She unfolds the next item to be added to the pile: a linen apron, its sturdy fabric heavily creased. It’s what her mother wore when she baked. Tova holds it close to her face; it smells sour, like flour turned bad. Folding up the fraying strings, she tries to push away the thought that has been nagging at her all afternoon. There was a girl.
If Erik hadn’t died that night, the girl might have been a daughter-in-law. Tova herself might have worn this apron when she taught her son’s wife how to make his favorite butter cookies, then passed the apron along to her when the time came.
Such nonsensical thinking must stop. Whoever she was, Erik hadn’t cared for her enough to ever mention her.
This last thought, as usual, stings.
Cat’s afternoon nap comes to an end when a horsefly hurls itself against the window, enticing the sleeping gray hunter into an earnest, if fundamentally pointless, hunt. Tova watches the cat leap at the window, pawing the glass, as the fly hovers, unconcerned, outside.
“I know how you feel,” she says, with a sympathetic nod. To know something is there, yet be unable to grasp it, is torture indeed. With an antagonized mewl, Cat stalks off, winding back through the maze of stacks and vanishing down the stairs.
Tova glances at her wristwatch: almost five. “Suppose I should think about supper,” she mutters to no one, unfolding her aching joints from her low chair and picking her way through the mess. It isn’t like her to leave a project half-finished. A rush of rebellion swishes through her as she turns her back on the unfinished piles and, stepping lightly on her still-tender ankle, descends the staircase.
Egg salad sandwich is tonight’s supper plan . . . again. All week, it’s been nothing but egg salad. （There was a coupon in last week’s circular: buy a dozen, get a dozen free.） Tonight, however, she can’t bear to eat another crumbly sandwich.
It’s true, she’s been doing her shopping in the morning lately. Not because she’s avoiding Ethan and his coffee invitation. Of course not. She checks her watch again: she’s fairly certain he’ll be on shift now. She runs a hand down her face, which feels as worn as the relics in her attic, like the dust has settled into every crease and wrinkle. A friendly conversation with the Scot would be nice right now.
“I’m going up to the Shop-Way,” she informs Cat, who is now perched on the arm of the davenport, no doubt depositing a layer of gray fur which Tova will need to slough off with a lint brush later. Oh well. The davenport won’t be coming with her to the Charter Village, of course; it’s far too large. And, in any event, there are worse things than cat hair.
A hot, thick haze has settled over Sowell Bay, and a few bored-looking teenagers are encamped on the curb in front of the grocery, languid and lazy under the baking sun, limbs sprawled, reminding Tova of a collection of gangly insects. She tuts as she steps over one young man’s extended leg on her way to the front door.
The door chimes, and Ethan Mack glances up from his register with a broad grin and an “Afternoon, Tova!” An icy air-conditioned blast sends gooseflesh shivering up Tova’s arms. She ought to have brought a sweater.
“Good day, Ethan.” Suddenly out of any other words, she hurries toward the produce aisle. There, the temperature is even more frigid. She scoops a bagful of gleaming Rainier cherries and places it in her basket, then after a hesitation, fills a second bag. Cherry season is so short, and these do look delightful.
“Wow, three bucks a pound! What a steal.”
Tova turns to find a familiar woman nibbling on a cherry. It takes her a moment to realize it’s Sandy, from Mary Ann’s luncheon. Adam Wright’s lady friend. Unlisted-in-the-phone-book Adam Wright.
“Oh! Mrs. Sullivan, right?” She swipes juice from her mouth with the back of her hand, then grins sheepishly. “Nice to see you again. I guess you caught me in the act, here.”
“No need to worry. I won’t alert the authorities,” Tova says with a small smile. “Pleasure to see you, Sandy. I hope you and Adam are settling in well.” Guilt nags at her, remembering how she drove through that neighborhood with the newly built homes, hoping she might happen to catch one of them fetching the mail or mowing the lawn. People deserved privacy on their own property. She, of all people, should appreciate that. And, even if she had managed to catch them, who is to say Adam remembers anything more about Erik’s purported sweetheart than he let on at the luncheon? The night in question was, after all, thirty years ago.
And yet, Tova cannot shake his words. She shivers again.