wouldn’t be difficult to bring Michael and Rowan in harmony also. She sat back. A vision had taken hold of her, a vision of the sky speckled with all the visible stars. The sky was arched overhead, black and pure and cold, and people were singing, and the stars were magnificent, simply magnificent.
“What’s that song you’re humming?” asked Mary Jane.
“Shhh, hear that?”
Ryan had just come in. She could hear his voice in the dining room. He was talking to Eugenia. How marvelous to see Ryan. But he sure as hell wasn’t taking Mary Jane out of here.
As soon as he stepped in the kitchen, Mona felt so sorry for him with his tired expression. He was still wearing his somber funeral suit. Ought to wear seersucker, the way the other men did this time of year. She loved the men in their seersucker suits in summer, and she loved the old ones who still wore the straw hats.
“Ryan, come join us,” she said, chewing another huge mouthful of rice. “Mary Jane’s cooked a feast.”
“Just you sit right down here,” said Mary Jane, hopping to her feet, “and I’ll serve your plate, Cousin Ryan.”
“No, I can’t, dear,” he said, being punctiliously polite to Mary Jane, because she was the country cousin. “I’m rushing. But thank you.”
“Ryan is always rushing,” said Mona. “Ryan, before you go, take a little walk outside, it’s simply beautiful. Look at the sky, listen to the birds. And if you haven’t smelled the sweet olives, it’s time to do it now!”
“Mona, you’re stuffing yourself with that rice. Is this going to be that kind of pregnancy?”
She tried not to go into spasms of laughter.
“Ryan, sit down, have a glass of wine,” she said. “Where’s Eugenia? Eugenia! Don’t we have some wine?”
“I don’t care for any wine, Mona, thank you.” He made a dismissing gesture to Eugenia, who appeared for one moment in the lighted door, gnarled, angry, disapproving, and then slipped away.
Ryan looked so handsome in spite of his obvious crossness—a man who’d been polished all over with a big rag. She started to laugh again. Time for a gulp of milk, no, drink the whole glass. Rice and milk. No wonder people from Texas ate these two things together.
“Cousin Ryan, won’t take a second—” said Mary Jane. “Just you let me fill you a plate.”
“No, Mary Jane, thank you. Mona, there’s something I have to tell you.”
“Right now, during dinner? Oh, well, shoot. How bad can it be?” Mona poured some more milk from the carton, slopping a bit on the glass table. “After everything that’s already happened? You know, the problem with this family is entrenched conservatism. I wonder if that is redundant. What do you think?”
“Miss Piggy,” said Ryan dourly, “I am talking to you.”
Mona went into hysterics. So did Mary Jane.
“I think I got a job as a cook,” said Mary Jane, “and all I did to that rice was throw in some butter and garlic.”
“It’s the butter!” declared Mona, pointing at Mary Jane. “Where’s the butter? That’s the secret, slop butter on everything.” She picked up a slice of ordinarily pukey white bread, and carved out a glomp of oozy warm butter slowly melting on the saucer.
Ryan was looking at his watch, the infallible signal that he would remain in this spot no more than four more minutes. And God bless us all, he had not said one word about taking Mary Jane away.
“What is it, big boy?” asked Mona. “Hit me with it. I can take it.”
“I don’t know if you can,” he said in a low voice.
That sent her into another reel of laughter. Or maybe it was the blank expression on Ryan’s face. Mary Jane couldn’t stop giggling. She stood beside Ryan, with her hand over her mouth.
“Mona, I’m off,” he said, “but there are several boxes of papers up in the master bedroom. These are things that Rowan wanted, writings that came out of her last room in Houston.” He gave a pointed look to Mary Jane, as if to say, She is not to know about all that.
“Oh yeah, writings,” said Mona. “I heard you talking about it last night. You know, I heard a funny story, Ryan, that when Daphne du Maurier, you know who she was?”
“Yes, Mona.”
“Well, when she was writing Rebecca, it began as an experiment to see how long she could go on without naming her first-person narrator. Michael told me this. It’s true. And you know by the end of the book