for lots of different kinds of people,” I said. I turned to go, and this time Mookie Preston didn’t detain me.
AS I WAS assembling cheese, crackers, and fruit for a quick lunch in my own—thank God, spotless and silent—kitchen, the doorbell rang. I glanced out my living room window before answering the door. A pink van was parked in my driveway, with FANCY FLOWERS painted on the side.
It was surely the first time that particular vehicle had been to my place.
I opened the door, ready to tell the delivery person that she needed the apartment building next door, and the perky young woman on my doorstep said, “Miss Bard?”
“Yes?”
“These are for you.”
“These” were a beautiful arrangement of pink roses, baby’s breath, greenery, and white carnations.
“Are you sure?” I said doubtfully.
“‘ Lily Bard, Ten Track Street,’” the woman read from the back of the envelope, her smile fading a bit.
“Thank you.” I took the bowl and turned away, shutting the door behind me with one foot. I hadn’t gotten flowers in…well, I just couldn’t remember. Carefully, I set the bowl on my kitchen table and pulled the gift envelope out of the prolonged plastic holder. I noticed it had been licked and shut rather carefully, and after I extracted the card and read it, I appreciated the discretion. “I miss you. Claude,” it read, in a slanted, sprawling hand.
I searched inside myself for a reaction and found I had no idea how to feel. I touched a pink rose with one fingertip. Though I wear plastic gloves when I work, my hands still get rough, and I was anxious I would damage the delicate smoothness of the flower. Next I touched a white ball of baby’s breath. I slowly positioned the bowl in the exact middle of the table, and reached up a hand to wipe my cheeks.
I fought an impulse to call the florist and send some flowers right back to him, to show him how he’d touched me. But Claude wanted this to be a purely masculine gesture, and I would let it be.
When I left to bring order into the Winthrops’ chaos, I could feel a faint smile on my face.
LUCK CONTINUED WITH me—up to a point—that afternoon. Since the weather was clear, I parked in front of the Winthrop house on the street. I only used the garage when it was snowing or raining, because my car had an apparently incurable oil leak and I didn’t want to spot the immaculate Winthrop garage floor. I’d driven by the garage, which opened onto a side street, and seen it was empty. Good. None of the Winthrops were home.
Beanie, a lean, attractive woman somewhere in her midforties, was likely to be playing tennis or doing volunteer work. Howell Winthrop, Jr., would be at Winthrop Sporting Goods or Winthrop Lumber and Home Supply, or even at Winthrop Oil. Amber Jean and Howell Three (that was what the family called him) were in junior high and high school. Bobo was at work at Body Time, or attending classes in the U of A extension thirty-five minutes away in Montrose. Though the Winthrops were very wealthy, no Winthrop child would consider going anywhere but the University of Arkansas, and my only surprise was that Bobo was going to the Montrose campus rather than the mother ship up north in Fayetteville. The razorback hog, symbol of the University of Arkansas, featured prominently in the Winthrops’ design scheme.
On Fridays, I dusted, mopped, and vacuumed. I’d already done the laundry, ironing, and bathrooms on my first visit of the week on Tuesday morning. The Winthrop kids had gotten pretty good about washing any clothing item they just had to have between my visits, but they’d never learned to pick up their rooms properly. Beanie was pretty neat with her things, and Howell wasn’t home enough to make a mess.
I paused in my dusting to examine the portrait of Beanie and Howell Jr. that had been their most recent anniversary present to each other. I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’d seen Howell at home
AS I WAS assembling cheese, crackers, and fruit for a quick lunch in my own—thank God, spotless and silent—kitchen, the doorbell rang. I glanced out my living room window before answering the door. A pink van was parked in my driveway, with FANCY FLOWERS painted on the side.
It was surely the first time that particular vehicle had been to my place.
I opened the door, ready to tell the delivery person that she needed the apartment building next door, and the perky young woman on my doorstep said, “Miss Bard?”
“Yes?”
“These are for you.”
“These” were a beautiful arrangement of pink roses, baby’s breath, greenery, and white carnations.
“Are you sure?” I said doubtfully.
“‘ Lily Bard, Ten Track Street,’” the woman read from the back of the envelope, her smile fading a bit.
“Thank you.” I took the bowl and turned away, shutting the door behind me with one foot. I hadn’t gotten flowers in…well, I just couldn’t remember. Carefully, I set the bowl on my kitchen table and pulled the gift envelope out of the prolonged plastic holder. I noticed it had been licked and shut rather carefully, and after I extracted the card and read it, I appreciated the discretion. “I miss you. Claude,” it read, in a slanted, sprawling hand.
I searched inside myself for a reaction and found I had no idea how to feel. I touched a pink rose with one fingertip. Though I wear plastic gloves when I work, my hands still get rough, and I was anxious I would damage the delicate smoothness of the flower. Next I touched a white ball of baby’s breath. I slowly positioned the bowl in the exact middle of the table, and reached up a hand to wipe my cheeks.
I fought an impulse to call the florist and send some flowers right back to him, to show him how he’d touched me. But Claude wanted this to be a purely masculine gesture, and I would let it be.
When I left to bring order into the Winthrops’ chaos, I could feel a faint smile on my face.
LUCK CONTINUED WITH me—up to a point—that afternoon. Since the weather was clear, I parked in front of the Winthrop house on the street. I only used the garage when it was snowing or raining, because my car had an apparently incurable oil leak and I didn’t want to spot the immaculate Winthrop garage floor. I’d driven by the garage, which opened onto a side street, and seen it was empty. Good. None of the Winthrops were home.
Beanie, a lean, attractive woman somewhere in her midforties, was likely to be playing tennis or doing volunteer work. Howell Winthrop, Jr., would be at Winthrop Sporting Goods or Winthrop Lumber and Home Supply, or even at Winthrop Oil. Amber Jean and Howell Three (that was what the family called him) were in junior high and high school. Bobo was at work at Body Time, or attending classes in the U of A extension thirty-five minutes away in Montrose. Though the Winthrops were very wealthy, no Winthrop child would consider going anywhere but the University of Arkansas, and my only surprise was that Bobo was going to the Montrose campus rather than the mother ship up north in Fayetteville. The razorback hog, symbol of the University of Arkansas, featured prominently in the Winthrops’ design scheme.
On Fridays, I dusted, mopped, and vacuumed. I’d already done the laundry, ironing, and bathrooms on my first visit of the week on Tuesday morning. The Winthrop kids had gotten pretty good about washing any clothing item they just had to have between my visits, but they’d never learned to pick up their rooms properly. Beanie was pretty neat with her things, and Howell wasn’t home enough to make a mess.
I paused in my dusting to examine the portrait of Beanie and Howell Jr. that had been their most recent anniversary present to each other. I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’d seen Howell at home
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