“Et tu Brute?” Now her coffee didn’t even taste good, and her first cup of coffee in the morning was one of her favorite pleasures in life. “Everyone is ignoring me,” she said pathetically. “But I do know,” she added, saying it aloud, as if someone were listening, “that Willow is not my daughter. She’ll return to Boston, and I’ll never see her again. I’ve allowed myself to get too involved with a summer person.”
As a practical matter, she needed to find someone else to help with story time.
They had plenty of volunteers, but she needed to check her list and call someone.
“Enough whining,” she told herself, and rose from the table to begin the day.
She chose one of her favorite sundresses to wear to work, mostly white, with scarlet poppies on green stems growing up from the hem. She slipped on a red silk headband, kissed herself in the mirror, and set off for the library.
The day was full of minor crises—all the copies of Shrek had been checked out, and Nanny McPhee had been misshelved, so it showed up as in on the computer, but displeased mothers and frantic circ staffers had to search through the shelves to find it. A little girl locked herself in one of the restrooms and wouldn’t come out because she didn’t want to be with her stepmother, and Beverly Maison spilled a cup of iced coffee down her new shirt.
At the end of the day, Darcy was delighted to leave the library. A lecture on coastal erosion was taking place in the Great Hall that evening; Darcy had planned on attending but decided she wasn’t in the mood. As she walked home, her mind flooded with concerns she’d shoved into a mental compartment for the day.
Nash. They didn’t always get together on Friday nights. He was usually beat and they both worked on Saturdays. And when they did get together, would they talk more about the house he wanted to buy?
Susan Brueckner. Should Darcy tell Susan about what Willow saw? Did she need Willow, the eyewitness, with her when she spoke with Susan? But, no, Willow had been nearly traumatized, seeing her mother naked on the dining room table with Susan’s husband. The girl didn’t need any more shocks from the grown-up world.
Maybe Darcy should simply let it go. After all, she hardly knew Susan and Otto. They would be leaving after Labor Day. Darcy might never see them again. Maybe Susan already knew about Otto’s escapades, and Darcy would only bring unwanted attention to a situation the Brueckners had already worked out for themselves.
Mimi. Darcy should talk to Mimi about this. Mimi was wise. She’d seen everything twice, it seemed, and Mimi viewed life with more than a pinch of good humor and goodwill.
Impulsively, when Darcy came to Mimi’s house, she stopped and knocked on the door. She’d invite Mimi over for a drink in the garden, or maybe Mimi would invite her in for a drink in her own back garden. Mimi would break Darcy’s spell of gloominess. She’d make Darcy laugh, and without Willow there, Mimi and Darcy could talk without inhibitions.
The moment Darcy knocked, she wished she’d texted or phoned instead. If Clive wasn’t home, Mimi would have to struggle down the hall to open the door. But she couldn’t unknock the door, and while she stood dithering about, the door opened.
Clive was there, and he looked worried. His brown hair was rumpled and he had dark circles under his eyes. Several small stains marked his shirt, a handsome but wrinkled blue button-down hanging out over his jeans.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Clive, it looks like I’ve come at a bad time.”
“Mimi’s ill.” He kept his hand on the door, as if it were holding him up.
He spoke so quietly, Darcy wasn’t sure she understood. “Excuse me?”
He cleared his throat. “Mimi’s not well.”
Darcy heard him this time. The words struck like a blow to her abdomen. Mimi was worse than “not well” if Clive looked like this.
“Oh. I—I’m sorry to hear that, Clive. Is there anything I can do?”
“I don’t know.” He ran his hand through his hair, making it stick up all over. “She—I— Why don’t you come in a moment.”
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“Please. Intrude.” He held the door wide.
Darcy entered, setting her book bag on the floor and following Clive into the living room. He collapsed on a sofa. She took a chair across from him. A pile of books had toppled off a side table, some lying splayed open, their pages bent, and Darcy had to hold back the urge to pick them up, smooth the pages, close them, and place them with care on the table.
Several glasses and mugs were scattered on the coffee table, the rug, and the hearth. Some had coffee. Some sent the sharp scent of alcohol into the air.