Read Online The Beach Book Bundle: 3 Novels for Summer Reading: Breathing Lessons, The Alphabet Sisters, Firefly Summer by Anne Tyler, Monica McInerney - Free Book Online
Authors: Anne Tyler, Monica McInerney
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make any difference where we sit?”
“Just not in the front row,” Ira told her.
“Well, of course not, Ira. I’m not a total fool.”
She dropped into a right-hand pew midway up the aisle and slid over to make room for him. “You’d think at least some kind of music would be playing,” she said.
Ira checked his watch.
Maggie said, “Maybe next time you should follow Serena’s directions.”
“What, and wander some cow path half the morning?”
“It’s better than being the first people here.”
“I don’t mind being first,” Ira said.
He reached into the left pocket of his suit coat. He brought out a deck of cards secured with a rubber band.
“Ira Moran! You’re not playing cards in a house of worship!”
He reached into his right pocket and brought out another deck.
“What if someone comes?” Maggie asked.
“Don’t worry; I have lightning reflexes,” he told her.
He removed the rubber bands and shuffled the two decks together. They rattled like machine-gun fire.
“Well,” Maggie said, “I’m just going to pretend that I don’t know you.” She gathered the straps of her purse and slid out the other end of the pew.
Ira laid down cards where she’d been sitting.
She walked over to a stained-glass window. IN MEMORY OF VIVIAN DEWEY, BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER , a plaque beneath it read. A husband named Vivian! She stifled a laugh. She was reminded of a thought she’d often had back in the sixties when the young men wore their hair so long: Wouldn’t it feel creepy to run your fingers through your lover’s soft, trailing tresses?
Churches always put the most unseemly notions in her head.
She continued toward the front, her heels clicking sharply as if she knew where she was going. She stood on tiptoe beside the pulpit to smell a waxy white flower she couldn’t identify. It didn’t have any scent at all, and it gave off a definite chill. In fact, she was feeling a little chilly herself. She turned and walked back down the center aisle toward Ira.
Ira had his cards spread across half the length of the pew. He was shifting them around and whistling between his teeth. “The Gambler,” that was the name of the song. Disappointingly obvious.
You’ve got to know when to hold them, know when to fold them …
The form of solitaire he played was so involved it could last for hours,but it started simply and he was rearranging the cards almost without hesitation. “This is the part that’s dull,” he told Maggie. “I ought to have an amateur work this part, the way the old masters had their students fill in the backgrounds of their paintings.”
She shot him a glance; she hadn’t known they’d done that. It sounded to her like cheating. “Can’t you put that five on the six?” she asked.
“Butt out, Maggie.”
She wandered on down the aisle, swinging her purse loosely from her fingers.
What kind of church was this? The sign outside hadn’t said. Maggie and Serena had grown up Methodist, but Max was some other denomination and after they married, Serena had switched over. She was married Methodist, though. Maggie had sung at her wedding; she’d sung a duet with Ira. (They were just starting to date then.) The wedding had been one of Serena’s wilder inventions, a mishmash of popular songs and Kahlil Gibran in an era when everyone else was still clinging to “O Promise Me.” Well, Serena had always been ahead of her time. No telling what kind of funeral she would put on.
Maggie pivoted at the door and walked back toward Ira. He had left his pew and was leaning over it from the pew behind so he could study the full array of cards. He must have reached the interesting stage by now. Even his whistling was slower.
You never count your money when you’re sitting at the table …
From here he looked like a scarecrow: coat-hanger shoulders, spriggy black cowlick, his arms set at wiry angles.
“Maggie! You came!” Serena called from the doorway.
Maggie turned, but all
“Just not in the front row,” Ira told her.
“Well, of course not, Ira. I’m not a total fool.”
She dropped into a right-hand pew midway up the aisle and slid over to make room for him. “You’d think at least some kind of music would be playing,” she said.
Ira checked his watch.
Maggie said, “Maybe next time you should follow Serena’s directions.”
“What, and wander some cow path half the morning?”
“It’s better than being the first people here.”
“I don’t mind being first,” Ira said.
He reached into the left pocket of his suit coat. He brought out a deck of cards secured with a rubber band.
“Ira Moran! You’re not playing cards in a house of worship!”
He reached into his right pocket and brought out another deck.
“What if someone comes?” Maggie asked.
“Don’t worry; I have lightning reflexes,” he told her.
He removed the rubber bands and shuffled the two decks together. They rattled like machine-gun fire.
“Well,” Maggie said, “I’m just going to pretend that I don’t know you.” She gathered the straps of her purse and slid out the other end of the pew.
Ira laid down cards where she’d been sitting.
She walked over to a stained-glass window. IN MEMORY OF VIVIAN DEWEY, BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER , a plaque beneath it read. A husband named Vivian! She stifled a laugh. She was reminded of a thought she’d often had back in the sixties when the young men wore their hair so long: Wouldn’t it feel creepy to run your fingers through your lover’s soft, trailing tresses?
Churches always put the most unseemly notions in her head.
She continued toward the front, her heels clicking sharply as if she knew where she was going. She stood on tiptoe beside the pulpit to smell a waxy white flower she couldn’t identify. It didn’t have any scent at all, and it gave off a definite chill. In fact, she was feeling a little chilly herself. She turned and walked back down the center aisle toward Ira.
Ira had his cards spread across half the length of the pew. He was shifting them around and whistling between his teeth. “The Gambler,” that was the name of the song. Disappointingly obvious.
You’ve got to know when to hold them, know when to fold them …
The form of solitaire he played was so involved it could last for hours,but it started simply and he was rearranging the cards almost without hesitation. “This is the part that’s dull,” he told Maggie. “I ought to have an amateur work this part, the way the old masters had their students fill in the backgrounds of their paintings.”
She shot him a glance; she hadn’t known they’d done that. It sounded to her like cheating. “Can’t you put that five on the six?” she asked.
“Butt out, Maggie.”
She wandered on down the aisle, swinging her purse loosely from her fingers.
What kind of church was this? The sign outside hadn’t said. Maggie and Serena had grown up Methodist, but Max was some other denomination and after they married, Serena had switched over. She was married Methodist, though. Maggie had sung at her wedding; she’d sung a duet with Ira. (They were just starting to date then.) The wedding had been one of Serena’s wilder inventions, a mishmash of popular songs and Kahlil Gibran in an era when everyone else was still clinging to “O Promise Me.” Well, Serena had always been ahead of her time. No telling what kind of funeral she would put on.
Maggie pivoted at the door and walked back toward Ira. He had left his pew and was leaning over it from the pew behind so he could study the full array of cards. He must have reached the interesting stage by now. Even his whistling was slower.
You never count your money when you’re sitting at the table …
From here he looked like a scarecrow: coat-hanger shoulders, spriggy black cowlick, his arms set at wiry angles.
“Maggie! You came!” Serena called from the doorway.
Maggie turned, but all
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