“Nina, hello. It’s so good to see you,” her friend said warmly, moving to greet the woman.
“It’s good to see you, too, Isabelle,” Mrs. Berab returned. “How is your grandmother getting on with Aunt Sofia?” she inquired, her tone rueful.
“They haven’t killed each other yet,” Isabelle assured her. She turned to Rebecca. “Nina’s grandmother was a cousin of my great-grandfather, and thus we have relatives in common.”
“Sofia is my father’s sister,” Mrs. Berab explained.
Because naturally. They were close and connected in so many ways Rebecca was not.
“Good evening, Miss Adler.” The older woman greeted her with an elegant but unnecessary curtsy, gazing around the room, her eyes landing on the molds. “Prophylactics?”
Rebecca could only nod as the woman moved to the table to inspect them.
“These look quite well made,” she declared. “Are they for sale or already committed to customers?”
Rebecca had to pinch herself to verify this was not a very strange dream.
“This batch is for sale,” she managed to respond as Isabelle leaned back against a secondary counter, now gazing between the pair with interest.
“I’ll take two when they’re done,” Mrs. Berab said. “I’ll send someone on… Wednesday, I suppose, with the funds to retrieve them.”
“Of course,” Rebecca murmured, her skin prickling, as she could feel Isabelle’s stare.
“Anyway,” Mrs. Berab continued. “I just wanted to tell you that we enjoyed your company the other day and hope we shall be able to enjoy more of it in the future.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Rebecca replied, even if the invitation was more proper manners than anything else. Why the woman felt she needed to do so, especially at this hour, was anyone’s guess.
“Not kind, rather selfish, actually,” the older woman stated. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my brother-in-law have so much, well, fun, I suppose.”
Fun? Yes, the matching of wits had been amusing for her, but the man was certainly not having fun. Nor was anyone else at the table. But if this woman wanted to lie…
“The death of a spouse is difficult,” Rebecca replied, twisting her hands in front of her as if to keep herself steady in the increasingly uncomfortable conversation.
“It is,” Mrs. Berab agreed. There was a pause as the woman gazed at Rebecca closely now, making her skin heat yet again. A suspicious state to be sure, especially in the winter.
“I’m sure his current humor has less to do with me than with his upcoming nuptials to Miss Teres,” Rebecca said quickly.
There was a gasp from the other side of the room. Both Rebecca and Mrs. Berab turned toward Isabelle.
“He’s going to marry Leone Teres?” her friend asked, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Well, that’s fitting.”
“You know her?” Rebecca asked, though that wasn’t a surprise.
“Only when she was a child,” Isabelle explained with a wave of her hand. “We haven’t spoken in years. Not since she assaulted me—and ruined my favorite gown.” Her friend gave Rebecca a pointed look. As if she was supposed to—
“Wait—” Rebecca stared at Isabelle. “This isn’t about that time you were ten and a larger girl shoved you?” she asked, the memory roaring back. Isabelle had been in quite the tizzy at that garden party. She’d attempted to give her charge space to socialize without supervision, and it had gone poorly, to say the least. No one had been particularly pleased, though Isabelle’s grandmother had defended her.
Miss Adler was correct. My grandchild doesn’t need more hovering and coddling. She needs independence even if that includes messiness, she’d declared, salvaging the relationship between the families.
“That’s exactly right,” Isabelle said.
“I’m sure she’s changed a great deal since then.” Rebecca glanced at Mrs. Berab, who was frowning. Though she had to know the story,did she not? If her memory served, the woman’s own daughter had been present as well.
“Like I have?” Isabelle teased, interrupting her thoughts.
“You’ve been perfection since birth, but the rest of us lesser mortals go through various phases,” Rebecca returned with a wink despite herself.
Behind her, Mrs. Berab coughed, and Rebecca’s face burned. A pox on her and her inability to, well, not stop herself from saying what was on her mind.
