Women Within

by Anne Leigh Parrish

  The other day Sam had told Timothy about meeting Henry. Now she went over his phone call, her extended family, and not being sure she wanted to meet them.

  “You should. Why not? Nothing to lose,” Timothy said.

  “What if they hate me?”

  “Then to hell with them.”

  But what if they were good people, nice people who were interested in her? Maybe they were like her in certain ways. Maybe they could be friends.

  “Well, it’s not like I’m up to my armpits in close company,” Sam said. She thought ruefully of Lucy, who was still estranged. Now, with Sam moving, there’d be no reason for them to ever see one another again.

  “You have me, and at some point I’m sure you’ll meet the rest of my family. But, only if you want to,” Timothy said.

  “Won’t they assume, you know, that I’m your girlfriend?”

  “They can think what they like. Who cares?”

  “You’re awfully nonchalant, Mr. Dugan.”

  He’d had to learn to be that way. Growing up, he’d been hyper vigilant, always on the lookout for the next flare up between his parents. He felt responsible when they didn’t get along, though even then he knew it wasn’t his fault. He just always felt guilty about things, a sentiment that was helped along a lot by his mother’s criticism, though many of her remarks were true. He’d been lazy as a child and teenager, then resentful and self-destructive. He wouldn’t have wanted to have himself for a son either.

  “That’s a little harsh,” Sam said.

  “Maybe.”

  She asked his advice about quitting her job, now that she had this money. He said unless the work was driving her nuts, she should hang on a little longer, until her plans were more clear.

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “Thirty-one. Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  He looked amused.

  “Making sure you can trust my judgment?” he asked.

  “Something like that.”

  She put their empty bottles in the sink and said that if it was okay with him, she’d like to go and take a look at the house.

  chapter twenty-nine

  It was actually more of a cottage in terms of size, and also because of the lead windows in the living room, which made Sam think instantly of a picture book she’d once had. She wasn’t used to feeling nostalgic, though the emotion wasn’t altogether unpleasant. Her room was in the back. She was delighted to find that she had her own bathroom.

  A two-sided stoned fireplace separated the living room from the TV room, and with the weather now miserably cold, Timothy kept the woodpile stocked. Their work schedules were such that they didn’t see a lot of each other. Sam didn’t mind, because she knew they’d cross paths often enough to keep a connection alive. She assumed Timothy felt the same way.

  Flora was glad Sam had new digs. As for herself, she was happy, and even described her state of mind as being “over the moon.” Chuck was no great catch, she said with a laugh, but she’d found a home in his heart, and that was a good thing. Sam didn’t begrudge her her happiness. She still hadn’t told her about being in touch with Henry Delacourt, though. She had to admit her reluctance stemmed from her entrenched anger at the depth of Flora’s lie.

  For the holidays, Lindell was resplendent with garlands and bows. On the door of each resident’s room a small decoration had been attached—a silver star or a candy cane, sometimes a few strands of tinsel. Constance’s old room was vacant. It wouldn’t be occupied until the first of the year. Sometimes Sam stood in the doorway, remembering the fierce soul that had lived within.

  With Eunice gone, Sam worked with a new aide, Stell.

  “Not Stella?” Sam had asked. Her response had been a weary sigh. Stell was fifty if she was a day, and from the few remarks she’d made, she’d taken the job because of a recent financial misfortune involving her husband.

  “Probably lost his job,” Timothy said, after Sam filled him in. It was a Thursday, the one day both of them had off. It was also the day Sam had agreed to visit Henry Delacourt and his family. She was a wreck. She’d already pulled out her phone twice, ready to call with the excuse of being sick or that her car wouldn’t start.

  Watching her fret, Timothy said he’d go with her.

  “Don’t do that,” she said.

  “Then stop me.”

  She’d learned that he could be like that, forceful and kind at the same time. She asked him what she should wear.

  “You look nice in purple,” he said.

  She paired her purple sweater with black pants. The black ankle boots were new, an indulgence made possible by the money. She wasn’t used to spending on herself and found it glorious. It was something she’d have to be careful with. She was starting to think seriously about school, just as Timothy had suggested.

  She hoped her outfit would convey strength and spirit. She hoped they were small people, over whom she could tower. Henry was tall, though, so they probably would be, too.

  “You want a drink before we go?” Timothy asked her.

  She shook her head.

  “Might steady you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He kissed her on the cheek. For luck, he said.

  The Delacourts lived in the same neighborhood as Timothy, though their house was considerably grander. It had a brick walkway that led from the street. The door was framed by tall arches, and through one of the huge windows on either side of it a Christmas tree dressed with round silver and red ornaments was visible. Smoke rose from the chimney. Sam had the same nostalgic sense she’d had when she first walked into Timothy’s place, as if something from a childhood story had come to life.

  Only this story was now hers.

  END

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