“We should go and see Miss Ruth and Miss Louise before they die,” Will decided.
“We will,” said Bill, “but not tonight. They need to rest tonight. If Dr. Finisterre says it’s all right, we’ll go to their house after school tomorrow. Okay?”
“Okay,” the boys chorused.
It wasn’t until I was tucking the twins into bed that they asked about the wedding. When I informed them that it had been postponed because of the Pym sisters’ illness, they gazed reflectively at the ceiling.
“Maybe Nell can make Miss Ruth and Miss Louise better,” said Will.
“She made Storm better when he had his cough,” Rob reminded me.
Storm, Rob’s much-loved gray pony, had come down with a mild case of colic a week ago, from which he had since recovered.
“Nell gave Storm medicine,” Rob went on, “and she walked him around and around his stall.”
“And he got better,” said Will.
“I’m sure that Nell will do everything she can for Miss Ruth and Miss Louise,” I said. “But sometimes people die even when you do everything you can for them.”
“Like Misty’s foal,” said Will.
“Like Misty’s foal,” I confirmed.
“Read us a story, Mummy,” Rob said.
I didn’t waste time asking for a “please.” I simply reached for our copy of Winnie-the-Poohand read it aloud to my little boys, hoping they would drift off to sleep thinking of Tigger and Piglet and Roo rather than Misty’s foal.
Bill and Willis, Sr., were in the living room when I came downstairs. No one, it seemed, was ready to go to bed. Bill sat in his favorite armchair with Stanley, our black cat, curled blissfully in his lap. Willis, Sr., stood peering into the darkness beyond the bay window with his back to the room. I sank into a corner of the chintz sofa and gazed into the fire Bill had lit in the hearth after dinner.
“Did they have more questions?” Bill asked.
“They’re hoping for a miracle cure from Nell,” I replied.
“Aren’t we all? ” said Bill, stroking Stanley’s glossy fur.
Willis, Sr., turned away from the window and crossed to hold his well-manicured hands out to the fire. While Bill and I were clad in blue jeans and wool sweaters, my father-in-law was attired in a three-piece gray suit, a white shirt, and a silk tie. Willis, Sr., hadn’t yet gotten the hang of retirement.
“You spoke the simple truth at the dinner table,” he said to Bill. “I will miss the dear ladies most sincerely when they’re gone. I’ve never met anyone else quite like them.”
A mischievous memory flitted through my mind and I surprised myself by grinning at my father-in-law. “Do you remember the first time you tried their raspberry cordial?”
“I do indeed.” Willis, Sr., smiled ruefully and left the fire to sit in the armchair opposite Bill’s. “It sounded like an innocent, wholesome refreshment, but—”
“—it had a kick like an Army mule,” Bill put in. “Delectable, but deadly.”
“The two of them tossed it back as if it were mother’s milk,” I marveled.
“Whereas I coughed and sputtered like a badly tuned automobile,” said Willis, Sr. “The experience was highly instructive.”
“Instructive?” Bill asked. “In what way?”
“It taught me never to underestimate the apparently harmless drinks served by elderly, churchgoing ladies,” said Willis, Sr. “Their damson wine was a force to be reckoned with as well. I soon learned to accept nothing but tea from their fair hands.”
“And cream cakes,” I said.
“And seed cake,” Bill added.
“And chocolate eclairs,” I went on, “and macaroons and meringues.”
“Ah, those excellent meringues . . .” Willis, Sr., heaved a reminiscent sigh.
Our stroll through memory’s bakery came to a screeching halt when the telephone rang. Bill answered it and I braced myself for the announcement none of us wanted to hear, but after exchanging a few brief words with the caller, he held the phone out to me.
“It’s Kit,” he said. “He wants to speak with you.”
I jumped to my feet and took the phone from Bill.
“Kit? ” I said. “Where are you?”
“Nell and I are still at the Pyms’ house,” he replied. “I think you should be here, too. Ruth and Louise have been asking for you.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes,” I said. I cut the connection, tossed the telephone to Bill, and headed for the front door.
“Lori?” said Bill, dislodging a reluctant Stanley from his lap and following me into the hallway. “Where are you going?”
“Ruth and Louise are asking for me.” I pulled a woolen jacket from the hat rack and thrust my arms into it. “I’ll take the Rover.”
“Do you want me to drive?” Bill asked.