been snuff, he inhaled so deeply. Then he sat the bottle on the table, near the sundial. “Let it breathe for a moment,” he said. He turned his chair at an angle, feigning closeness with Dale.
Dale picked up a piece of carrot with her fingers and bit into it. She said nothing.
“You had Didi to dinner last month with some friends of yours, I hear,” he said.
Who had told him, since he and Didi didn’t speak? Nelson, obviously. Why?
“Yes,” Dale said.
Jerome took a bite of meat and a bite of vegetable. He reached for the applesauce and ladled some on his plate. He said nothing about the food.
“I understand you’ve made a portrait of her,” he said.
Brenda was chewing slowly. She knew, and Dale knew, that Jerome was warming up to something. In fact, Dale herself didn’t much like Didi—in part because they seemed to have little in common. On top of that, Didi condescended by acting as if Dale was the sophisticate, and she—the world traveler—just a poor old lady. Dale had thought that photographing her—in spite of the momentary imbalance of power—might ultimately get the two of them on a more even footing.
Jerome said: “I’d be curious to see it.”
“No,” Dale said.
“No? Why ever not?” Jerome said.
“You don’t like your ex-wife,” she said. “There’s no reason to look at a picture of her.”
“Listen to her!” Jerome said, jutting his chin in Nelson’s direction.
“Jerome—what’s wrong?” Nelson said quietly.
“What’s wrong? There’s something wrong about my request to see a photograph? I have a curiosity about what Didi looks like. We were married for years, you’ll remember.”
“I don’t want to see it,” Brenda said.
“You don’t have to. If you don’t want any of the wine, you don’t have to have that, either.” Jerome twirled the bottle. As the label revolved in front of him, he picked up the bottle and poured. A thin stream of wine went into the glass.
“I don’t quite see how not wanting to look at a photograph of your ex means I don’t want wine,” Brenda said.
“You prefer white. Isn’t that so?” Jerome said.
“Usually. But you made this wine sound very good.”
“It’s good, but not great,” Jerome said, inhaling. He had not yet taken a sip. He swirled the wine in his glass, then put the glass to his lips and slowly tilted it back. “Mmm,” he said. He nodded. “Quite good, but not perfect,” he said. He cut a piece of roast.
Nelson kept his eyes on Dale, who was intent upon not looking at Brenda. Brenda was doing worse than anyone else with Jerome’s behavior. “May I talk to you in the kitchen?” Brenda said to Jerome.
“Oh, just take me to task right here. In the great tradition of Didi, who never lowered her voice or avoided any confrontation.”
“I’m not Didi,” Brenda said. “What I want to know is whether you’re acting this way because you’re pissed off I have a job I enjoy and that means I’m not there to answer your every whim, or whether there’s some real bone you have to pick with Dale.”
“Forget it,” Nelson said. “Come on. Dale has made this wonderful meal.”
“Don’t tell me what not to say to Jerome,” Brenda said.
“Let’s take another walk and cool off,” Dale said to Brenda. “Maybe they’d like to talk. Maybe we could use some air.”
“All right,” Brenda said, surprising Dale. She had thought Brenda would dig her heels in, but she seemed relieved by the suggestion. She got up and walked through the kitchen and into the hallway where the coats were hung. In the dark, she put on Dale’s jacket instead of her own. Dale noticed, but since they wore the same size, she put on Brenda’s without comment. Outside, Brenda realized her error when she plunged her hand in the pocket and felt the doughnut holes. “Oh, this is yours,” she said, and began to unzip the jacket.
“We wear the same size. Keep it on,” Dale said. Brenda looked at her, making sure she meant it. Then she took her fingers off the zipper. As they walked, Brenda began apologizing for Jerome. She said she’d only been guessing, back at the house. She didn’t really know what he was so angry about, though she assumed they knew that he was more fond of them than his own children—these being the daughter he’d had between Didi and Brenda, and the son whose mother was married to someone else. “He had a couple of beers on the plane. They took a bottle upstairs when they went to fix the wiring, too. Maybe he just had too much to drink,” Brenda said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Dale said. She pointed at the Portsmouth light. “I like that,” she said. “In the evening I like the colorful sky, but at night I like that one little light almost as much.”
Dale tried to see her watch, but couldn’t read it. “Too late to round up Tyrone,” she said. She knew that it was, even without being able to see the time. In the distance, wind rustled the willows. They were walking where the path turned and narrowed, between the divided field. It was Dale and Nelson’s responsibility, as renters, to have the fields plowed so the scrub wouldn’t take over. In the distance, you could hear the white noise of cars on the highway. That, and the wind rustling, disguised the sound of tires until a black car with its headlights off was almost upon them. Brenda clutched Dale’s arm as she jumped in fear, moving so quickly into the grass in her high-heeled boots that she lost her balance and fell, toppling both of them. “Oh, shit, my ankle,” she said. “Oh, no.” Both were sprawled in the field, the hoarfrost on the grass crunching like wintery quicksand as they struggled to stand. A car without headlights? And after nearly sideswiping them, it accelerated. The big shadow of the car moved quickly away, crunching stones more loudly as it receded than it had on the approach.
