Marion took up all of the conversation after that, so Jeb settled back and listened, paying close enough attention to nod
or answer with a “yes” or “no” whenever appropriate. His attention wandered down the table when the other eyes became fixed
on two new arrivals to the table.
“Always the last to arrive, those two,” Marion said to Jeb. She excused herself and got up to go and greet them.
Walton fingered a cigar without lighting it. He seemed as preoccupied as Jeb. His hair was frosted with a bit of gray; he
had a thin nose, a slight crook in it, and an easy smile. He was having as much trouble as Jeb paying attention to the women’s
chatter. Walton turned once and looked back toward the door. Jeb followed his gaze.
“I hope your fiancée hasn’t gotten lost,” said Henry.
Walton leaned toward Henry and said, “Why don’t I go and look for Fern and Donna. They can’t have wandered too far away.”
He got up and left the table.
“I didn’t know Walton knew the Coulter girls,” said Marion, and then she worked her way back down to her chair and told Jeb,
“They were young college girls when Walton got out of law school. I thought they ran in different circles.”
Before Jeb could protest, a waiter filled his wineglass.
Henry slid his hand over and moved the glass aside. “Most of these folks seated around here are Lutheran, Reverend. I hope
you aren’t offended.”
“Not at all. So Fern knows you, Mrs. Oakley?”
“I’m Marion to everyone else. May as well call me that. I knew her daddy, so that probably makes me a speck in her constellation,
but I watched her grow up, read about her golf matches in the paper. Everyone in law and medicine in Oklahoma all seemed to
run in the same circles. Dornick Hills is the hive, if you catch my meaning. The Coulters knew everyone, but Fern didn’t necessarily
know everyone her father knew. You know girls, they have their own business to attend to. My mother and Fern’s mother knew
one another since college. But I’m older than Fern. Did you know Abigail was schooled in New York?”
“I think I knew that,” said Jeb. He wondered why Fern and Donna did not return.
Donna appeared in the doorway, shot out a final stream of smoke, and saw Jeb. She smiled faintly, at least observably pleasant,
and sauntered to the table. Jeb got up and offered her the chair on the other side of him.
She settled herself into the chair, leaned forward to look up and down both ends of the table and then asked, “Where’s Fern?”
Jeb tossed down his napkin. “I thought she was with you.”
“She was in the powder room, said she was coming out here,” she said. “I didn’t know I needed to walk her back to the table.”
Jeb excused himself to the Oakleys.
Donna apologized. “She can’t have gone far.” She asked Marion, “Is there a balcony in this hotel?”
“There’s a rooftop garden,” said Marion. “There was a brief rain, somebody said.”
Donna said to Jeb, “You’ve noticed, haven’t you, that Fern likes to stand outside after a rain?”
He didn’t say. But he hadn’t noticed. It had been too long since the last rain shower.
“It’s been so hot and all, I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Donna.
He didn’t know her well enough to tell if she was irritated with Fern. Jeb had taken a few steps when he heard Donna ask Marion,
“Do you know where that Walton fellow went to?”
“Senator Baer’s gone to look for your sister,” said Marion.
“Senator?” asked Jeb.
“Dear one, I thought you knew,” said Marion. “Senator Walton Baer.”
Fern wasn’t among the group of women who came out of the powder room laughing. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen her laugh
the whole weekend. She was civil most of the day, but not her happy self, not the way she was in Nazareth—not even on the
trip all the way from Nazareth to Ardmore. He felt like an insensitive fool to keep nudging her to go to this bash.
or answer with a “yes” or “no” whenever appropriate. His attention wandered down the table when the other eyes became fixed
on two new arrivals to the table.
“Always the last to arrive, those two,” Marion said to Jeb. She excused herself and got up to go and greet them.
Walton fingered a cigar without lighting it. He seemed as preoccupied as Jeb. His hair was frosted with a bit of gray; he
had a thin nose, a slight crook in it, and an easy smile. He was having as much trouble as Jeb paying attention to the women’s
chatter. Walton turned once and looked back toward the door. Jeb followed his gaze.
“I hope your fiancée hasn’t gotten lost,” said Henry.
Walton leaned toward Henry and said, “Why don’t I go and look for Fern and Donna. They can’t have wandered too far away.”
He got up and left the table.
“I didn’t know Walton knew the Coulter girls,” said Marion, and then she worked her way back down to her chair and told Jeb,
“They were young college girls when Walton got out of law school. I thought they ran in different circles.”
Before Jeb could protest, a waiter filled his wineglass.
Henry slid his hand over and moved the glass aside. “Most of these folks seated around here are Lutheran, Reverend. I hope
you aren’t offended.”
“Not at all. So Fern knows you, Mrs. Oakley?”
“I’m Marion to everyone else. May as well call me that. I knew her daddy, so that probably makes me a speck in her constellation,
but I watched her grow up, read about her golf matches in the paper. Everyone in law and medicine in Oklahoma all seemed to
run in the same circles. Dornick Hills is the hive, if you catch my meaning. The Coulters knew everyone, but Fern didn’t necessarily
know everyone her father knew. You know girls, they have their own business to attend to. My mother and Fern’s mother knew
one another since college. But I’m older than Fern. Did you know Abigail was schooled in New York?”
“I think I knew that,” said Jeb. He wondered why Fern and Donna did not return.
Donna appeared in the doorway, shot out a final stream of smoke, and saw Jeb. She smiled faintly, at least observably pleasant,
and sauntered to the table. Jeb got up and offered her the chair on the other side of him.
She settled herself into the chair, leaned forward to look up and down both ends of the table and then asked, “Where’s Fern?”
Jeb tossed down his napkin. “I thought she was with you.”
“She was in the powder room, said she was coming out here,” she said. “I didn’t know I needed to walk her back to the table.”
Jeb excused himself to the Oakleys.
Donna apologized. “She can’t have gone far.” She asked Marion, “Is there a balcony in this hotel?”
“There’s a rooftop garden,” said Marion. “There was a brief rain, somebody said.”
Donna said to Jeb, “You’ve noticed, haven’t you, that Fern likes to stand outside after a rain?”
He didn’t say. But he hadn’t noticed. It had been too long since the last rain shower.
“It’s been so hot and all, I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Donna.
He didn’t know her well enough to tell if she was irritated with Fern. Jeb had taken a few steps when he heard Donna ask Marion,
“Do you know where that Walton fellow went to?”
“Senator Baer’s gone to look for your sister,” said Marion.
“Senator?” asked Jeb.
“Dear one, I thought you knew,” said Marion. “Senator Walton Baer.”
Fern wasn’t among the group of women who came out of the powder room laughing. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen her laugh
the whole weekend. She was civil most of the day, but not her happy self, not the way she was in Nazareth—not even on the
trip all the way from Nazareth to Ardmore. He felt like an insensitive fool to keep nudging her to go to this bash.
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