know how much weight you’ve lost since your poor Billy died, but you’re beginning to look downright scrawny.”
“I am?” Boy, that would be a change! Although I faithfully followed the fashions—nobody wants to hire a dowdy spiritualist—I’d always despaired of my curves, which simply couldn’t be hidden, even though I wore the requisite bust-flattener.
“But never mind about that. Here. Take this to Missus P. Tell her to buck up and stick to her guns.”
Vi handed me a tray, which she must have had ready before I entered the kitchen because I sure hadn’t seen her boiling any water or anything, and I took it. “Thanks, Vi.”
“Those are Swedish cream cookies. They’re full of butter, sugar and cream. Eat a few. They’ll put some meat on your bones.”
“Thanks, Vi. I sure will.”
As I carried the tray back to the drawing room, I eyed it. The Swedish cream cookies were quite pretty and flaky-looking, but the notion of eating one made me feel squeamish. Gee, maybe Vi and the fit of my dress were both right about me losing weight. If they were, it was the only good thing to have come about after Billy’s short life ended.
Mrs. Pinkerton was grateful for the tray. She brightened when I entered the room, although she still wore a haggard, careworn expression on her face, and her eyes remained swollen and red-rimmed. I hated Stacy Kincaid in that moment. Not that I didn’t generally hate her, but to put a woman like Mrs. Pinkerton, who was kindhearted and nice even if she was a bit dim, through such troubles, went beyond what any child should inflict upon a parent.
Unclenching my teeth and swallowing the bitter words dancing on my tongue, I smiled at the forlorn mother suffering on her wildly expensive sofa. I guess it was true that money couldn’t buy happiness—although I’d just as soon be unhappy in, say, France or somewhere, than in our little bungalow on Marengo. But that’s neither here nor there.
“After what Rolly put you through, I thought you might need a bracer,” I said softly, effortlessly assuming my sympathetic spiritualist persona in spite of my animosity toward this poor woman’s daughter.
“You’re always so thoughtful, Daisy.”
Tell my mother that, thought I.
“I’m afraid Rolly was a bit . . . ah . . .” For some reason, I ran out of soothing words.
“He told me the truth,” said Mrs. Pinkerton, surprising me.
I set the tray down as silently as a trained servant would have done. “I suppose so, but he was a bit rough about it.”
With a wan smile, Mrs. Pinkerton said, “Well, don’t forget he’s used to being a soldier in Scotland during the Dark Ages. I don’t suppose he ever learned how to convey unpleasant news gently.”
Maybe he hadn’t, but I sure had. If I were rude to an adult whilst growing up, my fanny would know about it for days afterwards. Neither Ma nor Pa stinted on the discipline, although they loved us all—which, come to think of it, might be the reason they were strict. Anyhow, did the Dark Ages include the eleventh century?
What a nonsensical thing to think about right then. I was really off my game. I decided to ignore her comment, even though I suppose it might have been pertinent. “Here, Missus Pinkerton. I understand hot, sweet tea helps people when they’re feeling down in the dumps. And these cookies Aunt Vi made look delicious.”
“Your aunt is the best cook I’ve ever met, Daisy. I’m so fortunate to have met both of you.”
Now I really felt guilty.
I was so relieved when I finally got out of that mansion, I had to lay my head on the steering wheel of the Chevrolet in order to get my wits together before I could drive home.
Chapter Six
I’d taken a cup of tea with Mrs. Pinkerton, although I couldn’t handle a cookie, sure that if I ate one of the incredibly rich confections, I’d disgrace myself and throw it up again. What was the matter with me? I’d never in my life had this reaction to
“I am?” Boy, that would be a change! Although I faithfully followed the fashions—nobody wants to hire a dowdy spiritualist—I’d always despaired of my curves, which simply couldn’t be hidden, even though I wore the requisite bust-flattener.
“But never mind about that. Here. Take this to Missus P. Tell her to buck up and stick to her guns.”
Vi handed me a tray, which she must have had ready before I entered the kitchen because I sure hadn’t seen her boiling any water or anything, and I took it. “Thanks, Vi.”
“Those are Swedish cream cookies. They’re full of butter, sugar and cream. Eat a few. They’ll put some meat on your bones.”
“Thanks, Vi. I sure will.”
As I carried the tray back to the drawing room, I eyed it. The Swedish cream cookies were quite pretty and flaky-looking, but the notion of eating one made me feel squeamish. Gee, maybe Vi and the fit of my dress were both right about me losing weight. If they were, it was the only good thing to have come about after Billy’s short life ended.
Mrs. Pinkerton was grateful for the tray. She brightened when I entered the room, although she still wore a haggard, careworn expression on her face, and her eyes remained swollen and red-rimmed. I hated Stacy Kincaid in that moment. Not that I didn’t generally hate her, but to put a woman like Mrs. Pinkerton, who was kindhearted and nice even if she was a bit dim, through such troubles, went beyond what any child should inflict upon a parent.
Unclenching my teeth and swallowing the bitter words dancing on my tongue, I smiled at the forlorn mother suffering on her wildly expensive sofa. I guess it was true that money couldn’t buy happiness—although I’d just as soon be unhappy in, say, France or somewhere, than in our little bungalow on Marengo. But that’s neither here nor there.
“After what Rolly put you through, I thought you might need a bracer,” I said softly, effortlessly assuming my sympathetic spiritualist persona in spite of my animosity toward this poor woman’s daughter.
“You’re always so thoughtful, Daisy.”
Tell my mother that, thought I.
“I’m afraid Rolly was a bit . . . ah . . .” For some reason, I ran out of soothing words.
“He told me the truth,” said Mrs. Pinkerton, surprising me.
I set the tray down as silently as a trained servant would have done. “I suppose so, but he was a bit rough about it.”
With a wan smile, Mrs. Pinkerton said, “Well, don’t forget he’s used to being a soldier in Scotland during the Dark Ages. I don’t suppose he ever learned how to convey unpleasant news gently.”
Maybe he hadn’t, but I sure had. If I were rude to an adult whilst growing up, my fanny would know about it for days afterwards. Neither Ma nor Pa stinted on the discipline, although they loved us all—which, come to think of it, might be the reason they were strict. Anyhow, did the Dark Ages include the eleventh century?
What a nonsensical thing to think about right then. I was really off my game. I decided to ignore her comment, even though I suppose it might have been pertinent. “Here, Missus Pinkerton. I understand hot, sweet tea helps people when they’re feeling down in the dumps. And these cookies Aunt Vi made look delicious.”
“Your aunt is the best cook I’ve ever met, Daisy. I’m so fortunate to have met both of you.”
Now I really felt guilty.
I was so relieved when I finally got out of that mansion, I had to lay my head on the steering wheel of the Chevrolet in order to get my wits together before I could drive home.
Chapter Six
I’d taken a cup of tea with Mrs. Pinkerton, although I couldn’t handle a cookie, sure that if I ate one of the incredibly rich confections, I’d disgrace myself and throw it up again. What was the matter with me? I’d never in my life had this reaction to
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