muttered inside her mask, wanting every word to be perfect. Truthful and absolute, but not cutting. "But this isn't going to work out. I'm set in my ways. I'm used to doing things my way. There just isn't any room in my life for you."
"There's no room in anyone's life for 'em," Harley said from the doorway, startling her. It was a favorite game of his since childhood. "They're too big. I've been telling you that. Who's going to put something like that in their living room?" he asked, long-legging it across the concrete floor, assuming that she'd been talking to her sculptures. "They're okay. I mean, they're not a piece of sheet metal with four holes in it, not as lame as most of 'em in that book of yours. They're sort of interesting. Different. But they aren't beautiful, Mom. Not like the others." He wrapped a supportive arm around her shoulders and added, "You can talk to 'em all you want, but I don't think it's gonna help. They're not like flowers, you know."
~*~
"Those flowers out front are beautiful," she told Lu one morning. "When did you plant them?"
"They're perennial. They come up every year."
"They do?" She looked out the window at them. "Were they there last year?"
"Every year since I bought this place. Where have you been?"
Rose couldn't tell her.
~*~
She spent too much time Wednesday morning wondering what to wear. Generally she wore her red apron over jeans and some sort of shirt, with her worn-out sneakers. But for no reason she wanted to think about, that particular Wednesday she felt like wearing something a little different, a little nicer. . . . For no good reason.
Her room looked like Harley's by the time she decided to go with her newest blue jeans, a green plaid cotton oxford shirt, and her good white sneakers with the black smudges across the toes. She'd have to be careful not to get gravy or spaghetti sauce on them. You couldn't blast Lu's spaghetti sauce stains out with dynamite.
"New shoes?" Danny O'Brian asked when she entered the diner. It was three in the afternoon, and he was still out to lunch.
"No. They've got smudges. See?"
"Sure look new," he insisted.
"Well, they're newer than my old ones, but they're not brand new."
Lord above. You'd have thought she was wearing diamonds and pearls. Any minor deviation from the norm, and tongues started wagging. Next they'd start thinking she was dressed up for something special.
"That's a nice plaid with that red hair of yours," Emma Motley, Redgrove's postmistress, commented kindly.
"It's not new either. What is this sudden interest in my clothes? I wear shirts and sneakers every day, and you don't say anything about it. What's so special about today?" she asked, a bit testy. "I've had this shirt for six years. I just don't wear it often. . . ."
Her voice trailed off when she noticed that her attitude was drawing more attention than her clothes.
"You know," Lu said, poising a pencil at her lips thoughtfully. "I don't think I've seen you wear that particular shade of lipstick before. What's it called?"
She fought a sudden impulse to chew it all off.
"She don't usually wear lipstick, does she?" Emma asked, seeming confused. "Nor rouge neither, come to think of it."
"Who's this we're talking about now," Lucy Flan-nary asked, entering the diner. She walked up to her usual stool at the lunch counter and set her purse on the seat beside her, saying, "Martin is driving me crazy today. We ordered in some new summer cottons, and he's over there mixing and matching the colors with all the blues here and the reds there, and the oranges and the yellows, and ‘is this more red or more orange?’ he asks me. ‘Is this one more green or blue?’ I rue the day that man retired. I swear he's going to drive me to drink. I'll have a cherry cola, Lu. Now, who doesn't wear rouge?"
"Rosie," Danny and Emma said together. Emma nodded, "Nor lipstick neither."
Lucy considered Rose for a moment, then said, "Well, sure she does. What's the
"There's no room in anyone's life for 'em," Harley said from the doorway, startling her. It was a favorite game of his since childhood. "They're too big. I've been telling you that. Who's going to put something like that in their living room?" he asked, long-legging it across the concrete floor, assuming that she'd been talking to her sculptures. "They're okay. I mean, they're not a piece of sheet metal with four holes in it, not as lame as most of 'em in that book of yours. They're sort of interesting. Different. But they aren't beautiful, Mom. Not like the others." He wrapped a supportive arm around her shoulders and added, "You can talk to 'em all you want, but I don't think it's gonna help. They're not like flowers, you know."
~*~
"Those flowers out front are beautiful," she told Lu one morning. "When did you plant them?"
"They're perennial. They come up every year."
"They do?" She looked out the window at them. "Were they there last year?"
"Every year since I bought this place. Where have you been?"
Rose couldn't tell her.
~*~
She spent too much time Wednesday morning wondering what to wear. Generally she wore her red apron over jeans and some sort of shirt, with her worn-out sneakers. But for no reason she wanted to think about, that particular Wednesday she felt like wearing something a little different, a little nicer. . . . For no good reason.
Her room looked like Harley's by the time she decided to go with her newest blue jeans, a green plaid cotton oxford shirt, and her good white sneakers with the black smudges across the toes. She'd have to be careful not to get gravy or spaghetti sauce on them. You couldn't blast Lu's spaghetti sauce stains out with dynamite.
"New shoes?" Danny O'Brian asked when she entered the diner. It was three in the afternoon, and he was still out to lunch.
"No. They've got smudges. See?"
"Sure look new," he insisted.
"Well, they're newer than my old ones, but they're not brand new."
Lord above. You'd have thought she was wearing diamonds and pearls. Any minor deviation from the norm, and tongues started wagging. Next they'd start thinking she was dressed up for something special.
"That's a nice plaid with that red hair of yours," Emma Motley, Redgrove's postmistress, commented kindly.
"It's not new either. What is this sudden interest in my clothes? I wear shirts and sneakers every day, and you don't say anything about it. What's so special about today?" she asked, a bit testy. "I've had this shirt for six years. I just don't wear it often. . . ."
Her voice trailed off when she noticed that her attitude was drawing more attention than her clothes.
"You know," Lu said, poising a pencil at her lips thoughtfully. "I don't think I've seen you wear that particular shade of lipstick before. What's it called?"
She fought a sudden impulse to chew it all off.
"She don't usually wear lipstick, does she?" Emma asked, seeming confused. "Nor rouge neither, come to think of it."
"Who's this we're talking about now," Lucy Flan-nary asked, entering the diner. She walked up to her usual stool at the lunch counter and set her purse on the seat beside her, saying, "Martin is driving me crazy today. We ordered in some new summer cottons, and he's over there mixing and matching the colors with all the blues here and the reds there, and the oranges and the yellows, and ‘is this more red or more orange?’ he asks me. ‘Is this one more green or blue?’ I rue the day that man retired. I swear he's going to drive me to drink. I'll have a cherry cola, Lu. Now, who doesn't wear rouge?"
"Rosie," Danny and Emma said together. Emma nodded, "Nor lipstick neither."
Lucy considered Rose for a moment, then said, "Well, sure she does. What's the
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