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  “…and it’s not that I haven’t tried spicy food. You ask my daughters. Never have liked it and it’s not because I haven’t tried. Edith says I’ve just made up my mind and that’s that, but I’ve tried, I really have.”

  “I’m sure you have.” Peter stored away this bit of information, amusing himself as he imagined a dialogue with Edie, who he could see now, laughing as she held out a tray to one of the English teachers. She looked…radiant, he thought. A cream-colored shift just brushed her knees. Freckled knees, he imagined, although from this distance, he couldn’t confirm. Maude was still talking about spicy food.

  “…with Edith, the hotter the better, she always says.” Maude sniffed. “’Course, with Edith, it’s all bravado. If the food burned her lips off, she’d never own up to it. Always got to prove herself. Been that way since she was a baby. First words she ever said were, ‘Me do it.’”

  “Why do you call her Edith and not Edie?” he asked.

  Maude set down a small sandwich, delicately wiped her fingers and twiddled with her hearing aid. “Edith?”

  “Everyone else calls her Edie—”

  “It’s Edith Pauline, but she hates the name Edith. Never forgiven me for it.”

  “Did you name her after someone in the family?” Peter asked.

  Maude grinned slyly. “Nope. And you’ll never guess in a million years.”

  “Tell me then.”

  “Edith Piaf,” Maude said. “Ever heard of her?”

  “Yes.” Peter retrieved from his memory the only song he’d ever heard Edith Piaf sing. “La Vie En Rose.”

  “Didn’t think so. You’re too young to know Edith Piaf.”

  “Maude.” Peter turned on the couch to bring his voice to her ear. “My mother listened to Edith Piaf,” he said, making the words slow and distinct. “There was one song that always made her weep. I can’t remember the name of it, though.” He would have to see if Sophia remembered. A song about two lovers who committed suicide in a flat over a café. Very morose.

  “Edith looked like a little plucked bird,” Maude cackled. “So that’s when her father said about Edith Piaf being known as the Little Sparrow, and so we called her Edith. Vivian was the pretty one, though, so we decided to name her for Vivian Leigh. My husband died when Edith was six,” she said. “Terrible shock.”

  “I can quite imagine,” Peter said, thinking about Deborah.

  “Day before Edith’s birthday. She’d been wanting a new bike. Not just any new bike, of course. Edith had to have a certain kind of bike, can’t even remember what it was anymore, nothing would do but she had to have this bike. Drove everyone to distraction, going on and on about this bike. Well, there was nothing Richard wouldn’t do for Edith, he loved both the girls of course, but Edith was always special. Anyway, out he goes late that night, parks the car across from the bike shop, runs across the street and gets hit by a bus. Dead on the spot.”

  Although Peter had heard this story from Maude before, he commiserated again. “How awful.”

  “Awful’s not the word. He was a good man, Richard. Loved his girls, especially Edith. Shouldn’t say it, I know, but I’ve always thought, but for Edith’s tantrums he’d be alive today. Ugh…phew.” She spluttered into a napkin, then eyed the contents with disgust. “Cucumber. Cucumber repeats on me. Cucumber and green pepper, can’t eat green pepper at all. There’s Edie again. What’s she got now?”

  “MINIATURE QUICHE.” After Maude had daintily set two on her plate, complaining as she did that she’d just bitten into a cucumber, Edie held out the platter to Peter, then quickly withdrew it. “Uh…I’m not sure. Isn’t there something about real men not eating quiche?”

  Peter reached for and disposed of the small pastry in two bites. “If you’re concerned in that regard,” he said in a pitch clearly not intended to reach Maude’s ears, “I’d be more than happy to put your mind at rest.”

  Edie felt herself blush. She seldom blushed, but last night’s dream with the butterfly net still lingered. And after his last cool goodbye, she felt almost exultant to see him looking at her in a way that said whatever was simmering between them was still mutual. He sat on the couch next to Maude, smiling up at her, every school-girl’s fevered idea of the dark and tragically romantic headmaster. He was elegantly rumpled in his dark summer-weight blazer over a white cotton shirt—unironed, because there was no little wife back in the dark and lonely cottage in which he was valiantly trying to raise his four motherless daughters… Perhaps she should give up journalism and write fiction. She flashed him a friendly smile.

  “Thanks for the offer,” she said, referring to the quiche demonstration, “but since I’m neither concerned, nor particularly interested, I’ll just decline.”

  “Regretfully?”

  “Ah.” Smiling still. “That would be telling.”

  “Edith ever tell you about the time I found the mouse in the dishwasher?” Maude asked Peter. “You should have seen me. I was in such a state.”

  “Mom…” Edie looked at Peter, who was listening to Maude as attentively as if she were revealing the secrets to the universe. She suspected, although his expression was quite solemn, that he was trying hard not to laugh. His head turned in three-quarters profile to her, allowing her to catalog various details unobserved. Well-shaped ears. Lobes. Some men had no lobes. She liked lobes. A dark curl of hair just above his shirt collar. In movies, wives were always straightening husband’s collars, getting them just right as they sent their men off to that important meeting. Peter had no one to straighten his collar.

  “…and I opened the door and the mouse jumped into that thing where you put the detergent,” Maude said. “That yellow stuff that you bought me once, Edith. I told you to buy the generic brand, cheaper and works just as well.” She looked at Peter. “Never listens, my daughter.”

  “Is that true?” Peter asked.

  “Depends on who’s talking,” Edie said. “Have another quiche.”

  “Edith’s scared to death of mice,” Maude said. “One ran over her foot once and she screamed and wet her pants. Right there on the kitchen floor.”

  “Thank you, Mom. I’m sure Peter’s fascinated.”

  “Completely,” Peter said.

  “I might just shove a quiche down your throat,” Edie told him.

  “She was wearing suede shoes and the stain never came out.”

  “Mom, for God’s sake.” Edie glanced at Peter. “You don’t have to sit here all evening, you know. Go and mingle. I can stay and entertain my mother.”

  “Ah, but your mother is entertaining me,” Peter said.

  “Then you have a serious deficit in your life. Develop some interests.”

  “And then another time,” Maude said, “Edith was laughing so hard she had an accident.”

  “That was Vivian, Mom.”

  “It was you, Edith. You were watching TV. I was in the kitchen and I could hear you laughing your head off. Hysterical, she was,” Maude said with a glance at Peter. “When she got up, there was a wet spot on—”

  “Peter, would you like to hear about my toilet training? I learned at a very early age and, despite a few mishaps along the way, I’m proud to say I was out of diapers by…but I’ll let my mother regale you with the details.”

  “I’d rather hear them from you,” Peter said.

  “Only if you share yours with me.”

  “Gladly,” Peter said. “I was an appalling baby. Wet the bed until I was five.”

  “We have so much in common,” Edie said.

  “Don’t we?” Peter said.

  Edie folded her arms, trying to appear nonchalant despite the warmth churning through her. “This is absolutely the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had with anyone.”

  “I think we should continue it outside,” Peter said. “I could use some fresh air.”

  “THAT IS SO UNORIGINAL,” Edie said. “I’m disappointed that you couldn’t come up with something more imaginative.”

  He nodded,
whispered something to Maude, then rose from the couch, took Edie’s arm and led her out into the cool dark air, where Viv and Ray’s enormous swimming pool glowed in the light of a full moon. Still holding her arm, he glanced around as though deciding on a direction. Then he led her around a couple of trees to the wooden porch at the side of the house, up a couple of steps and down onto an old covered swing, which creaked as Peter sat down beside her.

  She turned to look at him. “What did you tell her?”

  “That I was crazed with lust for her daughter and that I intended to take her—the daughter—out into the back garden and have my way with her.”

  “Really? And what did she say?”

  “’Good idea.’”

  “Might have been a better idea to check with the daughter first.” She watched his face, her heart racing so hard she could taste the tingle of adrenaline on her tongue. His arm had been resting along the back of the swing and he dropped it around her shoulders, drew her close and kissed her. And then she caught his face between her hands and they kissed again. When they finally pulled apart, she laid her cheek against his chest. “I can feel your heart beating,” she murmured.

  “Good.” He stroked her hair. “For a moment I thought it had stopped.”

  “Mine, too.”

  “What are your plans for this weekend?” he asked.

  She smiled. “You get weekends off?”

  “Yes, well, my sister is all for furthering my social life. There’s a bed-and-breakfast in an old wooden hotel on the Mississippi,” he said. “Balconies, feather beds, fireplaces in all the rooms. I’ve heard about it from friends,” he added.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Chocolates on the pillows. Big fluffy white robes.”

  “This weekend?” She pretended to consider. “Sorry, I think I’ll be cleaning out the toolshed.”

  “Pity,” he said. “Would you happen to know another woman who might be interested?”

  “Let me think hard about that and if I don’t come up with somebody…I’ll try and make time to go myself.”

  He drew her closer, kissed the side of her neck. “Try very hard, will you?”

  She drew away slightly. “Bear with me here, okay? It would be a whole lot easier to be flip and sarcastic right now, but I’m not going to fall back on that, because I’m very serious about this.” She thought for a minute. She didn’t want to be flip, but she didn’t want to be maudlin and sentimental, either. “I don’t feel casual about…us, Peter. I can’t imagine making love to you and just blithely going on my way. Quite frankly, I feel that way right now and all we’ve done is make out on my sister’s porch swing…”

  Peter wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. “I’ve felt that way since the first day I met you.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  SOMEONE SHOULD BOTTLE this feeling and make a lot of money, Edie thought as she lay on the couch early the next morning, replaying scenes from the night before. The surge of desire that had shot through her when she’d looked over at Peter, sitting with Maude, his head inclined slightly toward her. She smiled. Had he really been listening as attentively as he’d seemed to be doing? Maybe he’d really been thinking about kissing her, Edith Pauline Robinson. Her smile widened. Which he had, very nicely, thank you.

  Again and again. And tomorrow, in a Victorian inn on the river, he would make love to her. God, life was good.

  She yawned and stretched. Later, she was going over to Viv’s to help her clean up the post-party mess, but she felt no great urge to get up and start the day. Her hands pillowed behind her head, she listened to the sounds of the house around her. The occasional creak from upstairs as Maude, still sleeping, moved on her bed. From her own room, which she’d given over to Jessie and the baby, a thin wail, and then the soft murmur of Jessie’s voice and silence again. Bird sounds filtering in from outside. Peter would probably be able to identify them. “Hmm. It sounds rather like a…” She could hear his English accent, see the way his head would tilt as he listened. “Possibly the gray sprackled popinjay.”

  And she, of course, wouldn’t know it from Adam…or a gray sprackled popinjay. She closed her eyes, dozed for a while, woke and thought some more about Peter, then drifted off again. When she woke to the sound of the phone ringing, it was, she saw with a glance at her watch on the floor beside the couch, nearly ten. Groggy, she rubbed her eyes and grabbed the phone on the fourth ring.

  “Good morning,” a perky voice chirped. “Mrs. Robinson?”

  “Ms. Robinson,” Edie replied. Did she sound like Maude?

  “Deanna Becker from Maple Grove. Dee. Would Mrs. Robinson be up and about?”

  Edie could hear Maude clomping around upstairs, but she didn’t like the woman’s chirpily officious tone. She could picture her, plump in pink polyester, iron-gray curls lacquered firmly in place. “My mother’s still sleeping,” she said. “May I give her a message?”

  Deanna hesitated. “We were just wondering—” She coughed delicately “—if there might be financial problems.”

  “Financial problems.” Edie frowned into the phone. “I’m sorry, you’ve lost me.”

  “No buyers for your mother’s house?” she prompted.

  “My mother’s house isn’t up for sale,” Edie said.

  “You took it off the market?”

  “It was never on the market. I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “When your mother first toured Maple Grove last month, we explained to her and…” Some papers were rustled. “Her daughter, Mrs. Jenkins…that would be your sister?”

  “It would,” Edie said tersely. She could hear Maude coming down the stairs and she wanted to get to the bottom of this before her mother appeared in the kitchen.

  “Lovely person,” Deanna Becker said. “Clearly loves her mother, so nice to see that. We find that adult children lack patience with their elderly—”

  “Look, could we get to the point here?” Edie snapped. “My mother and sister came out to Maple Park—”

  “Maple Grove,” Deanna corrected. “For the grove of maples on the property. Your mother and sister both felt very, very comfortable here.” She laughed. “Mrs. Robinson would have moved in on the spot, but, as we explained, there were various financial considerations to be met. Your sister assured me that this would present no problem, that her mother’s house was already on the market and once it sold—”

  “When was that, exactly?” Edie asked.

  “Just a moment and I’ll tell you. Let me see, June fourteenth.”

  Edie did a quick calculation. Two weeks to the day before she’d called Viv to say she was coming home for a visit. “Wow, Edie.” Viv had sounded flustered. “That’s great. The thing is, it might not be the best time. Mom’s about to move to a retirement place…right, I know. We’ve tried to talk her out of it, but she’s got her mind made up. Anyway, things are kind of frantic right now…not that we all won’t be thrilled to see you, though.”

  “We do want Mrs. Robinson to join our Maple Grove family,” Deanna Becker was saying now. “But there are those pesky financial—”

  “Mrs. Robinson won’t be joining your Maple Grove family,” Edie said and hung up.

  PETER HAD CALLED Melissa Fowler into his office to find out why she hadn’t attended Edie’s last two journalism groups. He’d reminded her of what she’d said about being inspired and was about to launch into a discussion on the need for self-discipline and goal setting when her face crumpled and she dissolved into tears. Head bowed, legs twisted like pretzels, her shoulders shaking, she told him, in a voice so low he had to strain to hear it, that she was pregnant.

  “I don’t want to have an abortion,” she sobbed. “But…well, Brad, says I have to.”

  “Brad.” Peter sifted through his mental file cabinet. “Brad.” He shook his head. “I thought…”

  “I was seeing Marcus,” she explained, answering his unasked question. “But we broke up. Me and Brad started hanging ar
ound together this summer. At first we were just good friends, but then…well, it just turned into something else and then he said he didn’t want me to see Marcus anymore and I didn’t.” The tears started afresh. “Now Brad says it’s not his baby, but it is. I swear to God, Mr. Darling. Me and Marcus didn’t—”

  “Yes, well.” Peter leaned across the desk to hand her a tissue from the box he kept solely for this purpose. Something was niggling at the back of his mind. Brad. Who else had mentioned the name Brad? He couldn’t recall. Through his open door, he saw Ray Jenkins glance inside as he walked by. Melissa had broken into a new gale of sobs. Peter stood and walked around to where she sat. Ray, retracing his steps, took another glance inside and Peter pushed the door closed. “Melissa.” He sat down on the chair beside her. “I want you to go over and talk to Ms. Herman in the teen mother center. Whatever you decide to do should be your decision, but she can help you work through some of the things you’ll need to consider.”

  She nodded miserably, dabbing at her nose. “I thought Brad wanted to get married…”

  “How old is Brad?”

  “Seventeen?”

  “He’s not a student at Luther?” Peter asked, still trying to remember where he’d heard the name.

  Melissa shook her head. “He goes to Stephen’s.”

  “Ah…” Peter suddenly remembered where he’d heard the name. It was all falling into place now. Brad, he recalled with a sense of foreboding, was Ray Jenkins’s son.

  “MY LIFE IS OVER.” Vivian lay on her back on the California king-sized bed in her massive and darkened bedroom, sobbing into her hands. “I might just as well take an overdose of sleeping pills and…” She removed her hands to glance at Edie, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Where’s Mom?”

  “I told you twice already. She and Jessie took Roger for a walk.” Edie handed her sister another tissue. A small hill of crumpled tissues had leaked a damp spot on the shot-silk spread around Viv’s shoulder. “Mom likes to push his stroller.”