“Yes,” Kat says in a quiet voice. The second word in as many days! I want to reach down and hug her for it, but instinct tells me to treat the response as unremarkably normal. Because it is.
Libby’s front door opens a few seconds after I ring the bell. A trim older woman in a black-and-white maid’s uniform stands on the other side of it.
“Can I help you?” the woman says.
“Is Libby at home?” I ask.
“Mrs. Reynolds is entertaining guests at the moment. Are you expected?”
For a second I simply stare at her. “No, not exactly,” I finally say. “That is, I was just returning Lib—Mrs. Reynolds’s plate. I live across the street, you see. She welcomed us to the neighborhood with some sweets a few days ago.”
The woman looks down at the plate and seems to recognize it as one belonging to the Reynolds household. She looks down at Kat, too, wondering perhaps if she should in fact invite the two of us in. A second later she swings the door wide.
“If you could just wait here in the foyer a moment, I’ll see if the missus will see you.”
As I step inside the beautifully appointed entry—marble floors, a richly woven rug, and gleaming wood paneling—I hear women’s voices, and it occurs to me that I should have sent a note first. That’s what Libby would have done. Other people are already here.
Before the maid can leave us to speak to Libby, she appears from what is probably the Reynoldses’ parlor, no doubt having heard the doorbell. Her face registers surprise and perhaps a little apprehension and then a sweet veneer of courtesy. She strides forward. Libby is wearing a beautiful dress of royal blue chintz with ivory lace tucked about the yoke and sleeves. It shimmers and swishes as she walks.
“Why, Mrs. Hocking,” she says politely. “How good of you to drop by. I’m so sorry I can’t visit at the moment.”
“It’s quite all right.” I match the pleasant tone. “Kat and I were just returning the plate. Thank you ever so much for the cakes.”
“Of course.” Libby smiles graciously.
I extend the plate, but Libby does not reach out to take it. Instead, it is the maid who grasps hold.
Libby leans toward me a few inches. “I’ve some ladies from the academy over for tea. I’m so sorry.”
Her words sound genuine enough, but I can’t shake the notion that Libby is only sorry that I’ve come calling, not that she is unable to visit with me. I believe she has realized how very much I am not like her. I don’t have a maid, I don’t have women friends over for tea, I don’t have a husband who comes home every night, I don’t have a courtship to talk about or a wedding dress wrapped in linen in a cedar chest. I have a child but not the memory ofbringing that child into the world or the joy of watching her first step or hearing her laugh or cry. I linger on the foyer rug when I know I should turn to leave.
Libby smiles sweetly at me. “Perhaps another time?”
“Yes, that would be... lovely.” I finally turn to step out. “Thank you again for the sweets and your visit.”
Libby smiles wide. “Good-bye!” The door closes.
Kat and I walk back across the street.
“I guess we will have to play with Timmy another day,” I say with fake cheer. Kat seems to sense my disappointment. The child looks up at me with eyes that nearly gleam with perception.
“I’ll be all right, love,” I say. “I was just looking forward to a visit with our neighbors today. How about if we draw some pictures for Timmy instead? Would you like to do that?”
“Yes,” Kat whispers.
And I squeeze her hand as tears prick. The morning’s failed visit isn’t a complete loss. Kat has spoken another word.
•••
When I don’t see or hear from Libby over the next few days, I decide to summon a bit of courage and drop a note through the Reynoldses’ mail slot inviting Libby and Timmy over for lunch the following day. I am gratified when the maid from across the street comes by a few hours later and hands me Libby’s reply that they would be happy to come.
Kat and I spend the better part of the afternoon making the back garden patio as beautiful as we can, pulling weeds, planting new bedding flowers, and polishing the scrolled iron chairs and table so that the garden is as pretty as a peek of paradise. We come into the house for refreshment and to clean up, and whilewe are having a drink the doorbell rings. Standing on the mat is Mrs. Lewis from the boardinghouse with a package in her hand and a half smile on her lips.
“Oh my! Mrs. Lewis!” I say. “Please, do come in.”
She steps inside, warily it seems, as if weighing the decision to come to the house in the first place.
“How good of you to drop by,” I continue. “May I take your hat and coat? Can you stay for tea?”
