there was the butcher, the dairy, the fruit and veg shop, the dry goods place. All separate, like. You’d go from one to the other with your basket.” After a moment she continued. “It was a lot more time-consuming, of course, but you bought just what you needed for the day and cooked everything fresh. There was no processed food and ready meals back then. And you got to socialize with the shopkeepers. That’s how I met Arthur, in fact. His shop was where the supermarket is now, just down the road from the manicure salon, and the post office was across the square, where it is now.” She sighed. “Oh, just thinking about it brings it all back. All the changes we’ve seen in the town over the years and not all of them for the better, let me tell you.”
Florence handed the letter opener back to Mrs. Lloyd who began to slit her way through the rest of her post, which seemed to consist mainly of bills, with one or two Christmas cards. She chewed thoughtfully on her toast and looked around the well-appointed dining room with its heavy drapery and dark, old-fashioned furniture. Soft morning light slanted through the tall windows and a carriage clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the seconds.
“I was wondering how long you and Arthur lived here,” Florence said, breaking the silence. “The house is so big-it must have seemed very empty after he died.”
Mrs. Lloyd looked up from the last piece of her mail.
“He went much too soon, Arthur did,” Mrs. Lloyd said. “And he was practically a vegetarian, so it couldn’t have been his diet.” She set down her letter opener and wiped her hands on her napkin.
“We lived here from the day we were married. Of course, it wasn’t our house then, it belonged to Arthur’s aunt. A spinster, as unmarried women were called back then. We planned to stay with her just until we saved up the down payment for a little place of our own, but she grew rather dependent on us and, well, we just never left. And when she died, she left it to Arthur, and when he died, he left it to me.”
“You don’t have any children, do you? You’ve never mentioned them.”
“No,” Mrs. Lloyd said. “Sadly, Arthur and I were never blessed with children of our own, so there’s just my niece, Morwyn. Of course, she’s like a daughter to me, but it’s not really the same, is it?”
A small, soft sound coming from the front of the house attracted their attention, and two heads turned toward it, and then back to each other.
“Sounded like mail landing on the carpet, but the postman’s been,” Mrs. Lloyd said.
“Perhaps he forgot something and came back,” Florence replied. “I’ll go and see what it is.”
A few moments later she returned with an envelope which she handed to Mrs. Lloyd.
“Delivered by hand, it looks like,” she said.
“Oh,” Mrs. Lloyd replied, surveying the paper that littered the table. “What did I do with my letter opener? Oh, there it is,” she said, turning over an envelope.
She slit open the envelope, pulled out a piece of paper, and then smiled.
“Oh! It’s from Harry. He’s inviting me out to dinner tomorrow evening.”
“Well, I hope you’re going to tell him you’re busy,” Florence said.
Mrs. Lloyd gave her a puzzled look. “But I’m not busy, so why on earth would I tell him I am?”
“Because Wednesday is the cut-off day for accepting an invitation from a gentleman for the weekend,” Florence said. “After that, you’re supposed to say you’re busy. Otherwise, it makes you look desperate.”
Mrs. Lloyd laughed lightly. “Desperate, is it? Oh, my dear Florence, no, I am not desperate, but I do enjoy a man’s company and how often these days does one invite me out for dinner?”
She looked at her watch.
“If I get my skates on, I can just make the ten thirty bus into Llandudno.”
Clutching the note from Saunders, she got up from the table and hurried off down the hall. Florence watched her go, and then began sorting the morning post into three little piles: one to keep, one to shred, and one to recycle. When she was finished, she set the pineapple letter opener squarely on top of the keep pile, and then settled back in her chair to finish her coffee.
Five
She’s taking a long time to get ready, Florence thought as she puttered about in the kitchen. With Mrs. Lloyd out for dinner, Florence thought she’d just have something light on a tray in front of the television. She’d read somewhere that the queen and Prince Philip often take their evening meal that way on a rare night off from their busy round of social engagements.
The sound of the doorbell startled her and she set down the bowl she had been drying and went to answer it.
“Well,” she said to the middle-aged man standing on the front step, “if you’re Harry Saunders, you’d better come in.”
“Thank you,” he replied as he stepped into the entry hall. “I didn’t realize Evelyn would have someone with her.”
“Oh, didn’t she say? I’m Florence Semble and I live here with her.”
Saunders’s eyes narrowed slightly and then he smiled at her.
“Well, I’m sure that’s very nice for both of you. Are you related?”
“No, we’re not. And if you’d just like to come through, she said to tell you that she’d be down in a minute. I’d offer to take your coat, but I don’t think she’ll be that long.” Florence led the way to the sitting room with Saunders following her, unbuttoning his coat as he went. He eased himself into the squishy depths of a floral easy chair, crossed his legs, and took in the details of the room under Florence’s watchful eye. A few moments later he stood up and crossed over to the fireplace and, after making a show of warming his hands on the gas fire, turned his attention to the items displayed on the mantelpiece.
He casually picked up the invitation to the spa opening, glanced at it, set it down again, and moved on to a figurine of a Siamese cat with a pink bow around its neck. He picked it up, tipped it over, and turned toward Florence, apparently about to say something.
She cleared her throat and fixed him with a steady brown eye. He returned her gaze with a blank, cold stare.
“Sorry.” Saunders grinned sheepishly as he returned the cat with its pointed ears to its mantelpiece home. “So many interesting, lovely things, couldn’t help myself.”
The sound of Mrs. Lloyd descending the stairs broke the awkwardness of the moment, and the two turned toward the doorway as Mrs. Lloyd, hand outstretched to Saunders, sailed through. She was wearing a long-sleeved turquoise dress with fancy pleating across the bodice, which put Florence in mind of some kind of mother-of-the- bride outfit. And something about her posture seemed different. She carried herself very erect, shoulders back in a way that looked stiff and somehow unnatural.
“Evelyn, my dear, how lovely you look,” Saunders said. “Shall I just help you on with your coat and we’ll be off?”
“Did Florence not offer you a drink?” Mrs. Lloyd asked. “Oh, Florence, whatever will Harry think of us? Harry,” she said, turning to him, “do let’s have a drink before we go. Let me see. I’ll bet you’re a whisky man.” She beamed at him. “Florence, why don’t you pour us all a whisky and, Harry, do take your coat off. There’s no rush, is there?”
“Well, our reservation is for seven thirty,” Harry said, pushing up a monogrammed shirtsleeve so he could consult his watch. “Still, I guess we have plenty of time. We’ll call for a taxi after we’ve finished our drinks. Oh, just a ginger ale for me, please, if you’ve got one.”
Florence walked over to the drinks table and poured two glasses of whisky and a ginger ale. With a glance at Harry, she abruptly left the room and returned a few moments later with a few ice cubes in a small cut-glass bowl.
“As you’re an American, I expect you take yours with ice,” she said curtly. He nodded and she added a few cubes to one of the glasses.
“Well, cheers, everyone,” said Mrs. Lloyd, raising her glass.
“Here’s to a very special evening,” added Saunders. Mrs. Lloyd smiled at him, then gestured to the other two that they should sit down.
“Now, then, Mr. Saunders,” said Florence, leaning forward with her arms resting on her knees, holding her glass
