Nadine ran her fingers through the damp, warm soil. “Not since they changed my job.”
“Why not?”
She glanced at Wes, unsure if she was comfortable speaking freely in front of him, then decided she’d have to risk it. If she wanted Dot to be vulnerable and share her story, she would have to share herself. “They’re obituaries. They’re depressing, and it upsets me to read about people who are gone forever.”
“You were the obituary editor,” observed Dot.
“I did the crime beat for a while, and I didn’t like that either. I don’t have to like something to understand it plays an important role in the paper and for people.” Nadine tried not to feel defensive, but it was hard when Dot was looking at her with what felt like disappointment. “I did my best to make sure we covered the impact of significant people.”
“Yet mine was dull as dishwater.”
“TheHeraldhas a…” Nadine struggled for a better word before admitting what it was. “A formula for their obits. It doesn’t leave a lot of room for creativity.”
“I see.” Dot reached down the front of her caftan and pulled out anewspaper clipping. Wes’s face was a study in a man doing his best to keep his eyes up.
Nadine grinned at her. “That’s quite the filing system.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” Dot unfolded the sheet. “Obituaries are life-affirming.”
“They are?” Wes sounded interested and not dismissive, and Nadine relaxed. It was a relief not to have to be on her guard against him, at least as tightly. It made having this conversation with Dot, which seemed to be centered on Nadine’s flaws, easier. She wished she could leave this topic to segue into what Dot said last week about writing for revenge, but it looked like she’d have to be patient.
Dot ran her pen along the newsprint to underline it. “This woman ran a bakery with the best buns in town—that was her tagline—and it turned out she had also saved three hundred people during World War II before she immigrated to Canada. She lived her life like it was the only one she had.” She looked at Nadine over her glasses. “What does this tell you?”
Nadine hazarded a guess. “There are good people in the world?”
Dot waved that away. “Of course, but what else?”
Nadine glanced at Wes to indicate it was his turn, but he shrugged as if to say she was on her own. She tried again. “That people are more than what we see on the surface?”
“Yes.” Dot hid the clipping away. “An obituary is a story. You were in the unique position of determining how a person would be remembered by telling that story. You were the final conduit between a human being’s only life and the wider world. That was your responsibility, and for me, you failed to tell the story well.”
The words were blunt enough that Nadine would have felt crushed and humiliated, especially in front of Wes, had Dot not said them so gently, almost tenderly, if that was a word that could be applied to Dot Voline. The obits job had been a job, and one Nadine had taken out of desperation and not desire. Had she squanderedan opportunity?
Wes stepped slightly forward. “Nadine’s section was always good,” he said to Dot. “It’s unfair of you to act as if she did wrong when she was doing what she was supposed to do. Her work was always appropriate for the section and the audience.”
She felt a sudden rush of gratitude toward Wes. His eyes moved from Dot to give Nadine a long look that made her feel a little tingly. She might have to reevaluate him. No. It was smart to be cautious. Wes could be charming her into letting her guard down so he could get the advantage when he needed.
“True enough, true enough. You’re young,” Dot said. “Here’s a word of advice from an old woman. Once you start digging for a person’s real story, you can learn much. Remember that.” She coughed and pointed to the pots as if to tell them to get back to work. By the time they were done and Nadine was washing her arms under the refreshingly cold water from the tap, Dot was panting.
Wes offered her his arm, and Nadine took charge of pulling the oxygen. Maria met them at the door, shaking her head as Wes helped Dot up the two steps to the main room. The fresh air hit like a slap, and Nadine’s damp skirt clung unpleasantly to her legs.
Wes made Dot her tea without asking and fixed her a small plate of finger sandwiches and tiny scones jeweled with pralines. Nadine bit into her own, surprisingly hungry after working in the conservatory.
“What do you think would happen if we didn’t?” asked Dot finally, dusting her fingers on a pale pink linen napkin.
Wes shot Nadine a questioning look but she shrugged, not knowing where Dot was going with this either. “Didn’t what?” he asked.
“What if we didn’t live like this was our only life?” Dot asked as if continuing a conversation she’d been having with herself. Her red lipstick was smeared under her lip, making her mouth a bruised shadow. “If we lived like we would live forever.”
“That would be existing and not living.” Nadine answered, notwaiting for Wes. “Knowing there’s an eventual end to this life is what makes me want to actually do things.” She pushed aside the little voice that whisperedliarin her ear. Thanks to the threats and the Voline slip, she was anxious about work and making mistakes. Anxious aboutdoing.
No, anxious wasn’t right.
Scared. She was flat-out scared, although she would never admit it to a soul. It would be like saying her parents were right. It was shameful to be frightened about making a mistake. Worried was tolerable.Vigilant, that was an action word, thus acceptable.Anxioushad become such a watered-down default term that it seemed stranger when someone said they weren’t anxious than when they were. But to be scared? That was for children.
Then Dot said, “I’m dying.” Nadine opened her mouth with an instinctive need to deny it, but Dot gave her an amused look. “Don’t bother,” she said. “You called it, though I havesometime left.”
“Sorry,” Nadine muttered. No wonder she dreaded making mistakes when she had to relive them for eternity. Not for the first time did she wish she had one of those monumental egos that simply refused to acknowledge the existence of any error that originated with oneself.
