been walking on the beach. Despite looking like she had thrown on some men’s clothes in the morning and despite the fact that she had to be over forty, she looked almost shockingly beautiful and wild. “Kit,” she said.
“It’s me.”
“All grown up.” She put a hand out, and then flinched as I took a step back. “You’re lovely.”
“I came to see you.”
“Well, you’d better come in, then.”
She opened the door to the house. To the right I could see a living room with a small hearth and a couch facing it. There was one long table against the wall with books and newspapers and magazines arranged in stacks on it.
I saw all this in a flash, all of it unfamiliar and strange, because I’d never seen Delia pick up a book in her life. Besides the Bible.
“I like to read now,” Delia said. “Comes with the job. I work at the library.” There were two deep, dented lines on either side of her mouth. Laugh lines, they were called. Did she still have cause to laugh?
Hank stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Hank Greeley. I’m a friend of Kit’s.”
“Greeley.” Delia frowned, as if the name tickled a memory. She shrugged out of her coat. “Come in, I was just about to light a fire. Take off your things.”
It was a blessing, to have the fire, for Delia busied herself with kindling and newspaper and matches, so I was able to look around and get my bearings. A bookcase covered one wall, its shelves stuffed with novels and biographies. There was a small pastel of a beach scene framed and hung on one wall. On the mantel was a row of small vases, each of them with a bit of beach grass or dried roses in it. On the windowsill, beach stones were arranged in order of size, white and smooth. Between each one was a shiny new penny, heads up. The reference to Jamie made me bite my lip and turn away.
How different it was from our apartment in Providence, chockablock with shoes thrown about and papers, sweaters left on chairs, blankets thrown over the worn spot on the couch, forgotten glasses of milk and cups of tea. I remembered Delia’s room, the plain lines of the wooden table she’d dragged out to the backyard and painted white, the white chenille bedspread, one brass candlestick. Delia had always liked things plain and spare. Back then we’d seen it as evidence of her need to show us up with her own superiority, neat in the face of our messiness.
I guess I thought I’d cry, but I felt strangely numb. Maybe I was just all cried out. By the time Delia turned away from the fire — taking longer than she needed to, I was sure — I’d gone through relief and curiosity and pleasure and had settled right back into anger, my most comfortable place.
“We thought you were dead,” I said.
Delia looked startled. “You did?”
“Of course we did! You disappeared without a trace! You didn’t send one word to us.”
Delia put a hand on the mantel like some fancy grande dame. She must have thought better of the pose, because she dropped it. “Your father told me I was no longer welcome —”
“He had every right to!”
“Yes,” Delia said, “he did.” She took a breath. “Why don’t I make us tea?”
“I don’t want your tea. I want answers.”
“Well, how about tea and answers?”
Hank looked from me to Delia. I hadn’t taken off my coat yet. I had the feeling I should just run out the door.
“Hank,” Delia said, “there are books to read — you look like a reader, somehow — and you can sit by the fire for a bit, is that all right?”
“That will be fine, Miss Warwick.”
“How do you keep track of all your names, Delia?” I chewed on nasty like it was chocolate, sweet in my mouth.
“Have a seat, Hank. I think my niece will have an easier time berating me in private.”
How could she stay so cool? Delia walked out of the room and down the hall, looking back to see if I would follow.
“If you need me, I’m here,” Hank said.
I hesitated just a moment, and when I went into the kitchen, Delia was setting the tea things on a breakfast table, a small round one by a window that looked out on another patch of dried, dreary grass. There was a package of butter on the counter, along with apples and brown sugar and