“LuAnne,” I said in exasperation, “you could’ve had help if you’d wanted it, and you know it.”
“Maybe so,” she agreed, amiably enough. “But like a lot of women, I thought that taking care of a husband was my job.”
“So did I! Not just taking care of him, but putting up with him, too. LuAnne,” I went on, as if imparting a sudden insight, “I think I know the secret. You either marry the right man, as I’ve done but only on my second try, or you get out and live by yourself, as you’re doing. Staying married for the sake of being married is ridiculous. And probably bad for your health as well.”
“It certainly would’ve been for Leonard’s,” she said so seriously that I had to laugh, and, after a second, so did she.
“So you don’t miss him?” I asked, relieved to hear her laugh.
A distressed look swept across her face. Then she said, “A little. Just now and then—for the company, you know. But then I think of not having to cook a big breakfast the next morning, and I get over it.”
“Good for you,” I said, rescuing a tomato slice that was sliding out of my sandwich. “And I mean that.”
“Well, anyway,” she said, “the trick is to stay busy, and that reminds me—Madge Taylor dropped by the other day. And, as usual, she wanted me to help her with some kind of fund-raiser.”
I waited to respond while the waitress refilled our glasses. Then, as casually as I could manage, I asked, “Fund-raiser for what?”
LuAnne shrugged. “Who knows? I told her I couldn’t since I’m having to raise funds for my own self these days. But she also wanted to make sure that I’d be coming to a tea she’s having to show off a place for the homeless or something.”
“I hope you told her that your regrets were already in the mail, because if you didn’t you’ll miss something that’s never been done before—Mildred and I are giving back-to-back parties on the same date and at the same time as Madge’s. And anybody who goes to hers instead of, or in addition to, ours will be on our do-not-invite list for about fifty years.”
LuAnne’s eyes widened. “You mean that?”
“Try us and see,” I said with a firm nod of my head. “Madge Taylor has overstepped for the last time, and all gloves are off from now on.”
“Well, my goodness, I know she’s a busybody, but I always thought she had a good heart.”
As I rolled my eyes, LuAnne went on. “Madge also wanted to know if I’d be interested in being a house mother or a foster mother or some such thing. She said I’d get my own room, complete with a large television set and a small salary. She thought I’d be perfect since, as she said, I no longer have a husband to fill my time.”
I dropped the last half of my sandwich onto my plate and leaned back, just so disgusted I could hardly speak. “I hope you told her what she could do with that.”
“Oh, well, you know, I was flattered that somebody wanted me. If I didn’t already have the perfect place to live, I might’ve been interested.”
“LuAnne! Do you not know what it’d be like to take care of five or six teenage boys? Day and night? Seven days a week? And do you not know that she wanted to move you into that house next door to Hazel Marie, and that J. D. Pickens is doing everything he can to drive them away? Because they’re breaking the law by being there?”
“Oh, is that the house? I’ve been wondering who was doing so much work on it.”
I mopped my brow with my napkin, wondering where in the world she’d been for the past few weeks. Well, I knew, for LuAnne had had her own problems—no one leaves a husband one has had for forty years without having one’s mind filled with ifs, ands, and buts—and very little else.
And to confirm what I’d just been thinking, LuAnne said, “Leonard called me the other night.”
“Really? What did he want? He’s missing you, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know if he’s missing me or my cooking.” LuAnne squinched up her face at the memory of the phone call. Then she said, “He wanted my recipe for squash casserole so Totsie could make it for him.”
“Why, the nerve of him! What did you say?”
“Nothing. I hung up.”
“Good for you, LuAnne. I declare, that beats all I’ve ever heard. You are doing so well, now that you’re on your own, and I hope you won’t let yourself get dragged back into the mess he’s made.”
“I know. And I don’t intend to go through all that emotional turmoil again.” LuAnne stopped, looked around the restaurant, then said, “Do you really think I’m doing well?”
“I certainly do. You look better than you have in years. You have more confidence because you know you can do this, and everybody admires you for refusing to put up with Leonard’s idea of a mixed marriage. You’re doing fine, LuAnne, but I’ll tell you who isn’t.”
She leaned forward. “Who?”
“Helen Stroud. Mildred is concerned about her, and I guess I am, too. She’s so taken up with that house of Thurlow’s and spending so much of his money that it seems she’s lost any sense of moderation. Everybody’s always assumed that Thurlow is wealthy, but who really knows? He thinks she’s spending him into the poorhouse, and it is a fact that even the very wealthy can reach the end of the road eventually.”
LuAnne frowned. “Yes, but how would anybody know? He’s such a tightwad, he might just resent spending any of it. You would think, though, that Helen knows how much he has and how freely she can spend. Didn’t you say that they have a contract or something?”
“That’s what she told me. And Helen is good with money—she’s had experience with having plenty and having hardly
