But she was more beautiful than I had realized the day before. In spite of her eyes being slightly puffy, their clear hazel was startling. She had the very fair skin that some redheads are blessed with, and a few freckles across her nose.
“We have to order at the counter,” she said, pointing to a chalkboard on the wall with the day’s menu on it. “They’ve got lentil soup today. They make the best in the world.”
“Sounds good.”
We each ordered a bowl of soup and decided we would split a club sandwich. While we were waiting for our food, we sat at a table by the window. The sun wasstill shining across the table, but a glance at the sky showed the progression of the dark wall of clouds.
Neither of us spoke for a moment. It was noisy in the bakery and I was about to suggest that we go sit at one of the tables outside. As long as the sun was shining, we would be comfortable.
But before I could make the suggestion, Betsy leaned forward and said, “I want to tell you about my sister.”
I nodded. This wasn’t what I had expected, but talking about her sister was probably something she needed to do.
“Susan was fifteen and I was eighteen when our parents were killed in a small plane. They had gone to Florida for the weekend with another couple, the couple who owned the plane. They ran into a thunderstorm.” Betsy picked up the salt shaker (a pink pig with holes in its head) and examined it as if there were some meaning there. She sighed, set it down, and continued.
“I was a freshman at the university, and Susan went to live with our aunt Pearl, our father’s sister. She was a widow and had never had any children, and she and Susan grew very close.”
I began to get the picture.
“Your aunt Pearl. She was a snake handler?”
Betsy nodded. “The sweetest, kindest person who ever lived. She and my father were raised in a strict Baptist family just like Susan and I were. But Aunt Pearl wanted more. She wasn’t satisfied with what she called ‘diluted religion.’ At least that’s what Susan said. She told me once that Aunt Pearl said she wanted to touch God.”
By handling snakes? But I nodded.
Betsy picked up the salt shaker again. “I didn’t know anything about it, what Aunt Pearl was doing. I imagineour parents did, but they never said anything to us. Even after they were killed and I came home for Christmas or spring break, Susan and Aunt Pearl kept what was going on a secret from me.”
She looked up. “I don’t know why Aunt Pearl never tried to proselytize me. But she didn’t. Just Susan.”
“You were older. Your beliefs were already established.”
“I guess so.” Betsy managed a smile. “Or maybe it was simply that she knew how scared I was of snakes.”
The smile faded. “But, you know, that’s part of it. You’re scared to death, but you handle them anyway, thinking your faith will protect you.”
“Which Susan
The bakery was attractive, decorated in blue and white with starched lace curtains and a blue ceramic Dutch shoe holding three almost real-looking white tulips on each of the six tables. Only three of the tables had people sitting at them. Takeout seemed to be the bakery’s big business. There was a line at the cash register, each person holding a sack that proclaimed OLDE HOLLAND BAKERY . The smells were wonderful.
Betsy was already sitting in a chair just inside the doorway, one of two chairs placed there for the obvious purpose of waiting. She looked up and smiled when she saw me.
“Thank you,” she said, as if she were relieved that I had shown up.
“You’re welcome.” That wasn’t the right answer, but it sufficed.
Betsy stood up, no taller than my own five feet, I noticed. But she was more beautiful than I had realized the day before. In spite of her eyes being slightly puffy, their clear hazel was startling. She had the very fair skin that some redheads are blessed with, and a few freckles across her nose.
“We have to order at the counter,” she said, pointing to a chalkboard on the wall with the day’s menu on it. “They’ve got lentil soup today. They make the best in the world.”
“Sounds good.”
We each ordered a bowl of soup and decided we would split a club sandwich. While we were waiting for our food, we sat at a table by the window. The sun wasstill shining across the table, but a glance at the sky showed the progression of the dark wall of clouds.
Neither of us spoke for a moment. It was noisy in the bakery and I was about to suggest that we go sit at one of the tables outside. As long as the sun was shining, we would be comfortable.
But before I could make the suggestion, Betsy leaned forward and said, “I want to tell you about my sister.”
I nodded. This wasn’t what I had expected, but talking about her sister was probably something she needed to do.
“Susan was fifteen and I was eighteen when our parents were killed in a small plane. They had gone to Florida for the weekend with another couple, the couple who owned the plane. They ran into a thunderstorm.” Betsy picked up the salt shaker (a pink pig with holes in its head) and examined it as if there were some meaning there. She sighed, set it down, and continued.
“I was a freshman at the university, and Susan went to live with our aunt Pearl, our father’s sister. She was a widow and had never had any children, and she and Susan grew very close.”
I began to get the picture.
“Your aunt Pearl. She was a snake handler?”
Betsy nodded. “The sweetest, kindest person who ever lived. She and my father were raised in a strict Baptist family just like Susan and I were. But Aunt Pearl wanted more. She wasn’t satisfied with what she called ‘diluted religion.’ At least that’s what Susan said. She told me once that Aunt Pearl said she wanted to touch God.”
By handling snakes? But I nodded.
Betsy picked up the salt shaker again. “I didn’t know anything about it, what Aunt Pearl was doing. I imagineour parents did, but they never said anything to us. Even after they were killed and I came home for Christmas or spring break, Susan and Aunt Pearl kept what was going on a secret from me.”
She looked up. “I don’t know why Aunt Pearl never tried to proselytize me. But she didn’t. Just Susan.”
“You were older. Your beliefs were already established.”
“I guess so.” Betsy managed a smile. “Or maybe it was simply that she knew how scared I was of snakes.”
The smile faded. “But, you know, that’s part of it. You’re scared to death, but you handle them anyway, thinking your faith will protect you.”
“Which Susan
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