had refinished andPauline had recovered in a nubby mauve fabric that still smelled of her woodsy perfume and hand-milled soap.
“Hugh,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Hugh, your mother, Pauline, she was … we’re just lost, Hugh, your mother was so …”
“I’m so sorry,” he was saying. “I know you and Mom were friends all those years. This must be so hard on you. And you were a friend to her,” he encouraged. “If you and Kat hadn’t gone out there after my dad died, she couldn’t have kept the farm.” He paused. “I guess you know that.”
Della had seen enough deaths to know that it was easier to console than to be consoled. “You’re a good boy, Hugh. You made your mother so proud.”
“Yeah. Well.”
They fell silent for a second and again she pictured him, with his father’s large hands and his mother’s sensitive mouth and this terrible discomfort connecting him to Della.
“Well,” she said briskly. “You call Melissa. I’ll fax my list and I’ll tell the hospital that they’ll hear from the funeral home. And you’ll let me know about the funeral.”
“Yes,” he said. Another pause. “And of course, you ladies—Kat and what’s-her-name? Rita? and you—you’ll sit with the family, won’t you?”
“Of course,” she said, wondering if he knew about Barbara. There’s time for that, Della thought as they said their good-byes. She hung up the phone and burrowed into Pauline’s chair. Make a list, Della thought. People to call. Guests. Women enrolled in Pauline’s classes. Della closed her eyes and pictured names and phone numbers in peacock-blue ink on pastel paper. She pictured loaves of fresh-baked bread, cooling in the kitchen. She pictured a work table covered with unfired ceramics and a rafter hung with bunches of herbs drying in a cool breeze. I can’t make a list, thought Della, feeling thetears begin to flow. She rubbed her cheek against the chair back.
“Now look!” she sobbed to Richard. “Your stupid wife’s gone and killed Pauline!”
“Well, God knows I would love to blame her for Pauline’s death,” Kat assured Della, “but you know as well as I do Pauline was vomiting because she had a heart attack and it wasn’t vomiting that killed her.”
“I know she had a heart attack,” Della said. “But people survive heart attacks every day if they don’t choke to death.”
Kat took both Della’s hands in her own. “Della, give it up. What difference does it make anyway?”
They were sitting in the canoe near the far bank of the river, where they had paddled to get away from Barbara. In all the excitement, they had forgotten they had guests checking in Monday afternoon and it had taken the two of them, with help from Barbara, Nancy, and Rita, almost every minute through Tuesday lunch to see to their guests’ needs. Now, with Rita leading an excursion to the outlet mall and Barbara wandering through the empty house, the two of them were finally able to talk.
“Look,” Kat said, “I’ve got a crafts lady coming over from the junior college who thinks she can take everything but the journal-writing class. You could teach that, couldn’t you?”
Della blinked. She was still picturing Pauline on the concrete floor of the barn, head back, mouth open. “Journal writing?”
“Come on, you write Silver Quest , you write ads, you can write journals.”
“When is it?”
“Tuesdays and Thursdays, ten to eleven-thirty, and a mini the first week in August.”
“Twice?” The weekly classes drew from the local population, with several women driving out from Fort Worth once or twice a week.The minis attracted guests who wanted week-long programs. This week’s had been counting on “Domestic Magic: A Houseful of Distinction from Everyday Discards.” Thankfully, the four women from Houston were easily satisfied by a substitute curriculum of day trips, beauty treatments, and serious credit toward another week at the Ladies Farm.
“Come on, Della,
“Hugh,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Hugh, your mother, Pauline, she was … we’re just lost, Hugh, your mother was so …”
“I’m so sorry,” he was saying. “I know you and Mom were friends all those years. This must be so hard on you. And you were a friend to her,” he encouraged. “If you and Kat hadn’t gone out there after my dad died, she couldn’t have kept the farm.” He paused. “I guess you know that.”
Della had seen enough deaths to know that it was easier to console than to be consoled. “You’re a good boy, Hugh. You made your mother so proud.”
“Yeah. Well.”
They fell silent for a second and again she pictured him, with his father’s large hands and his mother’s sensitive mouth and this terrible discomfort connecting him to Della.
“Well,” she said briskly. “You call Melissa. I’ll fax my list and I’ll tell the hospital that they’ll hear from the funeral home. And you’ll let me know about the funeral.”
“Yes,” he said. Another pause. “And of course, you ladies—Kat and what’s-her-name? Rita? and you—you’ll sit with the family, won’t you?”
“Of course,” she said, wondering if he knew about Barbara. There’s time for that, Della thought as they said their good-byes. She hung up the phone and burrowed into Pauline’s chair. Make a list, Della thought. People to call. Guests. Women enrolled in Pauline’s classes. Della closed her eyes and pictured names and phone numbers in peacock-blue ink on pastel paper. She pictured loaves of fresh-baked bread, cooling in the kitchen. She pictured a work table covered with unfired ceramics and a rafter hung with bunches of herbs drying in a cool breeze. I can’t make a list, thought Della, feeling thetears begin to flow. She rubbed her cheek against the chair back.
“Now look!” she sobbed to Richard. “Your stupid wife’s gone and killed Pauline!”
“Well, God knows I would love to blame her for Pauline’s death,” Kat assured Della, “but you know as well as I do Pauline was vomiting because she had a heart attack and it wasn’t vomiting that killed her.”
“I know she had a heart attack,” Della said. “But people survive heart attacks every day if they don’t choke to death.”
Kat took both Della’s hands in her own. “Della, give it up. What difference does it make anyway?”
They were sitting in the canoe near the far bank of the river, where they had paddled to get away from Barbara. In all the excitement, they had forgotten they had guests checking in Monday afternoon and it had taken the two of them, with help from Barbara, Nancy, and Rita, almost every minute through Tuesday lunch to see to their guests’ needs. Now, with Rita leading an excursion to the outlet mall and Barbara wandering through the empty house, the two of them were finally able to talk.
“Look,” Kat said, “I’ve got a crafts lady coming over from the junior college who thinks she can take everything but the journal-writing class. You could teach that, couldn’t you?”
Della blinked. She was still picturing Pauline on the concrete floor of the barn, head back, mouth open. “Journal writing?”
“Come on, you write Silver Quest , you write ads, you can write journals.”
“When is it?”
“Tuesdays and Thursdays, ten to eleven-thirty, and a mini the first week in August.”
“Twice?” The weekly classes drew from the local population, with several women driving out from Fort Worth once or twice a week.The minis attracted guests who wanted week-long programs. This week’s had been counting on “Domestic Magic: A Houseful of Distinction from Everyday Discards.” Thankfully, the four women from Houston were easily satisfied by a substitute curriculum of day trips, beauty treatments, and serious credit toward another week at the Ladies Farm.
“Come on, Della,
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