I groaned softly and put a hand to my forehead. “How much longer does Dr. Finisterre think they have?”
“He can’t say for certain,” Emma answered. “They could last for another six months or they could be gone tomorrow. I broke the news to Nell and Kit as soon as I got back to the manor—about a half hour ago. They immediately decided to put the wedding on hold.”
“Naturally,” I murmured.
“They’re at the Pyms’ house now,” Emma continued. “I imagine Dr. Finisterre is putting them in the picture as we speak. I’ve asked him to keep me in the loop. I’ll let you know if there are any . . . developments.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Emma cleared her throat. “I know that we have a lot to talk about, Lori, but it’ll have to wait. Now that the wedding’s been postponed, I have a long list of telephone calls to make. The guests, the caterers, the string quartet—”
“I’ll make the local calls for you,” I offered. “I know every number in Finch by heart.”
“Thanks, but I think it would be better if I spoke with everyone personally,” said Emma. “I’m the stepmother of the bride. The guests will expect to hear the bad news from me.”
“Of course they will,” I said. “If I you need help with anything else, or if you just need a break, don’t hesitate to call.”
“I won’t.” Emma stopped speaking for a moment. Then she said quietly, “I knew they wouldn’t live forever—no one can—but it seemed as though . . .” Her words trailed off.
“I know,” I said consolingly. “I can’t believe it, either. I guess it’ll take a while to sink in.”
“I guess so,” said Emma. “Well. I’d better start making those phone calls.”
“I’m here if you need me,” I reiterated. “Any time, night or day.”
“I’ll be in touch,” she said, and hung up.
I laid the phone on the table and stared blankly at the kitchen wall, trying to conceive of a world without the Pym sisters in it. It was like trying to imagine a garden without flowers. I might have sat motionless until nightfall if I hadn’t been roused from my reflections by the sound of my husband’s voice.
“The ham smells delicious,” said Bill, bending to look into the oven. “Do you want me to mash the potatoes? ”
I swung around in the chair to look at him and his smile faded abruptly.
“What’s wrong, Lori?” he asked, glancing at the abandoned telephone. “Has someone died?”
“Not yet,” I said, peering anxiously through the back door. “Where are the boys?”
“In the garden. Father is reading the county cricket scores to them.” Bill sat in the chair next to mine and leaned toward me, his elbows on his knees. “What is it, Lori? What’s happened?”
“Oh, Bill . . . ,” I began, and the whole tragic tale came pouring out. When I’d finished recounting everything Emma had told me, I looked at him helplessly. “How are we going to tell the boys? They adore Ruth and Louise. What are we going to say to them?”
“We’ll keep it simple,” said Bill, “and we’ll answer their questions as best we can. They’re bound to ask questions. They always do.”
“Do you think we should tell them right away?” I asked.
“I don’t see how we can avoid it,” he replied. “They’ll know something’s wrong as soon as they see your face. But we don’t have to tell them that the Pyms are on their deathbeds. We’ll say that they’re seriously ill. There’s no need for us to cross the final bridge until we come to it.” He took me by the hand and got to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”
Will and Rob received the news of the Pyms’ illness in thoughtful silence. The questions Bill had predicted didn’t start to flow until we were halfway through an unusually solemn dinner.
“Are Miss Ruth and Miss Louise as old as Toby?” Will asked, spearing a green bean with his fork.
Toby was a sweet-natured pony who’d taught dozens of Anscombe Riding Center pupils the rudiments of horsemanship before being put out to pasture at the ripe old age of twenty.
“Miss Ruth and Miss Louise are much older than Toby,” Bill replied.
Will nodded and dipped his green bean into his mashed potatoes.
“Toby was sick once,” Rob observed, “but he got better. Will Miss Ruth and Miss Louise get better? ”
“They might,” said Bill.
“What if they don’t get better? ” asked Rob. “Will they die like Misty’s foal? ”
A forkful of juicy ham turned to sawdust in my mouth. Misty’s foal had died of pneumonia the previous spring. It had been the boys’ first direct encounter with death and it had made a big impression on them.
“Yes,” Bill said gently. “I’m sorry to say it, sons, but if Miss Ruth and Miss Louise don’t get better, they will die.”
“I would miss them if they died,” said Rob, digging into his applesauce.
“So would I,” said Bill, “and so would your mother and your grandfather. We would all miss them very much.”