“Why don’t you give me your phone number, and your name again so I can write it down, and I’ll think about it and call you back.”
Sara tried to keep the disappointment from her voice as she gave her the information. Yet when she finally hung up, she found she was smiling with anticipation. She had found something, the real thing, she was sure of it, she had found a true eccentric who was writing a truly good book. She felt like Sherlock Holmes on the trail of a culprit, Madame Curie in her laboratory—she was close to a discovery of some importance, and now waiting was a necessary part of the process that would lead to a triumph in her life. She felt sure of this, as if she had been granted a vision.
Chapter Three
Sara had always thought of Thanksgiving as a formal occasion, involving polished silver, the best china, and a flower-embellished table. As a child, she had been expected to make an attempt at good manners and solemnity as soon as she was old enough to hold a fork. It was boring, but there had been the triumph of knowing that her younger or more boisterous cousins were relegated to the playroom with a sitter.
This Thanksgiving had all the formality of a football stadium during a Super Bowl. Mick had brought in his contribution: a case of Michelob and his color TV, which he set up in the living room next to the Clarks’ TV, so the men could watch two football games at the same time. While the women put steaming bowls and the burnished turkey on the dining room table, Jeremy Clark and Blaise Bennett, both three, ran under the table and underfoot, throwing a tiny football and tackling each other, while two-year-old Heather Bennett toddled after them, screaming at the top of her lungs, waving her chubby arms, tripping over her own feet, already a great little cheerleader. Dinner was served buffet style, and for a few brief moments relative silence reigned while the men ate, but now they had finished dessert and had settled down to serious TV watching, which seemed to necessitate clapping, cursing, and yelling. The women hissed and booed at the men for a while, then gathered in the kitchen with the door shut, ostensibly to do the dishes, but really to get down to some good gossip.
Sara leaned against the kitchen door. Annie Danforth had put an Irish coffee in her hands, and in the heat and the laughter and the informality of the kitchen, Sara began to feel at home.
“I don’t know what to do. Alison Wellington hasn’t paid me for babysitting her kids for four months now,” Mary said. She was seated at the kitchen table, covering dishes with foil.
“Don’t babysit her kids anymore till she pays you,” Carole Clark said. She was drying the glasses Jamie Jones was washing.
“What can I do, lock my door against her? She works, you know,” Mary protested.
“She was always that way, always!” Annie Danforth said. “Remember in GirlScouts? Even in Brownies, for heaven’s sake! She never paid her dues. Never .”
“Well, she says it’s not her fault,” Mary said. “She says her husband takes her paycheck and keeps it and doles money out to her.”
“Yeah, and if you believe that, let me sell you a used car,” Carole said. “Mary, remember when our senior class went on the trip to Washington, D.C.? And she said she lost her wallet and we all had to chip in so she’d have spending money?”
Leaning against the door, Sara watched, fascinated by the gossip about the legendarily skinflint Alison Wellington, envious of the other women’s shared history and the ease with which they worked together. She wished there was something she could do to help—she didn’t want them saying later, “Did you see the way Sara Kendall just stood there, not lifting a finger, like she thought she was some kind of queen?” But she didn’t know what to do. The women seemed as organized as a hive of bees; she didn’t know where to jump in.
Then from the living room came the sound of a crying baby. Jamie
Sara tried to keep the disappointment from her voice as she gave her the information. Yet when she finally hung up, she found she was smiling with anticipation. She had found something, the real thing, she was sure of it, she had found a true eccentric who was writing a truly good book. She felt like Sherlock Holmes on the trail of a culprit, Madame Curie in her laboratory—she was close to a discovery of some importance, and now waiting was a necessary part of the process that would lead to a triumph in her life. She felt sure of this, as if she had been granted a vision.
Chapter Three
Sara had always thought of Thanksgiving as a formal occasion, involving polished silver, the best china, and a flower-embellished table. As a child, she had been expected to make an attempt at good manners and solemnity as soon as she was old enough to hold a fork. It was boring, but there had been the triumph of knowing that her younger or more boisterous cousins were relegated to the playroom with a sitter.
This Thanksgiving had all the formality of a football stadium during a Super Bowl. Mick had brought in his contribution: a case of Michelob and his color TV, which he set up in the living room next to the Clarks’ TV, so the men could watch two football games at the same time. While the women put steaming bowls and the burnished turkey on the dining room table, Jeremy Clark and Blaise Bennett, both three, ran under the table and underfoot, throwing a tiny football and tackling each other, while two-year-old Heather Bennett toddled after them, screaming at the top of her lungs, waving her chubby arms, tripping over her own feet, already a great little cheerleader. Dinner was served buffet style, and for a few brief moments relative silence reigned while the men ate, but now they had finished dessert and had settled down to serious TV watching, which seemed to necessitate clapping, cursing, and yelling. The women hissed and booed at the men for a while, then gathered in the kitchen with the door shut, ostensibly to do the dishes, but really to get down to some good gossip.
Sara leaned against the kitchen door. Annie Danforth had put an Irish coffee in her hands, and in the heat and the laughter and the informality of the kitchen, Sara began to feel at home.
“I don’t know what to do. Alison Wellington hasn’t paid me for babysitting her kids for four months now,” Mary said. She was seated at the kitchen table, covering dishes with foil.
“Don’t babysit her kids anymore till she pays you,” Carole Clark said. She was drying the glasses Jamie Jones was washing.
“What can I do, lock my door against her? She works, you know,” Mary protested.
“She was always that way, always!” Annie Danforth said. “Remember in GirlScouts? Even in Brownies, for heaven’s sake! She never paid her dues. Never .”
“Well, she says it’s not her fault,” Mary said. “She says her husband takes her paycheck and keeps it and doles money out to her.”
“Yeah, and if you believe that, let me sell you a used car,” Carole said. “Mary, remember when our senior class went on the trip to Washington, D.C.? And she said she lost her wallet and we all had to chip in so she’d have spending money?”
Leaning against the door, Sara watched, fascinated by the gossip about the legendarily skinflint Alison Wellington, envious of the other women’s shared history and the ease with which they worked together. She wished there was something she could do to help—she didn’t want them saying later, “Did you see the way Sara Kendall just stood there, not lifting a finger, like she thought she was some kind of queen?” But she didn’t know what to do. The women seemed as organized as a hive of bees; she didn’t know where to jump in.
Then from the living room came the sound of a crying baby. Jamie
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