Jeb found
a building diagram down the hall from the elevator. He gave it a look. There was a right turn, and then a small lobby with
a doorway leading guests out onto the roof. He had never seen such a sight, a little square of Eden on a hotel roof. Maybe
it was like Fern to want to see such a thing, especially by night. He followed the hallway right and found the two glass doors.
He pressed his face against the glass to see out. A couple necked near a potted tree. He pushed open the door.
The air was dank, steaming under the cloud barrier that turned the sky black, erasing the moon and stars, like Sanford’s ink
washing every point of light from heaven. A brown thrasher fluttered suddenly, bursting out of the foliage of an olive tree.
Drops rained off the leaves, gold dripping under the lanterns. The stone pavement was shining and black, everything damp.
A pondlike vapor hung over the terrace, but it couldn’t have rained that much. A gardener had been out and watered it. Water
hoses were wound up like snakes and put against the wall. The raised gardens were framed all around with wood, a tangle of
mountain sumac and primrose petals dripping over the potent boxed soil.
Fern was where Donna said she might be. She stood near the rooftop balustrade, looking down on Oklahoma City. Her fingers
lightly gripped the barrier. Jeb walked around the tree that blocked his view of her. Now she was in full sight. The rhinestone
hairpins in the back of her hair flickered like a cat’s eyes.
Walton leaned against the railing near her. She kept looking away and he was talking to her in a low voice. “I was surprised
to hear you were coming,” he said.
Jeb slid his hands into his pockets and stepped sideways behind the tree.
“Who said I was coming?”
“Marion’s daughter, Sybil, told Anna,” said Walton. “She didn’t know who you were, though. Did you know Sybil? It’s been so
long. At any rate, since college, Sybil’s still my wife’s best friend. They sit out on the patio all morning, gabbing and
drinking coffee. I’m glad for Anna she still has Sybil.”
Fern kept looking down at the street below. “I knew I shouldn’t have come.” She fumbled with something at her wrist. Walton
reached and with both hands adjusted whatever bauble it was she fiddled with around her wrist. “Was I that bad, Fern?” he
asked.
“We were all bad, Walton. That’s the way things were back then.”
The Oklahoma senator gripped the railing and his hand rested near the hand that bore Jeb’s engagement ring. “Fern Coulter’s
marrying a preacher. I couldn’t believe it when Marion introduced him. I guess you’ll have to be good now. Abigail must be
pleased, she never could keep a good leash on you.”
“Hush, Walton.”
The door opened behind Jeb. The necking couple took their party inside. The woman laughed, a loud, rolling flutter of laughter
that echoed across the terrace. Fern turned and then froze. She moved away from the railing. “Jeb, is that you?”
Jeb came from behind the tree. “I was worried. I came looking for you.”
“Evening, Reverend,” said Walton.
She stared at him after he stepped out from behind the tree. “You should have said something. Told me you were here.”
Jeb looked first at Fern and then Walton.
“Jeb, this is Senator Walton Baer,” said Fern.
“We’ve met. Our host and hostess are probably wondering what happened to us.” Jeb held out his hand. She sighed and then accepted
his hand. Her fingers trembled slightly and then clasped his. Her husky grip was gone, but she followed him. Her palm was
clammy. She kept her eyes to the pavement all the way across the terrace and then even as they walked down the hallway and
into the Venetian Room.
She knelt and brushed away a soggy leaf from the hem of her gown. A trace of brown stained the hem. She sighed and then straightened
upright.
Walton followed them. “No need to spoil a good
a building diagram down the hall from the elevator. He gave it a look. There was a right turn, and then a small lobby with
a doorway leading guests out onto the roof. He had never seen such a sight, a little square of Eden on a hotel roof. Maybe
it was like Fern to want to see such a thing, especially by night. He followed the hallway right and found the two glass doors.
He pressed his face against the glass to see out. A couple necked near a potted tree. He pushed open the door.
The air was dank, steaming under the cloud barrier that turned the sky black, erasing the moon and stars, like Sanford’s ink
washing every point of light from heaven. A brown thrasher fluttered suddenly, bursting out of the foliage of an olive tree.
Drops rained off the leaves, gold dripping under the lanterns. The stone pavement was shining and black, everything damp.
A pondlike vapor hung over the terrace, but it couldn’t have rained that much. A gardener had been out and watered it. Water
hoses were wound up like snakes and put against the wall. The raised gardens were framed all around with wood, a tangle of
mountain sumac and primrose petals dripping over the potent boxed soil.
Fern was where Donna said she might be. She stood near the rooftop balustrade, looking down on Oklahoma City. Her fingers
lightly gripped the barrier. Jeb walked around the tree that blocked his view of her. Now she was in full sight. The rhinestone
hairpins in the back of her hair flickered like a cat’s eyes.
Walton leaned against the railing near her. She kept looking away and he was talking to her in a low voice. “I was surprised
to hear you were coming,” he said.
Jeb slid his hands into his pockets and stepped sideways behind the tree.
“Who said I was coming?”
“Marion’s daughter, Sybil, told Anna,” said Walton. “She didn’t know who you were, though. Did you know Sybil? It’s been so
long. At any rate, since college, Sybil’s still my wife’s best friend. They sit out on the patio all morning, gabbing and
drinking coffee. I’m glad for Anna she still has Sybil.”
Fern kept looking down at the street below. “I knew I shouldn’t have come.” She fumbled with something at her wrist. Walton
reached and with both hands adjusted whatever bauble it was she fiddled with around her wrist. “Was I that bad, Fern?” he
asked.
“We were all bad, Walton. That’s the way things were back then.”
The Oklahoma senator gripped the railing and his hand rested near the hand that bore Jeb’s engagement ring. “Fern Coulter’s
marrying a preacher. I couldn’t believe it when Marion introduced him. I guess you’ll have to be good now. Abigail must be
pleased, she never could keep a good leash on you.”
“Hush, Walton.”
The door opened behind Jeb. The necking couple took their party inside. The woman laughed, a loud, rolling flutter of laughter
that echoed across the terrace. Fern turned and then froze. She moved away from the railing. “Jeb, is that you?”
Jeb came from behind the tree. “I was worried. I came looking for you.”
“Evening, Reverend,” said Walton.
She stared at him after he stepped out from behind the tree. “You should have said something. Told me you were here.”
Jeb looked first at Fern and then Walton.
“Jeb, this is Senator Walton Baer,” said Fern.
“We’ve met. Our host and hostess are probably wondering what happened to us.” Jeb held out his hand. She sighed and then accepted
his hand. Her fingers trembled slightly and then clasped his. Her husky grip was gone, but she followed him. Her palm was
clammy. She kept her eyes to the pavement all the way across the terrace and then even as they walked down the hallway and
into the Venetian Room.
She knelt and brushed away a soggy leaf from the hem of her gown. A trace of brown stained the hem. She sighed and then straightened
upright.
Walton followed them. “No need to spoil a good
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