supposed to bother me? But maybe I’d been woolgathering while they’d spelled it out.
Varena certainly looked as if she needed sleep and a holiday. And this, right before the happiest time of her life.
“Of course,” I said. “What about the wedding dress?”
“Oh, my heavens!” Mother exclaimed. “We’ve got to get that out right away!” Mother’s pale face flushed. Somehow, the wedding dress was at risk in that apartment. Galvanized by this sudden urgency, Mother shooed me into my car and bundled herself up in record time.
She followed me over to Varena’s and took the dress home personally, carrying it from the cottage to the car as though it were the crown and scepter of royalty.
I was left alone in Varena’s place, an oddly unsettling feeling. It was like surreptitiously going through her drawers. I shrugged. I was here to do a job. That thought was very normal, very steadying, after all we’d seen lately.
I counted boxes, moved the ones already full out to my car trunk after labeling them with Varena’s black marker. “Martha Stewart, that’s me,” I muttered and folded out the flaps on another box, placing it by the nearest closet. This was a little double closet with sliding doors in Varena’s tiny hall. It held only a few linens and towels. I guessed Varena had already moved the others.
Just as I’d picked up the first handful, trying to restrain myself from shaking the sheets out and refolding them, there was a knock on the door. I looked through Varena’s peephole. The knocker was a blond man, small, fair, with red-rimmed blue eyes. He looked mild and sad. I was sure I knew who it was.
“Emory Osborn,” he said, when I opened the door. I shook his hand. His was that soft boneless handshake some men give a woman, as though they’re scared if they squeeze with all their masculine power they’ll break her delicate fingers. It felt like shaking hands with the Pillsbury Dough Boy. This was something Jess O’Shea and Emory Osborn had in common.
“Come in,” I said. After all, he owned the cottage.
Emory Osborn stepped over the threshold. The widower was maybe 5‘ 7“, not much taller than I. He was very fair and blue-eyed, handsome on a small scale, and he had the most flawless skin I’d ever seen on a man. Right at the moment, it was pink from the cold.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I told him.
He looked directly at me then. “You were here in the cottage last night?”
“Yes, I was.”
“You saw her?”
“Yes.”
“She was alive.”
I shifted uneasily. “Yes,” I told him reluctantly.
“Did she speak?”
“She asked after the children.”
“The children?”
“That’s all.”
His eyes closed, and for one awful moment I thought he was going to cry.
“Have a seat,” I said abruptly. I startled him into sitting down in the nearest chair, an armchair that must be Varena’s favorite from the way she’d positioned it.
“Let me get you some hot chocolate.” I went into the kitchen without waiting for an answer. I knew there would be some since Varena’d offered it to me the night before. There it was, on the counter where she’d set it, along with two mugs. Luckily, the microwave was built-in, so I was able to heat the water in it. I stirred in the powder. It wasn’t very good, but it was hot and sweet, and he looked in need of both sugar and warmth.
“Where are the children?” I asked as I put his mug on the small oak table by the chair.
“ They’re with church members,” he said. His voice was rich but not big.
“So, what can I do for you?” It didn’t seem that he would say anything else unless I prompted him.
“I wanted to see where she died.”
This was very nearly intolerable. “There, on the couch,” I said brusquely.
He stared. “There aren’t any stains,” he told me.
“Varena slung a sheet over it.” This was beyond strange. The back of my neck began to prickle. I wasn’t going to sit knee to knee with him-I’d been perched on the ottoman that matched the chair-and point out where Meredith’s head had been, what spot her feet had touched.
“Before your friend put Meredith down?”
“Yes.” I jumped up to pull a fitted sheet from the closet. Giving way to an almost irresistible compulsion, I refolded it, and knew I’d straighten all the rest, too. The hell with Varena’s finer feelings.
“And he is-?”
“My friend.” I could hear my voice get flatter and harder.
“You’re angry with me, I’m afraid,” he said wearily. And sure enough, he was weeping, tears were running down his cheeks. He blotted them automatically with a well-used handkerchief.
“You shouldn’t put yourself through this.” My tone was still not the one a nice woman would use to a widower. I meant he shouldn’t put
“I feel like God’s abandoned me and the kids. I’m heartbroken,” and I reflected I’d never actually heard anyone use that word out loud, “and my faith has left me,” he finished, without taking a breath. He put his face in his hands.
Oh, man. I didn’t want to hear this. I didn’t want to be here.
Through the uncurtained window, I saw a car pull in behind mine in the cottage’s narrow driveway. Jess O’Shea got out and began his way to the door, his head bowed. A minister-just the person to deal with a lapse of faith and recent bereavement. I opened the door before he had a chance to knock.
“Jess,” I said. Even I could hear the naked relief in my voice. “Emory Osborn is here, and he is really, really…” I stood there, nodding significantly, unable to pin down exactly what Emory Osborn was.
Jess O’Shea seemed to be taking in my drift. He stepped around me and over to the smaller man, claiming my former seat on the ottoman. He took Emory’s hands in his.
I tried to block out the two men’s voices as I continued the job of packing, despite the feeling I should leave while Emory talked with his minister. But Emory had the option of going to his own house if he wanted complete privacy. If I looked at it practically, he’d known I was here and come in the cottage anyway…
Jess and Emory were praying together now, the fervent expression on Emory’s face the only one I could see. Jess’s back was bent and his hands clasped in front of his face. The two fair heads were close together.
Then Dill stepped in, looking at the two men praying, at me folding, trying to keep my eyes to myself. He looked startled and not too happy at this tableau.
All three dads in the same room. Except that one of them was probably not really a father at all but a thief who had stolen his fatherhood.
Dill turned to me, his whole face a question. I shrugged.
“Where’s Varena?” he whispered.
“At our folks‘,” I whispered. “You go over there. You two need to talk about what’s going to happen. And aren’t you supposed to be meeting Jack at your place?” I gave him a little push with my hand, and he took a step back before he recovered his footing. Possibly I’d pushed a little harder than I’d planned.
After Dill obediently got in his car and left, I finished refolding and found I had packed all the remaining items in the linen closet. I checked the bathroom cabinet. It held only a few things, which I also boxed.
When I turned around, Jess O’Shea was right behind me. My arms tensed immediately and my hands fisted.
“Sorry, did I surprise you?” he asked, with apparent innocence. Yes.
“I think Emory is feeling a little better. We’re going over to his house. Thanks for comforting him.”
I couldn’t recall any comforting I’d done; it must have been in the eye of the comfortee. I made a noncommittal sound.
“I’m so glad you’ve returned to reconcile with your family,” Jess said, all in a rush. “I know this has meant so much to them.”
This was his business? I raised my eyebrows.
