The Birthday Lunch by Joan Clark Page B

painting the fallow field a sienna brown when, startled by a baritone “hello,” she tumbled backward, legs splayed, wide-brimmed hat askew. “I’m sorry,” a male voice said. “May I help you up?” Laverne was furious, how dare the man creep up on her without warning! She was about to give him a piece of her mind when she felt a warm hand cup her elbow and looking up, she saw a tall man wearing a straw hat leaning over her. Removing his sunglasses, he introduced himself as the new United Church minister and asked her name. Laverne scarcely noticed the clerical collar; what she noticed were the green eyesflecked with gold. She allowed him to help her up and they exchanged names. The minister pointed to an opening in the willows about twenty feet away and assured her that he would paint over there.
    Covertly, Laverne watched Alan Harrington walk away and plunk down what appeared to be a kitchen stool before he disappeared into the willows carrying a tin bucket. Minutes later he reappeared, poured water into jelly jars, taped a sheet of paper onto an easel and, never once looking her way, began to paint. Laverne finished painting the fallow field and was deliberating about whether to paint the farmhouse a pure white or a greyish white when she saw the minister lay the finished painting on the grass and lift his cap to wipe his forehead. It was then she saw the gleam of baldness at his crown, and emboldened by the fact that the new minister was probably well into his forties, possibly into his fifties, she asked if he would join her for a cup of coffee. While he obliged, bringing his stool closer, Laverne fetched the basket from where Lily had dumped it and took out the Thermos and cups. As they drank their coffee, Alan Harrington observed that Laverne was working with oils and asked if she had ever used watercolours. “No,” she said. “I prefer oils because I want to paint what I see, I mean real pictures. The paintings I admire the most are those of the Dutch Masters. Are you familiar with the work of Pieter de Hooch?”
    “Yes, I am. Are you familiar with the work of David Milne? He paints extraordinary watercolours.”
    Laverne tried to think of an encouraging response. Although she had never heard of David Milne and preferred oils towatercolours, she did not want to discourage Alan Harrington’s interest. What should she say? Laverne was spared an answer by Lily who had returned from her wanderings and was walking toward them, the binocular strap outlining the V of her breasts beneath the damp cotton of the flimsy sundress. She was carrying her sandals in one hand and a bunch of wild purple phlox in the other. “Am I interrupting something?” Lily asked, her voice curious, amused.
    “Not at all,” Alan Harrington said. “We were becoming acquainted.”
    “This is my sister, Lily,” Laverne said. “Lily, this is Alan Harrington.”
    “The new United Church minister,” Lily said. “Hal mentioned you. He’s a member of your congregation.”
    “Hal McNab.”
    “My husband.”
    Alan offered his stool but Lily said she preferred to sit on the grass and so she did, leaning back on her hands, legs straight out, ropes of dark hair dripping between her breasts. Laverne asked if she had fallen into the river. “I went for a dip,” Lily said.
    “Without your bathing suit?”
    “Why not? There was no one around and it was heavenly floating in the shallows.”
    “Did you see any birds?”
    Lily held up an index finger. “One crow.”
    “Crows fascinate me,” Alan said.
    “They fascinate me too. This one watched me float.” Lily glanced at Alan, her dark eyelashes glistening with river water.
    Laverne could not be certain, but she thought that Lily was flirting with Alan Harrington. Laverne envied her sister’s ability to flirt. Flirting was something Lily did naturally. She was comfortable with men, treating them as if they were nothing special, and this was the way she was treating Alan, who was