trimmed his ears, neck, nose, and eyebrows. Yes, it was worth it. Except for the slightly unhealthy pallor of his skin, Hayden looked as if he’d been dry-cleaned.
He arrived at Bobbie Anne’s a full twenty minutes early, like a senior citizen attending a retirement party. Everything he wore was brand-new except for his khaki pants, and those had been professionally washed and pressed, just to be on the safe side.
“Hey there, Hayden,” Bobbie Anne said in her welcoming drawl. She was from Athens, Georgia, which was where she’d met her Brooklyn-born husband, Derek, while he was stationed at an army base there. According to Bobbie Anne, her father was the owner of a prosperous furniture store and a deacon at their church, and her mother was a long-standing member of the exclusive local garden club. Bobbie Anne and her sisters were all sent to an expensive girls school, spoke perfect English complete with proper usage of who and whom, and yet possessed no practical skills aside from those required to be good wives to wealthy men—interior decorating, flower arranging, table setting, and menu planning.
When Bobbie Anne became pregnant by a Yankee enlisted man, the son of a Polish-born electrician and his immigrant wife, and one of eight children, her parents were devastated. Her mother sobbed while her father banged his Bible on her dresser repeating, “Why’d you get on the train if you didn’t want to go to Atlanta?” Eventually her aunt Winifred arrived from Savannah to mediate, if one could call it that. The choice was being disowned or else a stay at the home for wayward girls and unwed mothers, following which the baby would be put up for adoption. Bobbie Anne didn’t score any points by asking why she’d never heard of homes for wayward boys.
And so now, at twenty-six, Bobbie Anne was a widow, still lovely, but with lines creasing the corners of her soft violet eyes, and a gentle slope to her breasts from having nursed twin girls who were now eight.
She led Hayden into the small square living room. It was furnished inexpensively; most decorative objects, such as calico wreaths and decoupage boxes, appeared to have been handmade by Bobbie Anne, or else were art projects created by her daughters. She acted as calmly and naturally as if she’d invited Hayden to brunch, or they were standing and talking while taking a break from cleaning up their yards, as they often did when Mary was still alive and he actually cared about keeping up the house and lawn.
Hayden placed the money on the coffee table, eager to get it out of his possession. Before leaving he’d counted and recounted it ten times. Exactly two hundred dollars in crisp new twenties. Though he wasn’t sure what to do about a gratuity. In business one didn’t normally tip the owner of an establishment. And when you did offer a gratuity for service it was usually afterward, not before.
“It’s so nice of you to drop by, Hayden.” She wore jeans that fit snugly and a short-sleeved hyacinth-colored cotton sweater that looked pretty against her long flowing copper hair.
“It’s kind of you to have me over.” He was careful not to say invite because she hadn’t exactly invited him.
Bobbie Anne offered him tea or coffee. He declined. She came over and lightly touched his elbow and her far-seeing violet eyes stared into his luminescent green ones. “How’ve you been, Hayden?” Her voice was smooth and comforting like warm honey. “You look slightly peaked.”
“Oh, I guess I’ve been a wee bit lonely, bangin’ around that big old town house all by myself.” The truth was that he’d been feeling tired, anxious, and without appetite for weeks. However, Hayden wasn’t about to go to any doctor just to hear that he was “suffering from depression.” At his insurance company practically everyone was taking pills or going to therapy as a way to try and get happy, from the president all the way down to the temp workers.
But Hayden was
He arrived at Bobbie Anne’s a full twenty minutes early, like a senior citizen attending a retirement party. Everything he wore was brand-new except for his khaki pants, and those had been professionally washed and pressed, just to be on the safe side.
“Hey there, Hayden,” Bobbie Anne said in her welcoming drawl. She was from Athens, Georgia, which was where she’d met her Brooklyn-born husband, Derek, while he was stationed at an army base there. According to Bobbie Anne, her father was the owner of a prosperous furniture store and a deacon at their church, and her mother was a long-standing member of the exclusive local garden club. Bobbie Anne and her sisters were all sent to an expensive girls school, spoke perfect English complete with proper usage of who and whom, and yet possessed no practical skills aside from those required to be good wives to wealthy men—interior decorating, flower arranging, table setting, and menu planning.
When Bobbie Anne became pregnant by a Yankee enlisted man, the son of a Polish-born electrician and his immigrant wife, and one of eight children, her parents were devastated. Her mother sobbed while her father banged his Bible on her dresser repeating, “Why’d you get on the train if you didn’t want to go to Atlanta?” Eventually her aunt Winifred arrived from Savannah to mediate, if one could call it that. The choice was being disowned or else a stay at the home for wayward girls and unwed mothers, following which the baby would be put up for adoption. Bobbie Anne didn’t score any points by asking why she’d never heard of homes for wayward boys.
And so now, at twenty-six, Bobbie Anne was a widow, still lovely, but with lines creasing the corners of her soft violet eyes, and a gentle slope to her breasts from having nursed twin girls who were now eight.
She led Hayden into the small square living room. It was furnished inexpensively; most decorative objects, such as calico wreaths and decoupage boxes, appeared to have been handmade by Bobbie Anne, or else were art projects created by her daughters. She acted as calmly and naturally as if she’d invited Hayden to brunch, or they were standing and talking while taking a break from cleaning up their yards, as they often did when Mary was still alive and he actually cared about keeping up the house and lawn.
Hayden placed the money on the coffee table, eager to get it out of his possession. Before leaving he’d counted and recounted it ten times. Exactly two hundred dollars in crisp new twenties. Though he wasn’t sure what to do about a gratuity. In business one didn’t normally tip the owner of an establishment. And when you did offer a gratuity for service it was usually afterward, not before.
“It’s so nice of you to drop by, Hayden.” She wore jeans that fit snugly and a short-sleeved hyacinth-colored cotton sweater that looked pretty against her long flowing copper hair.
“It’s kind of you to have me over.” He was careful not to say invite because she hadn’t exactly invited him.
Bobbie Anne offered him tea or coffee. He declined. She came over and lightly touched his elbow and her far-seeing violet eyes stared into his luminescent green ones. “How’ve you been, Hayden?” Her voice was smooth and comforting like warm honey. “You look slightly peaked.”
“Oh, I guess I’ve been a wee bit lonely, bangin’ around that big old town house all by myself.” The truth was that he’d been feeling tired, anxious, and without appetite for weeks. However, Hayden wasn’t about to go to any doctor just to hear that he was “suffering from depression.” At his insurance company practically everyone was taking pills or going to therapy as a way to try and get happy, from the president all the way down to the temp workers.
But Hayden was
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