into.”
“Who?”
“Greg,” I said quietly. “Greg Attwood.”
“Your old boyfriend?”
I nodded. “I think he just asked me out.”
Bee smiled as if this was all part of the plan. She reached for a red onion, examined it, and then shook her head, throwing it back on the pile. She did this a few more times before finding one that pleased her. She said something quietly, under her breath, and when I asked her to repeat herself, she was already across the aisle, filling a bag with leeks. I glanced at the stairs to the wine department and smiled to myself.
Just before six, Bee pulled three wineglasses out of the cabinet and uncorked the bottle of white that Greg had selected for us.
“Light the candles, dear, will you, please?”
I reached for the matches and thought about the dinners at Bee’s house during my childhood. Bee never served a meal without candles. “A proper supper requires candlelight,” she’d told my sister and me years ago. I thought it was elegant and exciting, and when I asked my mom if we could start the same tradition at home, she said no. “Candles are for birthday parties,” she said, “and those only come once a year.”
“Beautiful,” Bee said, surveying the table before taking a close look at the white wine Greg had recommended. “Pinot grigio,” she said approvingly, eyeing the label.
“Bee,” I said, sitting at the table as she sliced a leek with a large butcher knife. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about Jack the other day. What’s the story between you two?”
She looked up, a bit startled, then dropped the knife suddenly, clutching her hand. “Ouch,” she said. “I cut myself.”
“Oh no,” I said, running to her. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” she said. “It’s not your fault. These old hands don’t work the way they used to.”
“Here, let me do the chopping,” I said, shooing Bee to the table.
She bandaged her finger, and I finished dicing the leeks, then stirred the risotto, feeling the savory steam rise from the pot to my face with every turn around the pan.
“Bee, it just doesn’t make sense that—”
I was cut off by the sound of Evelyn’s footsteps at the front door. “Hello, girls!” she said, walking toward the kitchen. In her hands were a bottle of wine and a bouquet of purple lilacs wrapped in brown paper and tied loosely with a strand of twine.
“They’re lovely,” Bee said, smiling. “Now, where on earth did you find these this early in the season?”
“In my garden,” she said as though Bee had just asked her what color the sky was. “My lilac tree always blooms before yours.” She said it with an air of amicable competitiveness that only a sixty-plusyear friendship could bear.
Bee mixed her a drink—something with bourbon—and then sent us to the living room while she put the finishing touches on dinner.
“Your aunt is quite something, isn’t she?” Evelyn said to me once Bee was out of earshot.
“She’s a legend,” I said, smiling.
“She is,” Evelyn said. The ice in her drink was clinking against the glass, but I couldn’t tell if she was doing it on purpose or if her hands were trembling.
“I was going to tell her my news tonight,” she said, turning back to me. She said it casually, as if she might have been talking about a new car purchase or a vacation she had booked. But then I noticed tears in her eyes. “I decided, on the way over, that I’d tell her tonight, but then I saw her just now. I saw how good things are, and I thought, Why ruin a perfectly good evening?”
I was confused. “Tell her what?”
She nodded. “I have cancer. Terminal cancer.” She said it the way one might say, “I have a cold,” simply and straightforward, devoid of the drama it deserved. “I have a month, maybe less, to live,” she said quietly. “I’ve known for a while now, since Christmas. But I haven’t found a way to tell Bee. I guess I keep thinking that it might be easier if she
“Who?”
“Greg,” I said quietly. “Greg Attwood.”
“Your old boyfriend?”
I nodded. “I think he just asked me out.”
Bee smiled as if this was all part of the plan. She reached for a red onion, examined it, and then shook her head, throwing it back on the pile. She did this a few more times before finding one that pleased her. She said something quietly, under her breath, and when I asked her to repeat herself, she was already across the aisle, filling a bag with leeks. I glanced at the stairs to the wine department and smiled to myself.
Just before six, Bee pulled three wineglasses out of the cabinet and uncorked the bottle of white that Greg had selected for us.
“Light the candles, dear, will you, please?”
I reached for the matches and thought about the dinners at Bee’s house during my childhood. Bee never served a meal without candles. “A proper supper requires candlelight,” she’d told my sister and me years ago. I thought it was elegant and exciting, and when I asked my mom if we could start the same tradition at home, she said no. “Candles are for birthday parties,” she said, “and those only come once a year.”
“Beautiful,” Bee said, surveying the table before taking a close look at the white wine Greg had recommended. “Pinot grigio,” she said approvingly, eyeing the label.
“Bee,” I said, sitting at the table as she sliced a leek with a large butcher knife. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about Jack the other day. What’s the story between you two?”
She looked up, a bit startled, then dropped the knife suddenly, clutching her hand. “Ouch,” she said. “I cut myself.”
“Oh no,” I said, running to her. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” she said. “It’s not your fault. These old hands don’t work the way they used to.”
“Here, let me do the chopping,” I said, shooing Bee to the table.
She bandaged her finger, and I finished dicing the leeks, then stirred the risotto, feeling the savory steam rise from the pot to my face with every turn around the pan.
“Bee, it just doesn’t make sense that—”
I was cut off by the sound of Evelyn’s footsteps at the front door. “Hello, girls!” she said, walking toward the kitchen. In her hands were a bottle of wine and a bouquet of purple lilacs wrapped in brown paper and tied loosely with a strand of twine.
“They’re lovely,” Bee said, smiling. “Now, where on earth did you find these this early in the season?”
“In my garden,” she said as though Bee had just asked her what color the sky was. “My lilac tree always blooms before yours.” She said it with an air of amicable competitiveness that only a sixty-plusyear friendship could bear.
Bee mixed her a drink—something with bourbon—and then sent us to the living room while she put the finishing touches on dinner.
“Your aunt is quite something, isn’t she?” Evelyn said to me once Bee was out of earshot.
“She’s a legend,” I said, smiling.
“She is,” Evelyn said. The ice in her drink was clinking against the glass, but I couldn’t tell if she was doing it on purpose or if her hands were trembling.
“I was going to tell her my news tonight,” she said, turning back to me. She said it casually, as if she might have been talking about a new car purchase or a vacation she had booked. But then I noticed tears in her eyes. “I decided, on the way over, that I’d tell her tonight, but then I saw her just now. I saw how good things are, and I thought, Why ruin a perfectly good evening?”
I was confused. “Tell her what?”
She nodded. “I have cancer. Terminal cancer.” She said it the way one might say, “I have a cold,” simply and straightforward, devoid of the drama it deserved. “I have a month, maybe less, to live,” she said quietly. “I’ve known for a while now, since Christmas. But I haven’t found a way to tell Bee. I guess I keep thinking that it might be easier if she
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