“Yes. She was in the office yesterday. She’s thinking about buying the house I inherited from Jane.”
I’d discovered Aubrey was interested in me the very day I found out Jane had left me her home and her money and a secret, one I’d never told Aubrey… or anyone else. Aubrey had always felt a little uncomfortable about Jane’s legacy, since his sensitive cleric’s antennae told him people had talked mightily about that strange bequest.
“It’s a pretty little house. That would be a good place to raise a child.”
Aubrey had that child on the brain. He hadn’t had any with his wife, who had died of cancer.
“I didn’t know you were fond of children, Aubrey,” I said very carefully.
“Roe, there’s never a good time to talk about this, so I’ll talk to you about it now.”
I swung around to face him. My hand had actually been on the door knob. I know I must have looked alarmed.
“I can’t have children.”
He could see from my expression that I was struggling for a response.
“When my wife began to get sick, before we found out what was wrong, we’d been trying, and I went in for tests before her. I found out I was sterile… and we found out she had cancer.”
I closed my eyes and leaned against the door for a second. Then I stepped over to Aubrey and put my arms around him and leaned my head against his chest. “Oh, honey,” I said softly, “I’m so sorry.” I stroked his back with one hand.
“Does it make a difference to you?” he asked me softly.
I didn’t raise my head. “I don’t know,” I said sadly. “But I think it makes a difference to you.” I turned up my face then, and he kissed me. Despite Aubrey’s principles, we came very close to falling over the edge then and there, at the end of our relationship. There was more emotion in back of our touching than there ever had been before.
“We’d better go,” I said.
“Yes,” he said regretfully.
We were silent all the way to my mother’s house on Plantation Drive. We were both a little sad, I think.
Chapter Six
MARTIN’S Mercedes was already parked in front of my mother’s house. I took a deep breath and exhaled it into the nippy air as I swung my legs out of the front seat of Aubrey’s car. He extended his hand and helped me out, and we went up the long flight of steps to the front door still holding hands. The glass storm door showed us the fireplace, lit and welcoming, and my mother’s new husband, John Queensland, standing in front of it with a glass of wine. He saw us coming and held the door for us.
“Come in, come in, it’s cold out tonight! I think winter is just about really here,” John said genially. I realized that he now felt at home in the house, he was the host. I, therefore, must be a guest.
This evening was beginning on several jarring notes.
My mother swept in from the kitchen. She could sweep even in quite narrow dresses; you’d think lots of material would be required for that gesture, but not with Aida Teagarden Queensland.
“Aubrey! Aurora! Come get warm and have a glass of wine with our guests,” Mother said, giving me a peck on the cheek and patting Aubrey’s shoulder.
He was sitting on the couch, his back to me. I had a little time to get myself steeled. I held Aubrey’s hand tighter. We went around the corner of the couch to enter the little “conversation group” before the fire.
“Have you gotten over your shock of yesterday?” asked Barby Lampton. She was wearing an unbecoming dress in dark green and mustard.
“Yes,” I said briefly. “And you?”
Aubrey was sliding my coat off. He smoothed my hair gently before he handed the coat to John to hang up. My eyes finally met Martin Bartell’s. His face was quite expressionless. His eyes were hot.
“I guess so,” Barby said with a little laugh. “Nothing like that has ever happened to me before, but a woman I met at the local library this morning was telling me you’ve had an exciting life.”
“Were you taking out a library card?” I asked after a moment.
“Oh, no,” Barby said, letting out a little shriek of laughter. “I wanted to look at the New York Times, at the sale ads. I was thinking about flying up to New York before I go home.”
Her marriage must have left her pretty affluent.
“You’re going back so soon?” John asked hastily. Aubrey and I sat on one of the love seats flanking the couch, and Aubrey took my hand again.
“I’m sorry. I must not be cut out for rural living,” Barby said rather smugly. “This is such a sweet little town, all the people are so-talkative.” And her eyes cut toward me. “But I miss Chicago more than I thought I would. I’ll have to go back and start apartment-hunting. I think Martin was hoping I’d keep house for him, but I don’t think I’m quite ready for that. She smirked at us significantly.
“I understand you got hurt quite badly a couple of years ago?” Barby went on, oblivious to the fact that my mother’s back got very straight and even John looked rather grim. Martin’s eyes were going from one face to another curiously.
“Not seriously,” I said finally. “My collarbone was broken, and two ribs.”
Aubrey was looking studiously at his wineglass. My brush with death had always seemed a little lurid to him.
“Oh, my God! I know that hurt!”
“Yes. It hurt.”
“How did it happen?”
My side began to ache, as it always did when I thought about that horrible night. I heard myself screaming and felt the pain all over again.
“It’s old news,” I said.
Barby opened her mouth again.
“I hear you have a wonderful cook, Aida,” Martin said clearly and smoothly.
Barby looked at him in surprise, Mother in gratitude.
“Yes,” she agreed instantly, “but Mrs. Esther is not my cook, really. She’s a local caterer. If she knows you well, she’ll come into your home and cook for you. If she doesn’t know you well, she’ll prepare it all and leave it in your kitchen with instructions. Fortunately for me, she knows me well. She picks her own menu, and the next day everyone gets to talk about what Mrs. Esther felt like cooking for Mrs. Queensland, or Mr. Bartell, or whomever. We’ve all tried to figure out how she selects her dishes, but no one can pick out a pattern.”
Mrs. Esther’s cooking and character had provided more conversational fodder for parties than any other topic in Lawrenceton. Martin segued smoothly from Mrs. Esther to catering disasters at parties he’d attended, Aubrey ran that into bizarre weddings at which he’d officiated, and we were all laughing by the time Mrs. Esther appeared in the doorway in a spotless white uniform to announce that it was time to come to the table. She was a tall, heavy black woman with hair always arranged in braids crowning her head, and thick gold hoops in her ears. Mrs. Esther-no one ever called her Lucinda-was a serious woman. If she had a sense of humor, she kept it a secret from her clients. Mr. Esther was a secret, too. Young Esthers were always on the honor roll printed in the newspaper, and they were apparently as closemouthed as their mother.
We all went into Mother’s dining room with a sense of anticipation. Sometimes Mrs. Esther cooked French, sometimes traditional Southern, once or twice even German or Creole. Most often it was just American food well prepared and served. Tonight we had baked ham, sweet potato casserole, green beans with small new potatoes, homemade rolls, Waldorf salad, and Hummingbird Cake for dessert. Mother had placed herself and John on the ends, of course, and Aubrey and I faced Barby and Martin, respectively.
I looked at Martin when I thought he was unfolding his napkin. He instantly looked up, and we stared at each other, his hand frozen in the act of shaking out the napkin.
Oh, dear, this was just awful. I would have given anything to be miles and miles away, but there was no excuse I could make to leave just then. I looked away, addressed some remark at random to Aubrey, and resolutely kept my eyes turned down for at least sixty seconds afterwards.