The Pieces We Keep(134)

“That’s very kind of you,” Mrs. Langtree said.

“It’s our pleasure.”

Quiet rose between them, and Vivian worried that her presence had stirred up old tragic memories. “Well, I’d say we’ve taken up enough of your time. Judith, tell Mrs. Langtree good-bye.”

Judith stepped forward. But rather than speaking or waving, she wrapped Mrs. Langtree’s legs in a hug. The girl overflowed with affection at home-especially for Gene, who doted on her to the brink of spoiling-but typically not to strangers.

Vivian was about to apologize, out of courtesy, and nudge the toddler free when Mrs. Langtree tentatively returned the gesture. The lines on her face visibly softened.

After Judith let go, Mrs. Langtree cleared her throat. “You know,” she said, “I was just going to put a pot of tea on. Would you ladies care to join me?”

Vivian blinked at the invitation. “We wouldn’t want to impose.”

Mrs. Langtree looked down at Judith. “I think I could scrounge up a few shortbread cookies, as well,” she said, and with something resembling a smile she guided Judith into the house.





That single afternoon, much to Vivian’s amazement, soon graduated into weekly visits. Over tea and cocoa, and a pie or cobbler when they had saved enough sugar-one of the last items still rationed-an unlikely friendship steadily bloomed.

They would talk about canning and gardening and Judith’s latest feats. Mrs. Langtree would relay humorous switchboard tales in exchange for descriptions of London. Past these, she and Vivian discussed marriage and their parents and childhood trips to the shore. Sometimes Mrs. Langtree tossed out amusing tales of her late husband-though it was still a rarity for her to speak at length of her beloved son, Neal.

They continued this way for months. Of course, they included Gene, too, in their periodic suppers.

Then on a Friday afternoon in the middle of March, after Judith had devoured her cupcake, leaving chocolaty crumbs and three burnt candles, Mrs. Langtree turned to Vivian with a serious face.

“There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you,” she said. “And now is finally the time.”





63


Audra hurried to fill a glass of water for Luanne, anticipating what the woman had come to say. Same as their initial meeting at the farm, tension lurked just beneath the surface.

“Thank you, dear.” Luanne accepted the glass, seated on Audra’s couch. “I hope you don’t mind my dropping in like this. When Sean told me that he was coming here, I realized it would be best to talk to you both at the same time.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Audra said, settling beside her.

Sean borrowed a chair from the dinner table to join them in the living room. Squared to the couch, he sent Audra a curious look over the purpose of the gathering.

As Luanne sipped her drink, her attention drifted to the framed photo of Jack on the end table, an old snapshot taken at the zoo. “Is your son around by any chance?” she asked with forced nonchalance.

No doubt, the woman had been thrown off by Audra’s transcendental theories. Rather than dismissing them as she should have, perhaps Luanne sought grounds for validation.

“Not for a while. He’s at his grandparents’ house until tonight.”

“Ah.” Luanne nodded.

“Speaking of which,” Audra said, utilizing the segue, “I’ve been wanting to tell you how sorry I am for all my rambling at the gallery, about Jack and those ridiculous ideas. I really hope you haven’t wasted time on any of them.”

“No reason for apologies,” Luanne said, her eyes sullen behind her bifocals. “Not from you anyhow.”

Sean leaned forward, listening closer. “What is it you want to tell us, Aunt Lu?”

Luanne placed her glass on the table, the water’s surface rippling from the shake of her hand. She curled her fingers, layered them on the lap of her summer dress. “Audra, when your son came into the studio that night,” she said with a grave pause, “he called me Miss Moppet.”

Fabulous. The poor lady came all this way to decode a name derived from a cartoon character. “I can explain that. It’s just a silly game we play. He was actually calling you Miss Muppet—a cute name he made up.”

Luanne brushed right by this. “Do you know who Little Lulu is?”

“Um ... yes. If you mean from the comics.”

“As a little girl, my friends often called me Lulu, short for Luanne. My brother, Gene, gave it a twist of his own. He must have used the name till I was twelve, when I insisted I was too old for it.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand the connection....”