a slot. When the inner door opened, I followed her along a corridor hung with artwork, some of it, she said with pride, created by the residents.
She paused and stood before an accomplished watercolor of a cat curled up on a chair. I thought I recognized the window. “Yours?”
She nodded.
“Impressive.”
She ran a fingertip along the aluminum frame as if checking it for dust. “Art is my pleasure now. What do you do in your spare time, Hannah?”
“Read mostly, or sail, but not at this time of year. My husband’s sister has a boat.”
When we reached the dining room, I had to mask my surprise. Each of the waitstaff, clad in black trousers, white shirts, and bow ties, greeted my hostess by name. The tables were set with quality china on white tablecloths; red napkins, elaborately folded, sprang from each water glass like astonished birds. Because there were no leaves on the trees, a pleasant view of the South River lay beyond the window. There were restaurants in Annapolis not nearly as attractive as this.
A petite blonde, her hair held back at the crown by half a dozen miniature butterfly clips, showed us to a table set for two by the window. Her name tag said “Trish.”
I settled comfortably into a chair while Trish held Ms. Bromley’s chair and scooted it closer to the table. Once the elderly woman was comfortably seated, Trish laced her neatly manicured fingers together and held them against her chest. “The specials today are spaghetti Bolognese and shrimp scampi. I’d recommend the scampi,” she announced with a grin. “And if you clean your plates, ladies, there’s our famous apple pie.”
“The scampi will be fine for me. Hannah?”
“The same.”
“And some tea, too, Trish.”
“Okeydokey!” Trish flounced away and returned almostimmediately, carrying a teapot and a saucer of lemon slices. She set the teapot on the table with a flourish, knocking over the bud vase in the process. A puddle of water spread across the tablecloth. “Oops! Sorry. I’m a butterfingers today.” She handed me the lemons, then dabbed at the water with a napkin she’d snitched from an adjoining table.
Ms. Bromley seemed unruffled. “Never mind, Trish.” She pulled the napkin from the waitress’s hand and waved her away. “We’ll take care of it.” She folded the napkin in half and laid it carefully over the stain.
When Trish was safely back in the kitchen, Ms. Bromley poured a cup of tea for each of us. “So you’re the young woman they’ve saddled with all my children.” She dropped a thin slice of lemon into her cup and watched it float to the surface.
I chuckled. “And I’m honored.” I slipped a sugar cube into my tea and mashed down on it with the tip of my spoon, persuading it as gently as possible to dissolve.
“You said on the telephone that you had some questions to ask me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Goodness! I feel old enough without you ma’aming me. Call me Nadine, please. Or Naddy.”
I could no more call this famous woman I had just met “Naddy” than I could call my grandmother Laureen. I decided I’d avoid the issue altogether, if I could manage it. “I’m making good progress on your collection, getting all the titles together. Are all your books included?”
“Every blessed one. Including a few in Portuguese.” She noticed that the level of the tea in my cup was a tad low, lifted the pot, and raised an eyebrow.
I nodded, and she topped it off.
“And your short stories?” I asked.
“They’re all on the list I gave St. John’s. But I’m afraid I didn’t always keep copies of the short stories.”
“I’ve located sources for most of them and arranged to get photocopies through interlibrary loan.” I sipped my tea. “The newspaper and magazine interviews are more difficult, but I stumbled across an article in Parade magazine that was fascinating.”
“I remember that one. A near disaster. Carrie—that was my dog—nipped the reporter on the ankle
She paused and stood before an accomplished watercolor of a cat curled up on a chair. I thought I recognized the window. “Yours?”
She nodded.
“Impressive.”
She ran a fingertip along the aluminum frame as if checking it for dust. “Art is my pleasure now. What do you do in your spare time, Hannah?”
“Read mostly, or sail, but not at this time of year. My husband’s sister has a boat.”
When we reached the dining room, I had to mask my surprise. Each of the waitstaff, clad in black trousers, white shirts, and bow ties, greeted my hostess by name. The tables were set with quality china on white tablecloths; red napkins, elaborately folded, sprang from each water glass like astonished birds. Because there were no leaves on the trees, a pleasant view of the South River lay beyond the window. There were restaurants in Annapolis not nearly as attractive as this.
A petite blonde, her hair held back at the crown by half a dozen miniature butterfly clips, showed us to a table set for two by the window. Her name tag said “Trish.”
I settled comfortably into a chair while Trish held Ms. Bromley’s chair and scooted it closer to the table. Once the elderly woman was comfortably seated, Trish laced her neatly manicured fingers together and held them against her chest. “The specials today are spaghetti Bolognese and shrimp scampi. I’d recommend the scampi,” she announced with a grin. “And if you clean your plates, ladies, there’s our famous apple pie.”
“The scampi will be fine for me. Hannah?”
“The same.”
“And some tea, too, Trish.”
“Okeydokey!” Trish flounced away and returned almostimmediately, carrying a teapot and a saucer of lemon slices. She set the teapot on the table with a flourish, knocking over the bud vase in the process. A puddle of water spread across the tablecloth. “Oops! Sorry. I’m a butterfingers today.” She handed me the lemons, then dabbed at the water with a napkin she’d snitched from an adjoining table.
Ms. Bromley seemed unruffled. “Never mind, Trish.” She pulled the napkin from the waitress’s hand and waved her away. “We’ll take care of it.” She folded the napkin in half and laid it carefully over the stain.
When Trish was safely back in the kitchen, Ms. Bromley poured a cup of tea for each of us. “So you’re the young woman they’ve saddled with all my children.” She dropped a thin slice of lemon into her cup and watched it float to the surface.
I chuckled. “And I’m honored.” I slipped a sugar cube into my tea and mashed down on it with the tip of my spoon, persuading it as gently as possible to dissolve.
“You said on the telephone that you had some questions to ask me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Goodness! I feel old enough without you ma’aming me. Call me Nadine, please. Or Naddy.”
I could no more call this famous woman I had just met “Naddy” than I could call my grandmother Laureen. I decided I’d avoid the issue altogether, if I could manage it. “I’m making good progress on your collection, getting all the titles together. Are all your books included?”
“Every blessed one. Including a few in Portuguese.” She noticed that the level of the tea in my cup was a tad low, lifted the pot, and raised an eyebrow.
I nodded, and she topped it off.
“And your short stories?” I asked.
“They’re all on the list I gave St. John’s. But I’m afraid I didn’t always keep copies of the short stories.”
“I’ve located sources for most of them and arranged to get photocopies through interlibrary loan.” I sipped my tea. “The newspaper and magazine interviews are more difficult, but I stumbled across an article in Parade magazine that was fascinating.”
“I remember that one. A near disaster. Carrie—that was my dog—nipped the reporter on the ankle
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