“A few. When my father-in-law died, my husband fired this man. The parting was not amicable.”
“I’m sorry. Those things are always difficult.”
“It had to be done.”
Beside me, Harry cleared her throat.
“And I’m very sorry your marriage turned out badly,” I said, softening my voice.
“So you’ve heard the story.”
“Part of it, yes.”
“I was sixteen, poor, with few choices.” With her good hand, she flicked something from her skirt. “David found me beautiful. Marriage offered a way out. So many years ago.”
Screw small talk. I went for what I wanted to know. “Where did you go, Obeline?”
She knew what I was asking. “Here, of course.”
“You never returned to Pawleys Island.”
“Mama got sick.”
“So suddenly?”
“She needed care.”
It wasn’t really an answer.
I wondered what illness had killed Laurette. Let it go.
“You left without saying good-bye. Tante Euphemie and Oncle Fidele refused to tell us anything. Your sister stopped writing. Many of my letters came back unopened.”
“Evangeline went to live with Grand-pere Landry.”
“Wouldn’t her mail have been sent there?”
“She was far out in the country. You know the postal service.”
“Why did she move?”
“When Mama couldn’t work, her husband’s people took control.” Had her voice hardened, or was it a by- product of the painfully recrafted speech?
“Your parents reunited?”
“No.”
Several moments passed, awkward, filled only by the ticking of a clock.
Obeline broke the silence.
“May I offer you sodas?”
“Sure.”
Obeline disappeared through the same door by which we’d entered.
“You couldn’t at least
“I want her to feel comfortable.”
“I heard you say Pawleys Island. What’s the scoop?”
“They were brought back here because Laurette got sick.”
“With what?”
“She didn’t say.”
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much.”
Harry rolled her eyes.
I took in the room. The walls were covered with amateur landscapes and still lifes marked by garish colors and distorted proportions. Cases of books and collections of bric-a-brac gave the small space a cluttered, claustrophobic feel. Glass birds. Snow globes. Dream catchers. White hobnail dishes and candlesticks. Music boxes. Statues of the Virgin Mary and her minions. Saint Andrew? Francis? Peter? A painted plaster bust. That one I knew. Nefertiti.
Obeline returned, face fixed in its same unreadable expression. She handed out Sprites, making eye contact with neither Harry nor me. Resuming her seat, she focused on her soft drink. One thumb worked the can, clearing moisture with nervous up-and-down flicks.
Again, I honed in like a missile.
“What happened to Evangeline?”
The thumb stopped. Obeline’s lopsided gaze rose to mine.
“But that’s what
“What do you mean?”
