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“Gosh, I’m so tired,” I said.
“So, who’ve you met so far?” asked Barnaby.
“Hmm…” I looked at Tom. He shrugged.
“Have you met George Humboldt? He’s the grocer,” said Priscilla.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“How about Nancy Prince?” Priscilla pressed on. “She’s the florist.”
“I don’t think we’ve met her either.”
“What about Carol Ann Robards? She’s got that nice little bungalow on West Street. She’s older. She has a terrier? No?”
“We don’t know anyone,” I said. I would come to understand that Priscilla delighted in making comments like these. In pointing out the banal about Starling Falls. The fact that there was someone in this town who called himself a grocer and made a living at it, was worth drawing attention to, but only if it was said like it was a normal thing. For Priscilla, this was the essence, the fun, of Starling Falls.
“What about the Michaelsons?” she asked. “Have you met any of them? Everyone in Starling Falls seems to either be a Michaelson, or married to one.”
“We really don’t know a soul yet,” I said.
“This is Powers,” Barnaby said, holding up his whiskey. “Can you taste the chocolate?”
“You know, I think I can,” said Tom, as his eyes focused half-crossed on a knot in the woodwork of the pocket door across the room.
“What about Frank Bilson?” asked Priscilla while she stroked her neck and shoulder in long, absentminded strokes that suggested she didn’t even know she was doing it. “He and his partner Joe run the bed and breakfast on Fourth Street.”
“I’m afraid not,” I said, stifling another yawn. I looked at Tom for help but he just turned away from me and took another sip of his whiskey.
“Bob and Cindy Phelps?” asked Priscilla.
“No,” I said. “I’m telling you, we really haven’t met anyone yet.”
“Chris and Margaret Feedler? They live on the corner of Seventh and Georgina Street. They have a standard poodle.”
“Sorry, but no.”
“My goal is to know everyone in Starling Falls,” said Priscilla. “With Deuce having such a prestigious position at such a recognized academy, I think it’s important for us to get to know everyone, and for everyone to get to know us. Since Deuce will be busy working, I’m taking it upon myself to handle the social side of our responsibilities.”
“That’s why you’re such a great wife,” Barnaby said to Priscilla, winking at her. He turned back to Tom. “So, do you mind if I ask how old you both are?”
“I’ll be thirty next month. Courtney’s twenty-six.”
“We’re both twenty-eight,” said Priscilla.
“And where did you say you’re from?” Barnaby asked Tom.
“Seattle,” he said.
“Both of you are from there?”
“Yeah,” said Tom.
I appreciated him keeping it simple. There was no need to point out that I actually came from a family of poor coal miners in Pennsylvania, and that I hadn’t spoken to any of them in years. Or that his family lived in Spokane, had two different lake homes, and got professional family photos taken twice each year, even now that the kids were all adults. Or that we’d met in college, or any of the other thousands of details they’d never need to know.
“So. Seattle…” said Barnaby.
Please, God, I prayed. I only pray about once every three or four years, when I find myself in the direst of situations. Please don’t let a conversation about Seattle get started. I could not stop watching the clock. Somehow, another hour had slipped by and it was now quarter to two. We’d been up since six, working all day.
