Ophie walked into the kitchen asking how soon we wanted buttermilk pie on the menu, but when she took a look at us she whispered, “Dear Lord.”
Cady took my hand for the short, dreadful walk to the dining room so we could break the devastating news to an unsuspecting Augusta.
As we sat down, Augusta boomed, “Nice enough, that Ophelia. Says she’s been here before, not that I remember her. Look at you two, like death warmed over. Must have something awful serious to say.”
I reached out to pat her hand and she didn’t pull away.
“Miss Augusta, you know how much we love you and Miss Delia.” I blinked back the tears that welled up, unbidden. “It is really hard for me to tell you but, well, there’s been an accident. It’s Miss Delia.”
We watched her face change from puzzled to concerned. “Delia? Delia’s hurt? Please say she didn’t break her hip. At our age . . .”
I squeezed her hand. “It’s more serious than that.”
Always sharp as a crab’s claw, Augusta said the words I couldn’t. “Delia’s dead?”
I nodded and started to cry. Cady spoke in a sweet, comforting tone. “We don’t have any details yet, but she was in her own home, which is where I think she’d want to be.”
Augusta looked directly at him. “Did this happen before I stopped by her house this morning?”
I could see guilt starting to mix with the sorrow in her face. I wanted to cut it short before it gripped her entirely.
“We don’t have any details.”
She nodded.
Bridgy came out of the kitchen with a plate of muffins and silently set them in front of Augusta.
“So you heard about Delia.” Augusta started to stand, wobbled and sat back in her seat.
Bridgy leaned down, gave Augusta a kiss on her cheek and squeezed her shoulder. Then she asked the honeymooners if they needed anything else.
The new husband tore his eyes away from his bride long enough to pay the check, and they walked out with arms entwined around each other’s waists.
We sat wordlessly at Emily Dickinson until Augusta said, “Well, I guess I better get on home.”
Cady took charge.
“Sassy will drive your car, and I’ll follow along, if that’s all right.” He rose and stood next to Augusta’s chair and offered his arm.
Augusta rested a tentative hand on his wrist and then gripped with determination. She stood and Cady began to slowly shepherd her to the ancient blue Chevy parked outside.
I stayed a few steps behind and threw a question mark to Bridgy, who shooed me along with a flap of her hands, saying, “Aunt Ophie will help me here. Call if you need anything.”
Augusta surrendered her car keys but not before saying, “You take it careful, Sassy. Car’s a bit delicate.”
When we pulled out of the parking lot, Cady was still sitting in his car, chattering into his cell phone. I hoped he wouldn’t be too far behind us. Augusta was looking more and more tired, and I feared I’d need help getting her up the porch stairs and into the house.
We drove a few blocks in silence. The shocks and struts had long given way, and the car bounced and rocked if it rolled over as much as a pebble. I could feel my fists tightening on the steering wheel, but I knew it wasn’t the car that had me agitated. When we turned onto Augusta’s block, I was surprised to see a sheriff’s car parked alongside her mailbox. Ryan Mantoni was leaning on the fender, and we watched him turn his head to speak into the two-way radio he wore on his shoulder. Then he walked toward us as I turned in to Augusta’s driveway. He gave me a quick nod, went to the passenger side of the car and opened the door for Augusta, offering his hand in the process.