“We’re going to have company, love!”
For the next hour I go from room to room making sure there are no cobwebs, no dull tabletops, no dusty surfaces. I have little todo all day but keep house and entertain Kat, so the house is clean, but I scurry about the rooms with a feather duster anyway. A few minutes before half past, I put a kettle on low, hoping Mrs. Libby Reynolds can be persuaded to stay for tea, and then I straighten Kat’s hair ribbons and smooth back the hair from my face.
I am thinking we probably shouldn’t hover at the door. I turn to Kat. “How about we look at some books while we wait for the lady across the street, hmm?”
We settle in the sitting room with our books and wait. Kat, like me, keeps an alert ear for steps on the stoop. The bell rings and I force myself to rise slowly like a lady who isreceiving guests. Kat gets to her feet, too.
“Ready?” I ask her, and she nods.
We head to the door and I open it wide. The skies have cleared a bit and the street and every leaf on every tree are glistening.
The woman from across the street is standing there in a beautiful pea green shirtwaist with cream trim, with her little boy resting on one hip. In her other hand she holds a plate with a linen napkin over the top. Her eyes widen slightly, as if she’s surprised Kat and I are at home.
“Hello,” I say in the most cultured way I can muster, but I sound just like I always do.
She seems to recover from whatever it is that surprised her.
“Hello, I’m Libby Reynolds,” she says cheerfully. “And this is Timmy. We’ve been wanting to welcome you and your husband to the neighborhood, and here I finally send a note to you and the weather nearly kept us from meeting. I’m so glad the rain stopped.”
She’s a bit shorter than me, rounder, with honey blond hair, full lips, and wide straight teeth. Her little boy looks to be a year or so.
“And I’m Sophie Hocking. Please, won’t you come in?”
“If it’s not an inconvenience?” she says politely.
“Not at all.”
She steps inside and I close the door.
“How strange and wonderful it is to still see Mrs. Kincheloe’s furnishings!” Libby says, looking all around the foyer at the hall tree, the chandelier, the Oriental rug at our feet, the little table by the stairs where I put the day’s mail.
“Mrs. Kincheloe?” I say.
“The doctor’s wife. This was her house.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” I lead us into the sitting room. “Won’t you have a seat?” I gesture to one of the sofas. Libby sits down and positions her son on her lap. I sit across from them in an armchair and Kat retreats to her book on the floor by the hearth.
“From your accent I would guess you’re not from around here,” Libby says congenially.
“No. I’m from Ireland originally. The North.”
“And this is your little girl?” She nods to Kat, seated on the rug near my feet.
“Um. Yes. This is Kat.”
“Kat?” Libby grins.
“It’s short for Katharine.”
Libby looks down at Kat. “What a pretty thing you are. And how old are you, Kat?”
Kat stares at the woman for a moment and gazes up at me.
“She’ll be six in June,” I say quickly.
Libby raises her head slowly, understanding, it seems, that something is a bit amiss with Kat. “Well,” she continues. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you. You and I are the only young mothers on the block! I was sad to hear Dr. Kincheloe had taken thatfancy job in Argentina. His wife, Margaret, was a dear, always willing to take in Timmy if Chester had a nighttime function that I was suddenly expected to attend. My husband’s the assistant headmaster of a private academy and they’re always putting on plays and concerts. And I’ll miss those two little Kincheloe boys, too. Timmy loved watching them run and play. It was quite a nice surprise to see you and your husband moving in and that you have a little girl. Is she your only one?”
“Y-yes,” I answer clumsily.
