and frowned. “The girl doesn’t deserve to be the fodder of local gossip.”
“I won’t say a word.”
“And neither will Fanny,” Amos said. When Helen lifted an eyebrow, he scowled. “She’s been a doctor’s wife for fifty-odd years. She’s learned to keep a secret by now.”
So apparently had Maddy, Helen thought, recalling Fister’s words about his daughter’s affair, a relationship he’d broken up, though apparently not soon enough.
And though it was none of her business, Helen couldn’t help but wonder who Maddy’s illicit lover was.
Chapter 16
F ELICITY T IMMONS WENT home from the chapel after Sunday service and traded her silk dress for a floral-print duster and dirt-stained tennis shoes. She pinned a straw hat to her cropped gray hair, then left the dim of her house for the bright of outdoors.
She’d neglected to clean her gardening tools these past few days. What with Milton’s death and then his funeral, she’d fallen off her regular routine and thought it high time she got right back on.
Around to the patio she went to retrieve the trowels she’d used to plant her marigolds the other afternoon. Taking the tiny shovels by their green handles, she brought them over to the spigot where she rinsed each of them off, picking at the most stubborn bits of dried earth with her closely clipped fingernails. That accomplished, she used an old towel to dry them before storing them away until the next time.
Whistling cheerily, she went to fetch the shovel she’d leaned up against the lattice late last Thursday night.
Ah, last Thursday.
The tune faded from her lips. Her feet seemed suddenly stuck to the sod.
It was the last she’d seen Milton Grone alive.
She looked over at the fence he’d built and a shiver ran through her.
For there stood Shotsie in the unkempt yard at the spot where they’d found her husband. She had her hands on her hips, but Felicity couldn’t see her face, what with her standing in the shadows of an overgrown oak.
Should I speak up? she wondered. Should I say hello, out of politeness if nothing else. But her mouth felt so dry she couldn’t get a word out. She lifted a hand, but Shotsie turned her back and went inside.
A trickle of sweat slid from her brow to the slope of her nose, and Felicity brushed absently at it.Where was her spine? Good God, she’d survived being dumped at the altar and moving halfway across the globe, and here she was falling apart at the mere sight of that woman.
Felicity straightened her shoulders.
All right, she told herself, what was done was done, and I won’t feel guilty for it.
Putting both Milton and Shotsie out of her mind, she dusted off her hands and sighed. She felt suddenly angry at herself for letting Milton Grone affect her so, even in death, when she should be delighting in the fact he could bother her no longer.
She could enjoy her gardening again; truly revel in the pleasures of getting her hands brown with dirt. She could plant as many bushes near the fence as she saw fit without worrying about them being “accidentally” sprayed with herbicide. The roses she’d planted near the road out front could safely bloom without fear of being flattened by Milton’s pickup. Even her old tabby, Kitty, could roam about without concern at being the target of Milt and his bloody shotgun.
Humming now, Felicity went in pursuit of the shovel.
As she rounded the house, she reveled in the warmth of the sun that sliced through the trees. Whistling a nameless tune, she headed toward where she’d left it leaning against the lattice of the porch.
She walked back and forth past the stoop, once then twice.
The whistle died on her lips and she hesitated, rubbing her chin.
The shovel wasn’t there.
Where in the blazes could it have gone? It had hardly gotten up and walked away. It had to be around somewhere.
She scrutinized the lattice beneath the porch and then walked around the house itself, looking beneath bushes and behind
“I won’t say a word.”
“And neither will Fanny,” Amos said. When Helen lifted an eyebrow, he scowled. “She’s been a doctor’s wife for fifty-odd years. She’s learned to keep a secret by now.”
So apparently had Maddy, Helen thought, recalling Fister’s words about his daughter’s affair, a relationship he’d broken up, though apparently not soon enough.
And though it was none of her business, Helen couldn’t help but wonder who Maddy’s illicit lover was.
Chapter 16
F ELICITY T IMMONS WENT home from the chapel after Sunday service and traded her silk dress for a floral-print duster and dirt-stained tennis shoes. She pinned a straw hat to her cropped gray hair, then left the dim of her house for the bright of outdoors.
She’d neglected to clean her gardening tools these past few days. What with Milton’s death and then his funeral, she’d fallen off her regular routine and thought it high time she got right back on.
Around to the patio she went to retrieve the trowels she’d used to plant her marigolds the other afternoon. Taking the tiny shovels by their green handles, she brought them over to the spigot where she rinsed each of them off, picking at the most stubborn bits of dried earth with her closely clipped fingernails. That accomplished, she used an old towel to dry them before storing them away until the next time.
Whistling cheerily, she went to fetch the shovel she’d leaned up against the lattice late last Thursday night.
Ah, last Thursday.
The tune faded from her lips. Her feet seemed suddenly stuck to the sod.
It was the last she’d seen Milton Grone alive.
She looked over at the fence he’d built and a shiver ran through her.
For there stood Shotsie in the unkempt yard at the spot where they’d found her husband. She had her hands on her hips, but Felicity couldn’t see her face, what with her standing in the shadows of an overgrown oak.
Should I speak up? she wondered. Should I say hello, out of politeness if nothing else. But her mouth felt so dry she couldn’t get a word out. She lifted a hand, but Shotsie turned her back and went inside.
A trickle of sweat slid from her brow to the slope of her nose, and Felicity brushed absently at it.Where was her spine? Good God, she’d survived being dumped at the altar and moving halfway across the globe, and here she was falling apart at the mere sight of that woman.
Felicity straightened her shoulders.
All right, she told herself, what was done was done, and I won’t feel guilty for it.
Putting both Milton and Shotsie out of her mind, she dusted off her hands and sighed. She felt suddenly angry at herself for letting Milton Grone affect her so, even in death, when she should be delighting in the fact he could bother her no longer.
She could enjoy her gardening again; truly revel in the pleasures of getting her hands brown with dirt. She could plant as many bushes near the fence as she saw fit without worrying about them being “accidentally” sprayed with herbicide. The roses she’d planted near the road out front could safely bloom without fear of being flattened by Milton’s pickup. Even her old tabby, Kitty, could roam about without concern at being the target of Milt and his bloody shotgun.
Humming now, Felicity went in pursuit of the shovel.
As she rounded the house, she reveled in the warmth of the sun that sliced through the trees. Whistling a nameless tune, she headed toward where she’d left it leaning against the lattice of the porch.
She walked back and forth past the stoop, once then twice.
The whistle died on her lips and she hesitated, rubbing her chin.
The shovel wasn’t there.
Where in the blazes could it have gone? It had hardly gotten up and walked away. It had to be around somewhere.
She scrutinized the lattice beneath the porch and then walked around the house itself, looking beneath bushes and behind
Similar Books
