ONE GINGER Even without a calendar, I can feel Monday settling into my bones. I miss the postman because he comes early; Martha, my cleaning woman, arrives thirty minutes late; and the newspaper doesn''t show up at all. I trudge up the driveway and sort through the mail in my hand-mortgage statement, car loan reminder, bills from Sallie Mae and Stetson University. Four credit card offers. An envelope plastered with the image of that smirking insurance lizard. Michael''s copy of Civil War Times . I walk into the house, step over the cat sprawled on the rug, and drop the historical magazine onto the foyer table. I toss the bills onto the desk in the study, then pause to open the envelope from the mortgage company.
Our loan has an adjustable rate, and I need to keep an eye on it. I turn toward the kitchen, but Martha blocks the doorway, a mop in her hand. "Don''t even think about it." She glares at me from beneath steel gray brows. "My floor needs at least ten minutes to dry." I glance past her, wondering if she managed to get up the spilled candle wax near the dining room table. Probably not, because she hasn''t had time to mop the floor and do spot scrubbing. But Martha, who passed her sixty-fifth birthday ages ago, has been with me fifteen years.
This won''t be the first time I''ve discreetly cleaned up areas she missed. I give her a submissive smile. "I can wait." I return to the study and look up when Michael steps out of our bedroom, already in his favorite tweed sport coat. He nods in my direction and gestures toward the mail. "Anything for me?" "Your magazine is on the table." I smile and tilt my cheek for a good-morning kiss that doesn''t come. My timing is off, as usual.
My husband is doubtless in a rush to get to the coffee shop and his first class. My coffee, he insists, barely merits a passing grade. Michael moves into the foyer, picks up the magazine, and pauses to skim the headlines on the cover. In the slanting light of early morning, he looks like a GQ cover model or a smoldering ad for Ralph Lauren. My own absentminded professor. My handsome husband who around unfamiliar people is still as shy as a boy on his first date. I smother a sigh as he drops the magazine into his backpack and glances at me. "Gotta run.
" I wait, anticipating some word about whether he''ll call later, but he''s already reaching for the doorknob. "By the way"-he looks directly at me for the first time-"did I mention that we''re having after-hours department meetings this month? I probably won''t make it home for dinner all week." "Meetings every night of the week?" I make a face. "What could possibly be so pressing-" "Writing up a grant." He opens the door. "See ya, sweetie." And then he is gone, leaving nothing but dancing dust motes and a trace of his cologne in the sun-streaked hallway. I stare at the empty space and speak to the sunbeams angling through the sidelights.
"Have a wonderful day, darling." I smile. "Me? Oh, nothing, just the usual. Picking up the house, doing a load of laundry, and working with my children''s choirs all afternoon." I take a deep breath and remind myself that Michael''s silence shouldn''t upset me. My husband is a brilliant man, but he''s not terribly attuned to other people''s feelings. When I need something from him-even something as simple as a hug-I usually have to pin him against the wall and spell out the specifics. Martha appears in the kitchen doorway.
"You talking to me?" I shake my head. "Sorry. Michael left before I could finish." "He''s a man. Off to do important things." "Right." I sigh and move toward the sidelight as I watch my husband pull out of the drive. He used to linger in the foyer, used to kiss me good-bye and invite me to meet him for lunch.
I know he''s facing pressure at the university and I know he''s heard rumors of cutbacks. We are only one week into the fall term, and the registrar''s office recently announced that the usual wave of last-minute applicants didn''t materialize this year. The uncertain atmosphere has taken its toll on Michael, leaving him preoccupied and more distant than usual. But though he''s facing difficulties at work, Michael doesn''t referee the bouts between a thin checkbook and a thick stack of bills. Every weekend I sit at my desk and struggle to balance our expenses, our investments, and the cost of two sons away at college. To my husband, financial pressure is a vague, shapeless concern; to me it''s the ever-expanding and increasingly conspicuous gap between money coming in and money going out. Still, Michael knows we''re in financial straits and he''s taken some of the burden from my shoulders by agreeing to serve on a grant-writing committee for the university. I know he wants to provide for his family.
He can be old-fashioned in that way. Though he appreciates my income, he has always wanted to be responsible and set an example for our sons. I drop the mortgage statement into the folder for unpaid bills and leave the study, closing the door behind me. We''ll survive because we''ve faced tough times before. A couple can''t remain happily married without learning how to cope in lean seasons, and in the past twenty-seven years we''ve weathered feast, famine, and every stage in between. We can survive an uncertain economy too. ROSEMARY Will this be the last time I ever open a mailbox? After sliding several bills into the battered aluminum box, I lift the flag and begin the long walk back to the house. Beyond the rail fence, five retired quarter horses quietly browse the tall grass, the sun dappling their coats.
One of them sees me and begins a slow and stately approach, finally dropping his head over the side of the fence. "Hey there, Magic." I stroke the gelding''s nose, then scratch the bristly area between his ears. His lovely almond-shaped eyes blink as he whickers in contentment. "You''re a pretty boy, you know that? Then again, why wouldn''t you be? I spent an hour brushing you this morning." The horse shakes his head as my favorite orange hen comes strutting down the drive, a train of chicks behind her. Betsy the Easter Egger is one of the reasons our booth at the farmer''s market stays busy on Saturday mornings. The kids adore her pink eggs.
I wait until Betsy and her chicks cross the road, then I give Magic a final pat and continue my walk to the house, inhaling the mingled scents of manure and freshly cut hay. So many farewells to say, so little time. Two years of waiting have come and gone. For 730 days I''ve pretended to be content. I''ve behaved as if our loss didn''t matter and the doll-like infant we buried wasn''t real. But she was. And we lost her because of me, so she''s another black mark on my record. God must be tired of debiting my account.
In four days, though, I''ll be settling my debts forever. I''ll leave my husband to carry on my work, my sisters to celebrate what they knew of my life, and my sweet animals to remind others that every living thing deserves a second chance. Unlike me, who ruined someone''s life with every chance I got. I climb the porch steps and tug on the sagging screen door, then turn to survey the place I''ll be leaving behind. Through the screen I see green pastures, a splintering fence, a weathered garage. A colossal live oak shivering in the fall breeze. This peeling house on stilts. Inside, a few pieces of faded furniture and a collection of brightly glazed pottery.
All the things I''m willing to surrender as an act of restitution. Even added together, it''s not so much when you''re the reason three people are dead. PENNYROYAL Even from a distance, the man''s height and good looks are enough to make my mouth go as dry as chalk dust. So when he sits at the next table on the outdoor patio, my first instinct is to grab my lemonade and guzzle like a woman with a hollow leg. Somehow I manage to restrain myself. I nibble at my veggie plate and try hard not to look at the man next door. I succeed, mostly, while he waits, while he orders, and while he waits some more, but when a waiter brings the guy a hamburger, I can''t resist sneaking another peek. I stifle a squeak when I find him looking at me.
"Excuse me-would you mind if I borrowed your salt?" The handsome and dark-haired man leans toward me, his left arm extended. The ring finger is stark naked, not even a pale strip where a wedding band should be. I drop my left hand to my lap, hiding the narrow band on my fourth finger, then I surrender the saltshaker and toss him a quick grin to show that I am not ending this conversation. "No extra charge for the pepper, if you want it too." He sprinkles salt over his French fries, then hands the shaker back to me. "You can hold the pepper." "Already too much spice in your life?" "Apparently not enough." His gaze skims over my body-good, he''s not gay-then he turns and rests his hand on the corner of his chair.
"Have I seen you here before?" I tilt my head, grateful that he''s willing to join the game. "Is that an honest question or some kind of line?" He grins, displaying a row of perfect teeth. "The reason I ask is because I eat at this place all the time. The food''s great and the company''s usually interesting, but I don''t think I''ve ever seen you here." No misunderstanding the invitation in that smile. Or the suggestion in.