The Ladies Farm (12 page)

Some pictures were missing, and Della supposed Melissa and Hugh Jr. had removed most of their own. But there were several of Richard’s son—Richard’s and Barbara’s she amended—and a few left of Pauline’s kids. There was even an early one of Kat with Grant, and a later one of her alone.

Toward the back, there were more photos missing. The ones that remained were almost all adults, and Della looked carefully for a good one of Pauline. She could always call Hugh Jr. and borrow one back, but it would mean another day, and she had to get this thing to the printer. “Why didn’t you think of it while they were here?” she asked herself, but there were so many things she hadn’t thought of, it didn’t seem worth pursuing.

Della knew the kids had taken the Sydon House album, the one that documented all the stages of the renovation, but there were a few pictures here of Hugh and Pauline hammering and plastering. She smiled as she pulled one of Rita and Dave, evidently paying a neighborly visit, and then another one of Richard and Barbara on a canoe in the river.

She placed that one on top of a picture of Dickie in a Cub Scout uniform and glanced at it for only a second. I miss you so, she thought, not seeing Barbara in the shot at all.

Surely there’s one of Pauline alone, Della thought, leafing through to the back of the album. Just one that shows her hair in its glory.

She almost skipped the one of Pauline in her bathing suit, but it did show her hair, so Della stopped and picked it up. This must be at Richard and Barbara’s, Della thought, studying the picture of Pauline by the pool. This was before she’d jumped in, and her hair was lifted around her head by the wind as she squinted a little at the camera.

Della held her hand across the bottom part of the picture. If I crop it there, she thought, it will be perfect.

She stared a second longer at the picture, trying to remember the party. Where was I? she wondered. Maybe we hadn’t arrived yet. Tony had just opened the second shop and might have had work to do even on the Fourth of July.

She shrugged. Maybe I was in the kitchen. She remembered that period as an endless parade of afternoons in the kitchen with her friends, working for hours on food that disappeared in minutes. It had been a struggle, she knew, but remembering that time now, it
seemed rich with promise and the security of a certain place in a certain world.

Della pulled one or two more photos from the book, including a great one of Rita and her two girls at the Sydonia Peach Festival, then closed the book and stood up. She glanced for a second at the car parked out front. It belonged to the appraiser, who was walking over the property under Kat’s supervision.

Thank God Kat could take care of that. All you need to do, Della informed herself, is scan this photo and get your newsletter to the printer.

Della had the image on her computer screen when Barbara knocked on her open office door. “Do we have any facilities for … are we wheelchair accessible?”

“Babe Didrikson,” Della replied. “It’s on the first floor, and the door’s wide enough. Someone on the phone?”

“Yes, but they’re asking about trails, and activities, I don’t know what else. Is that Pauline?”

“Yeah. I think it’s at your house.” Della pulled the photo itself from the scanner. “Are they holding?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Tell them we’re okay for the whole first floor of the Ladies Farm, plus paved paths down to the river and the crafts barn. And about a quarter of the trail. But we can’t do assistance, like lifting in and out of the tub or anything. We’ve got a bedside commode. And for a longer stay, we can arrange home health care.”

Barbara watched her carefully, as if trying to memorize Della’s words. Nodding, she backed out of the office and padded over to her new desk—the writing table from Pauline’s room—in the big office. Della could hear her on the phone, explaining, clarifying. “And that will be two of you, for four days?”

She’s good on the phone, Della thought. But she wasn’t Pauline, who had possessed personal knowledge of every ailment that struck anyone over forty-five.

“Mr. and Mrs. Sidney Turow,” Barbara announced in triumph as she returned. “Mrs. Turow had hip surgery and she’s still on crutches and in a chair for longer treks. Mr. Turow thinks facials, massage, and a makeover will aid her recovery. Isn’t that sweet?”

Della’s interest in their guests’ lives had diminished to weak curiosity after the first few months at the Ladies Farm, but she understood the fascination. She remembered the first time a couple had had a vocal argument in the Sissy Spacek Suite and for weeks afterward she had agonized over whether they were able to repair the damage to their relationship.

So she smiled indulgently at Barbara’s concern and reminded her to be sure to make up the Babe, since they rarely used it. Barbara reached out a hand to take the photo on Della’s desk.

The clank of her bracelets, cloisonné bands in blue and silver, drew Della’s attention from her expression. When she looked back up, Barbara was crying softly.

What now?

“That was the night,” Barbara said, without Della having to ask the question. “That was the night!”

“The night?”

“That night. With Hugh.”

Della considered telling Barbara that she was on deadline and couldn’t play confessor this moment, but instead, she saved the image on her screen and closed out her scanning program. Why not wallow a little in Barbara’s guilt over one night with someone else’s husband? Besides, she had some questions.

“Barbara, did Pauline tell you she knew about this?”

Barbara shook her head and clutched the photo to her breast.

“Here,” said Della, reaching for the photo. The kids might not want it, but she did. And she didn’t want it soggy.

Barbara looked down in confusion, then released the picture.

“Even when she … when she had the heart attack,” Della pressed.

“Did she say something to you … you know, about that amethyst or something?”

Barbara shook her head even harder. She backed away from Della until the back of her knees touched the loveseat, and she sat. “She knew.”

“What makes you so sure?” Della asked. The doctor had told them that Pauline had had an undetected heart condition and that she could have died at any time. Yes, it could have been a sudden shock, he had answered Della. But it didn’t have to be anything. Heart attacks are caused by heart conditions, not traumatic events, he had assured her as if she were the one with a guilty conscience.

“I just knew,” Barbara said. “That’s why they moved down here. It was right after that.” She had stopped crying, but her face was stained with runny mascara.

“When she looked at me,” Barbara continued. “I knew when she looked at me.” The button eyes pleaded for understanding. “That she knew.”

“You knew that she knew? Even though she never said anything?”

Barbara nodded.

“Do you think Hugh told her?”

“Maybe. That’s what I like to think.” Barbara shook her head. “No!” Her conviction grew. “I just think she knew. I think women, wives … they know when there’s someone else.”

“How?” Della could barely whisper the question.

Barbara looked out the windows that faced the river. “I knew even before Richard told me.”

“Richard told you?” That damn doctor was wrong, thought Della, feeling her own heart pound. I’m keeling over any second.

“It wasn’t a week after Hugh. And he had a meeting, just like all the meetings he had. Except there was just something about him.”

“Perfume?” Della suggested. “Lipstick on his collar?”

“No, no,” Barbara said. “Nothing like that. Just the way he was so affectionate. He started to bring me presents: silk negligees, perfume.”

Della thought she should ask the obvious question. “Who was the other woman?” She closed her eyes a second as Barbara continued to stare out the window.

“She was just some real estate agent with an office in his building. Commercial leasing or something. She had a house over on the west side. He used to park right in her driveway!”

The tears had started to roll again, and Della took advantage of the moment to let out a long, slow breath and draw in fresh oxygen. Another one! She looked out the front windows and saw Kat bidding the appraiser good-bye. Well, thank God it wasn’t Kat! she thought with the next breath. Thank God it wasn’t either one of us! But she did wonder how many more even as she glanced back to Barbara.

Barbara pressed her lips together and raised her chin as if collecting her scattered composure. “Finally, though, he confessed to me. And he promised he would never do it again.”

Again, Della forced herself to ask the obvious. “And did he?”

Barbara turned her head and looked at Della. “Oh, of course he did! He never got over what I … what happened with Hugh.” She smiled apologetically. “He didn’t ever know how to forgive.”

“Richard?” This came out before Della could stop it. “He always seemed so indulgent,” she suggested feebly.

Barbara shook her head. “Not about the big things.”

Della remembered her job as consoler. “Barbara, you spent one night with someone and your husband couldn’t forgive you. And you’re supposed to forgive a lifetime of infidelity?”

“It wasn’t a lifetime!” Barbara defended her husband. “Until that real estate agent, he was as faithful as any man, as faithful as Tony even!”

“Tony?”

“Oh, you know how the boys always teased Tony, he was such a straight arrow.”

“Tony—my husband?”

“Of course. Richard and Grant and the others … they were always teasing him, the way he would call you during halftime, the way he never even would look at another woman.”

“Tony looked at other women,” Della said, but then she tried to remember. At least, she always assumed he did, and that good manners made him keep his adulterous desires to himself.

Barbara was shaking her head. “Not that any of us ever heard about. And he had his chances, too!” Now she was smiling with the memory. “Marjorie Schulkey, remember her?”

“Short blonde, kind of dumpy?”

“She was all over him.” Barbara nodded at the photo Della had placed on top of the scanner. “At that party? Don’t you remember her asking him to dance? And he said he had to go help you in the kitchen?”

How does she remember all this, Della wondered. “Marjorie Schulkey? Well,” she said briskly, “she wouldn’t have been his type, she was way too heavy. Tony liked tall, slender women.”

Barbara eyed her quietly, and Della felt sorry she had mentioned Marjorie’s weight. She rushed to fill the silence. “He sure didn’t waste any time finding someone once I was gone.”

Now Barbara tilted her head and furrowed her brow. “Why did you leave him, anyway? None of us could ever figure it out. Even Pauline.”

Della sighed. “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “We just wore each other out,” she said. “We were exhausted from crying over Jamie, and we couldn’t—I don’t know—neither one of us could get enough energy to even care if things fell apart.”

“Do you think you’ll get back together?”

Della stared at Barbara. “We don’t want to get back together.”

“You might change your mind. Tony might,” Barbara said, ignoring Della shaking her head no. “He sure seemed happy to see you at the cemetery.”

“Well, we still have Robbie; we have to be civil.”

“He was a lot more than civil. Maybe you should give it a try.”

Who is this woman? Della wondered. Where does she live? Certainly not in the same world as the rest of us. She shrugged and turned toward the computer.

“Are you keeping that picture of Pauline?” Barbara asked.

“Yes. And here,” Della reached over to her desk, “I found these, too,” handing over the photos of the Morrison family from Pauline’s album.

“Thanks,” Barbara said, and wandered off.

Della did not let herself recall the conversation with Barbara until she had finished the newsletter, saved it to disk, and headed into Fort Worth to the printer.

So even Kat wasn’t first, thought Della. And maybe the real estate agent wasn’t the first. There could be hundreds! And Barbara knows about others. So maybe she knows about me.

Della shook her head. She was leaving Sydonia and she gave the Accord a little more gas. With the sun roof open and the air conditioner turned to high, she reveled in the day’s sunshine, amazed that it was only early afternoon.

On her left, there was heavy equipment up on the crest of the Castleburg hill, but Della shrugged it off. I’ll ask Kat when I get back, she thought, but she knew there wasn’t anything too drastic. That field was the one that backed onto the end of their street, but she hadn’t heard anything about any construction, so it was probably just some kind of well or stock tank venture. No one’s building high-rises or factories, Della told herself. You can go back to worrying whether Barbara’s planning to poison your food or smother you with your pillow.

She drove straight to the printer, where they took her disk and promised to call if they saw any problems.

Della had her list of groceries, of course, but she put off her visit to the Kroger and instead drove over to West Seventh, on the fringe of downtown. A bell tinkled when she walked into the shop, and a bright-eyed young man behind the counter asked if he could help her.

“Is Tony here?” Della asked.

               Chapter 8