her coffee. She looked out across the greening sculptures from Nana’s rocker on the front porch and realized she had the whole morning free.
For years she’d been meaning to take up some healthy physical pursuit, and watching Thea do her yoga exercises the other day had given her new resolve. Wake House was a fifteen-minute drive, so probably…about a three-mile walk, give or take. Nothing to it. She finished her piece of toast, put on shorts and tennis shoes, told Finney to behave himself, and set off to visit Nana.
How pathetic, she used to think—had thought as recently as a few weeks ago—that she was thirty-two years old and her favorite pastime was visiting old folks in a home. She’d reminded herself of one of those women in thoughtful, depressing novels about English spinsters, repressed women who trudged gallantly from one grim day to the next until the last page, when, usually, they died. She read these books because they made her life seem like Mardi Gras in comparison.
Now everything was different—she didn’t see herself as pitiful anymore. She could interpret her daily visits to Wake House as normal, kindly meant, simply another facet in a well-rounded person’s social repertoire,because her life had proportion again. She was a regular person. She was Caddie Winger, and she had a boyfriend.
Christopher Fox. Christopher Dalton Fox. She set her feet down on the concrete sidewalk in rhythm with each stately syllable. She wasn’t compulsively writing his name in a notebook, but in other ways she was feeling, possibly behaving, like an infatuated ninth-grader. She’d seen him two times since their dinner at the German restaurant, and they were both definitely dates, no guesswork required. On Sunday, a spectacular day, the most beautiful day of the year, they’d romped in the park with King, the perfect dog. Half collie, half German shepherd, King didn’t even need a leash, and he didn’t respond to commands from Christopher so much as read his mind. Compared to King, Finney was a foaming lunatic in a strait-jacket in an asylum for the criminally insane.
Who was handsomer, King or his master? They had the same tawny, soft, floppy hair that blew in the breeze like a woman’s hair in a slow-motion shampoo commercial. Christopher had long, beautiful hands, and Caddie loved to watch them disappear into King’s golden fur when he ruffled the whitish patch under his collar or pulled gently on his velvety ears. Christopher’s hands. Last night he’d taken her to the movies, and she’d sat in the dark beside him feeling as if she couldn’t fully exhale, as if she had a pleasant excess of air inside and it was causing her to levitate.
She’d never been courted by anybody like him before. She couldn’t think of anything about him she would change. Tonight he was taking her to a softball game. A softball game. Already she loved the mundaneness of their dates, the bland, unimaginative wholesomeness of sitting on a hard bleacher seat and ordering a hot dog and a plastic cup of beer. It was frightening to contemplate how closely Christopher resembled the kind of man she’d always wanted, so she was trying not to think about it. She was tricking herself by feigning casualness, like Finney when she had a toy he wanted. He’d look the other way and pretend he couldn’t care less, then pounce on it when she lost interest. She hoped her act was more convincing than his.
She had sore feet by the time she got to Wake House. And a sunburned nose. She went straight to the kitchen and gulped down a glass ofwater without stopping. Three miles was a lot harder than she’d expected, especially on a day as humid as this. She took off her shoes and socks and went in search of Nana.
She wasn’t in her room. She wasn’t on the side porch, not in either of the parlors, and she wasn’t in the backyard. She might be in Magill’s room; she was fond of him, and Caddie had found her there more than once. But Caddie
For years she’d been meaning to take up some healthy physical pursuit, and watching Thea do her yoga exercises the other day had given her new resolve. Wake House was a fifteen-minute drive, so probably…about a three-mile walk, give or take. Nothing to it. She finished her piece of toast, put on shorts and tennis shoes, told Finney to behave himself, and set off to visit Nana.
How pathetic, she used to think—had thought as recently as a few weeks ago—that she was thirty-two years old and her favorite pastime was visiting old folks in a home. She’d reminded herself of one of those women in thoughtful, depressing novels about English spinsters, repressed women who trudged gallantly from one grim day to the next until the last page, when, usually, they died. She read these books because they made her life seem like Mardi Gras in comparison.
Now everything was different—she didn’t see herself as pitiful anymore. She could interpret her daily visits to Wake House as normal, kindly meant, simply another facet in a well-rounded person’s social repertoire,because her life had proportion again. She was a regular person. She was Caddie Winger, and she had a boyfriend.
Christopher Fox. Christopher Dalton Fox. She set her feet down on the concrete sidewalk in rhythm with each stately syllable. She wasn’t compulsively writing his name in a notebook, but in other ways she was feeling, possibly behaving, like an infatuated ninth-grader. She’d seen him two times since their dinner at the German restaurant, and they were both definitely dates, no guesswork required. On Sunday, a spectacular day, the most beautiful day of the year, they’d romped in the park with King, the perfect dog. Half collie, half German shepherd, King didn’t even need a leash, and he didn’t respond to commands from Christopher so much as read his mind. Compared to King, Finney was a foaming lunatic in a strait-jacket in an asylum for the criminally insane.
Who was handsomer, King or his master? They had the same tawny, soft, floppy hair that blew in the breeze like a woman’s hair in a slow-motion shampoo commercial. Christopher had long, beautiful hands, and Caddie loved to watch them disappear into King’s golden fur when he ruffled the whitish patch under his collar or pulled gently on his velvety ears. Christopher’s hands. Last night he’d taken her to the movies, and she’d sat in the dark beside him feeling as if she couldn’t fully exhale, as if she had a pleasant excess of air inside and it was causing her to levitate.
She’d never been courted by anybody like him before. She couldn’t think of anything about him she would change. Tonight he was taking her to a softball game. A softball game. Already she loved the mundaneness of their dates, the bland, unimaginative wholesomeness of sitting on a hard bleacher seat and ordering a hot dog and a plastic cup of beer. It was frightening to contemplate how closely Christopher resembled the kind of man she’d always wanted, so she was trying not to think about it. She was tricking herself by feigning casualness, like Finney when she had a toy he wanted. He’d look the other way and pretend he couldn’t care less, then pounce on it when she lost interest. She hoped her act was more convincing than his.
She had sore feet by the time she got to Wake House. And a sunburned nose. She went straight to the kitchen and gulped down a glass ofwater without stopping. Three miles was a lot harder than she’d expected, especially on a day as humid as this. She took off her shoes and socks and went in search of Nana.
She wasn’t in her room. She wasn’t on the side porch, not in either of the parlors, and she wasn’t in the backyard. She might be in Magill’s room; she was fond of him, and Caddie had found her there more than once. But Caddie
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