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My throat is tight as I whisper, “Okay.”
There’s no arguing with Doctor, but my eyes well as the line goes dead. I put the dress away and start on soup. I’m chopping onion when I slice my fingers. Blood pools all around the rings, so dark there in the shadows that it looks black.
I put the rings away, bandage my hand. I curl up in an armchair while the soup burbles. The house feels empty.
I can’t bring myself to call him.
I don’t sleep but remain curled there in the chair until the sun is up. When other voices echo down the lane, it feels safe enough to rise.
Twenty-Two
Finley
I open the door to find Dorothy standing on my small porch in a dreary fog. She’s grinning wickedly as she leans against the door frame.
“Tell me all of it, trollop. You know I need to slurp back every detail.”
“Slurp?” I lift my brows, and she lifts hers like a mirror.
I run my gaze up and down her, taking in her lovely yellow dress and red sweater, her vibrant lipstick. “What have you got on, then?”
She runs her hand down the fabric, which looks a bit like silk.
“You were there when I made it. Saturday night sewing…” She twirls her hand in the air as if miming someone with a duster, and I swallow back shocked laughter.
“You’re dressed for him!”
She makes a duck face. “I’m dressed for me, but he could benefit.”
My belly goes all topsy-turvy at her tone, but I make sure not to show it when I snort and say, “Saucy.”
I turn back toward the kitchen, and Dot follows, her ludicrous heels clicking against the pale green linoleum. She spots some wedding cookies in a tin and pops one into her mouth.
“Careful there, Madonna. You might ruin your lipstick.”
She holds up a tube of it, and I realize she got it from a small, brown purse. Dot never carries a purse.
“Ready for the ball then, are we?”
“Aunt Bea lent it to me.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” Dot’s Aunt Bea is a mere six years older than her, three older than me. She married poor Oliver Green but sets her sights upon the tourists like she’s hoping she’ll be spirited away.
Dot makes a silly face—a pretty face.
“You’ve got white powder…” I wipe a cookie smudge off her chin, and she smiles. “What’s he like, though? Really, Finley. Humor me. I’ll help you carry everything.”
I pile her arms with casseroles and cakes and send her to the red Bronco she drove to fetch me. For the next few minutes, I focus on loading the automobile. I unlock the door between the doctor’s quarters and the clinic and fetch a bag of things I need for Declan.
I feel nearly ill with remorse for not returning to him last night. Absolutely wretched as I buckle myself into the passenger’s seat.
Dot turns the Bronco toward Gammy’s and smiles over at me. “Would it hurt so terribly to indulge me? You’ve never been one to go seeking out a sweetheart, but do think of the rest of us. Think of me! I’m not the scholarly sort, as you well know. I’ll never go away to university. I’ll have to settle for Mike Green, and isn’t that a bit creepy?”
“Terribly so, Dorothy. He’s still a child!”
“Homer Carnegie is so gorgeous. All I want to know is what he talks of. How he smells. Could you smell his body there, inside the cave?”
I cover my face because it’s unbearably hot, and Dot squeals with laughter. “Forgive me.”
