in years. They had no idea of what all she had done to the cottage, and expressed their bewilderment and dismay again and again at her eagerness to stay here for extended periods. She had told them to butt out.
After years of working at the kitchen table when no one else was using it, or in the bedroom when Herbert was not sleeping, she had a real workroom. Easels were set up; a long table held many clay figures, some fanciful, some realistic; pots and tubes of paint and brushes were arranged so that she could find exactly what she wanted at any hour of the day or night; there were shelves of books and manuscripts, a television, CD player, and a computer with an excellent oversized monitor. She liked to museum hop on the Internet, as well as keep in touch with an ever-growing network of friends from all over the world, many of them beginning artists who valued her comments on the digitized art they e-mailed her. Her illustrations were everywhere in the cottage, on the walls, in frames leaning against the walls, on the work table. She illustrated children’s books, and was good at it, and had no intention of retiring and entering a community where she would have company, organized recreation, competent medical attendants around the clock if needed. She suspected that her dutiful children conspired to ease her into such a place every time they got together.
During the past week, since Jud’s murder, they had taken turns calling her, urging her to go into town where she would be safe. “You’re all bugging the bejesus out of me!” she had exclaimed to Junior the last time he called. “I have work to do. Leave me alone.”
Her husband was an accountant, she had told Jud years ago, and unfortunately all four children were accountants, also. Not in fact, but in spirit. Jud had laughed delightedly and they had spent the afternoon labeling people: four categories, they had decided. Accountants, bureaucrats, beasts of burden, and artists.
“Oh shit,” she had said. “We need another one. What about scientists?”
“Artists,” he had said without hesitation. “Some of them anyway. Surrounded by pencil pushers, grant writers, Bunsen burner igniters, and computer data tabulators.”
Felicia was sitting at her kitchen table, her two dogs at her feet, her gaze on the lake, but she was no longer seeing it, thinking instead of the many times she and Jud had sat here, talking, joking, companionable in a way she had not known with anyone else. No need to explain things with him, or explain herself or try to. Of course, when Herbert died, she had missed him. You have to miss someone you’ve lived with for more than forty years, but this missing was different. She missed Jud in a way she had not expected, had not been prepared for, and could not quite understand. It wasn’t as if he had been with her all that much, a few times a week, then gone for weeks sometimes, but she had always known he would be back, that they would sit and talk while she made fantastic figures out of clay, her models. Or he would sit while she painted, or sketched. Often he would bring fish or something and they would share dinner and drinks. Or he would pick up an order she had placed at a store in Bend and deliver it and linger. Now and then he would show up with a duck and she would make a special dinner that he particularly loved. She missed him with a deep, painful ache that continued to grow instead of recede as the days passed.
She was still at the table when Daisy and Mae both lifted their heads, came wide awake, and started to bark. Then she heard it, too. A car had pulled up to the house. She went to the door and opened it, and, expecting police officers and perhaps Abby, she was surprised to see instead a young woman with frizzy brown hair. She was alone.
“I’m Detective Ellen Varney,” her visitor said. “Mrs. Shaeffer?”
“You’re a detective?”
“Yes, ma’am.” She pulled out identification, and Felicia opened the door
After years of working at the kitchen table when no one else was using it, or in the bedroom when Herbert was not sleeping, she had a real workroom. Easels were set up; a long table held many clay figures, some fanciful, some realistic; pots and tubes of paint and brushes were arranged so that she could find exactly what she wanted at any hour of the day or night; there were shelves of books and manuscripts, a television, CD player, and a computer with an excellent oversized monitor. She liked to museum hop on the Internet, as well as keep in touch with an ever-growing network of friends from all over the world, many of them beginning artists who valued her comments on the digitized art they e-mailed her. Her illustrations were everywhere in the cottage, on the walls, in frames leaning against the walls, on the work table. She illustrated children’s books, and was good at it, and had no intention of retiring and entering a community where she would have company, organized recreation, competent medical attendants around the clock if needed. She suspected that her dutiful children conspired to ease her into such a place every time they got together.
During the past week, since Jud’s murder, they had taken turns calling her, urging her to go into town where she would be safe. “You’re all bugging the bejesus out of me!” she had exclaimed to Junior the last time he called. “I have work to do. Leave me alone.”
Her husband was an accountant, she had told Jud years ago, and unfortunately all four children were accountants, also. Not in fact, but in spirit. Jud had laughed delightedly and they had spent the afternoon labeling people: four categories, they had decided. Accountants, bureaucrats, beasts of burden, and artists.
“Oh shit,” she had said. “We need another one. What about scientists?”
“Artists,” he had said without hesitation. “Some of them anyway. Surrounded by pencil pushers, grant writers, Bunsen burner igniters, and computer data tabulators.”
Felicia was sitting at her kitchen table, her two dogs at her feet, her gaze on the lake, but she was no longer seeing it, thinking instead of the many times she and Jud had sat here, talking, joking, companionable in a way she had not known with anyone else. No need to explain things with him, or explain herself or try to. Of course, when Herbert died, she had missed him. You have to miss someone you’ve lived with for more than forty years, but this missing was different. She missed Jud in a way she had not expected, had not been prepared for, and could not quite understand. It wasn’t as if he had been with her all that much, a few times a week, then gone for weeks sometimes, but she had always known he would be back, that they would sit and talk while she made fantastic figures out of clay, her models. Or he would sit while she painted, or sketched. Often he would bring fish or something and they would share dinner and drinks. Or he would pick up an order she had placed at a store in Bend and deliver it and linger. Now and then he would show up with a duck and she would make a special dinner that he particularly loved. She missed him with a deep, painful ache that continued to grow instead of recede as the days passed.
She was still at the table when Daisy and Mae both lifted their heads, came wide awake, and started to bark. Then she heard it, too. A car had pulled up to the house. She went to the door and opened it, and, expecting police officers and perhaps Abby, she was surprised to see instead a young woman with frizzy brown hair. She was alone.
“I’m Detective Ellen Varney,” her visitor said. “Mrs. Shaeffer?”
“You’re a detective?”
“Yes, ma’am.” She pulled out identification, and Felicia opened the door
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