Sarah kicked Rob and motioned him to keep quiet.
“Well, couldn’t you have brought your staff?” Violet’s voice was sharp, the most critical thing anyone had ever heard her say to Miranda. “I’ll bet you just wanted to keep all the room to yourself.”
“Violet!”
“Don’t you ‘Violet’ me, Miranda. Look at poor Sarah. Rob is right. We’re just running her into the ground.”
Wonderful. Her very own brawl, right here in the dining room. “I don’t mind fixing meals for you, Violet,” Sarah said. “It’s just somehow gotten out of hand. Perhaps you could get together and plan some menus that you’ll all enjoy.”
“Yeah, Mum. Take turns, just like you always told me.” Rob grinned across the table at his mother.
“Hmph,” Miranda said. “Well, I guess my opinion isn’t wanted.”
“Of course it is, Miranda,” Sarah said soothingly.
Miranda took a bite of her grilled salmon. “You’re a very good cook, Sarah,” she said.
“Thank you.” Sarah tensed, waiting for the zinger that usually ended one of Miranda’s compliments.
“I think we could manage with less variety at each meal if it would make things easier for you.” Miranda nodded with the gracious air of a queen granting a favor.
Well, thank you, your ladyship. Sarah swallowed the sarcastic words and forced herself to smile and offer a bland “Thank you.”
“What I don’t understand,” Rob said later when he and Sarah sat on the porch with a last cup of coffee, “is how you let yourself get into such a muddle in the first place. I never thought of you as anyone’s patsy.”
She wasn’t sure she understood it herself. It had just happened little by little, and before she knew it, she was a short-order cook.
“I mean, you’re an adult—”
What a polite way of saying she was over the hill. If he said ‘woman of a certain age,’ she was going to dump him right out of the swing onto the floor.
“—and you’re used to running your own life. I hear you did right well off in KC all those years. So why are you letting three harmless little old ladies buffalo you?”
“Rob, if you think Miranda is a harmless little old lady, you’re ditzier than your mother.”
He leaned back and kicked the swing into a lazy rhythm. “I should defend her, I guess, but Lord love a duck, she is, isn’t she?”
“Anyway, Miranda’s just plain demanding, but I see your mother fumbling through life, and my mother aging so badly and having so much trouble with everything, and it hurts something inside me so much that I—” Her voice caught. “I just want to do everything I can for them. They have so little. So little that they can do, and so little time left, and it’s just awful.” She choked and sat back in the shadows so that he wouldn’t see the tears that threatened to flood.
“Aw, Sarah.”
“Your mother seems happy enough, but I can see the shadows in my mother’s eyes. And, oh, Rob, I love her so much. I’d do anything to make life happier for her. If I could. But I can’t. And it makes me feel so guilty.” She got up and bolted into the house.
But she couldn’t outrun the guilt. Or old age.
****
“There. You look gorgeous.” Sarah held a hand mirror up so her mother could view the results of their primping. Hilda’s hair lay in silvery waves, and the peach satin and lace blouse lent a touch of color to her pale skin. Her lips and fingernails echoed the peach tone, and a lacy afghan of a deeper peach added a touch of elegance. Sarah set the lap desk in place on the chaise longue and glanced around the living room. “There. You’re all ready for the meeting.”
“Thank you, dear. Wasn’t it nice of the committee to meet here just because I don’t feel up to going out?”
“Not up to going out” was quite a euphemism for “practically bedridden.” Sarah swallowed tears every time she was confronted with evidence of her mother’s increasingly rapid decline. Just two weeks ago, she’d been getting around fairly well. Now... A tap on the door announced Christine. “Do you need anything?” she asked.
“No, dear. Thank you. I’m all ready.”
“You look super. I made cookies, and Sarah showed me how to make tea, so whenever you want me to bring it in, just ring.” Christine giggled. “I feel like the maid in an English novel.” The doorbell rang. “Here I go. Madam.” She gave Sarah and Hilda an impish grin and zipped out the door.
Sarah stopped in the doorway. “Are you sure you feel up to this?”
“Of course. Just because I’m not strong enough to go out doesn’t mean I can’t talk to a few friends in my own house.”
“Hilda! So good to see you.”
Sarah stepped aside and the four women of the committee poured into the room and surrounded her mother with chatter. Sarah slipped out of the room and left them to it.
An hour later, when the noise level from the living room rose to we’re-finished-working-and-just-gossiping levels, she and Christine carried in trays of tea and cookies. Christine had just bent over the tea tray and begun pouring when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” Sarah said.
It was short, stout woman in a nurse’s uniform. “I’m Mrs. Preston, here for a follow-up on Hilda Gaunt,” she said, yanking open the screen and starting inside.
Sarah took a firmer grip on the door and didn’t budge. “Why?” And if that didn’t sound polite, too bad.
“Mrs. Gaunt had a caregiver for a month, and, as I said,” her voice was sharp, “I’m here to check on her condition.”
“This is September,” Sarah pointed out. “She had a caregiver in July.”
“We’re very busy. I’d like to see her now.”
“July a year ago.”
“I’m here now,” Mrs. Preston said brusquely. “If you don’t allow me to evaluate Mrs. Gaunt’s condition, I will report your lack of cooperation to the police. Perhaps you’d rather have them check.”
Tempting. Somehow, Sarah didn’t think Uncle George would be a problem. But probably not worth the trouble. And just in case her mother ever needed home care again... Reluctantly, Sarah stepped back and allowed the woman to enter. “She’s busy with some friends. I do hope you won’t be long.”
“I’ll be as long as necessary,” the nurse said. “Is she upstairs?”
“Living room. This way, please. And by the way, the name is Gault, not Gaunt.”
Even that didn’t faze Mrs. Preston. She ignored the comment and plowed through Hilda’s visitors as though they weren’t there. “Which one of you is Hilda?” she demanded in an overly loud voice.
“Mama, this is a visiting nurse, following up on your care-giver,” Sarah said.
Hilda frowned. “But that was over a year ago.”
Mrs. Preston took charge. “Hello, Hilda. If the rest of you will excuse us. You can wait in the hall.” She stood aside, tapping her toe, obviously impatient with the backing and filling that accompanied any mass movement of elderly women.
Sarah stalked across the room and sat in the small easy chair near her mother’s chaise longue, sure that her resentment and temper showed as clearly as porcupine spines.
“Now, deary, there’s no reason to be afraid.” Mrs. Preston patted Hilda’s arm. “I’m just going to ask a few questions.” She glared at Sarah. “Is this your daughter? Do you want her to leave?”
Hilda shook her head. “Please stay, Sarah.” The plea in her eyes was unmistakable.
Sarah wouldn’t have budged for anything.
“Very well,” Mrs. Preston said, dissatisfaction clear in her voice. She turned to Sarah. “Is Hilda incontinent?”
“No,” Hilda answered, and Mrs. Preston looked at Sarah for confirmation before writing the answer in a small notebook. A series of equally personal questions followed, each time with the glance at Sarah before accepting the answer.
Sarah didn’t know about her mother, but her own blood pressure had gone up at least ten points by the time Mrs. Preston said, “N
ow I’m going to take your vital signs.”
She suited actions to the words, emitting a nerve-wracking but uninformative “Hmmm” at the blood pressure and pulse readings.
“All right, then. Everything seems to be in order. Do you need anything else before I leave?”
Hilda shook her head.
“Are you sure you don’t need to go poo-poo?”
A shocked gasp came from the hall where the committee ladies waited. Hilda’s gaze flew to the door, which stood open an inch or two, and she flushed scarlet from throat to forehead.
Ignoring the blush, age, and weakness, Hilda drew herself up and managed to look like an insulted duchess. “No, Mrs. Preston,” she said. “I do not need to go poo-poo. But I think it is time for you to go bye-bye.”
Sarah had never been more proud of her mother.
****
Hilda cradled a cup of tea in her hands, savoring the warmth. Her hands scarcely shook at all, suggesting that this would be a good day. She should be grateful. Those didn’t happen so often now. “If that dreadful Preston woman ever comes back, Sarah, please deny her entrance,” she said.
“I’ll slam the door on her nose,” Sarah assured her.
“One must accept some indignities of age as unavoidable, I suppose,” Hilda said. “But one would like to preserve whatever dignity is possible.”
“Well, she’s not unavoidable. I called her supervisor and had a few words about her manner. Also the fact that her visit was more than a year late.”
“Thank you.” And Sarah had probably been several times more effective than doing it herself, Hilda mused. So annoying, the way one becomes both invisible and ignorable with age.
Sarah set her cup on the little table between them. “This is nice, Mama. Just like old times, the two of us having tea in the conservatory.”
And how many more times will we do this? But she mustn’t let herself dwell on negative thoughts. Fred jumped into her lap and wound himself into a plushy ball. “I forgot to tell you, dear. I made some cookies this morning, so Christine won’t have to bake anything for tea.”
Sarah didn’t answer.
Oh dear. Now what? She glanced sharply at her daughter. “What’s wrong?”
“Mama.”
Hilda hunched her shoulders defensively. Now what had she done?
“Mama, you forgot to take them out of the oven. The kitchen was full of black smoke by the time I got home, the cookies were charcoal briquettes, and the alarm was ringing. Didn’t you hear it?”
Hilda shook her head. Not again. Desolation seeped through her, as pervasive as the blood in her veins, until she was filled with it. She really could not bear it. This slow moldering of mind and body was simply too cruel.
Why couldn’t people just die when it was time?
****
“Thanks for helping me, Beth,” Sarah said as she dumped the bag of leftover fliers advertising Gault Accounting Services on the backseat of her car. “I could never have done this without you.”
“True. One on every car in the bank parking lot. Some at every business on Main and one on every car parked there. My feet are killing me. You can buy me a cold drink.” Beth looked stricken. “Never mind.”
“You’ve earned it, and so have I,” Sarah told her. “And you don’t have to get that foot-in-mouth look because you suggested that I spend money. However, as it so happens, I have a thermos of lemonade in the car, along with some cookies. We can go sit in the park and relax for a few minutes before I have to get home and fix lunch.”
“Always one step ahead of me, aren’t you?”
Sarah laughed. “I prefer to think of it as two steps.” She climbed in the car and headed for the block of grass that served as town center, town square, and community park.
In a few minutes, she had spread the old army blanket that had been her dad’s in the shade and opened the container of chocolate chip cookies.
Beth grabbed a couple and stretched out full length. “All right. This is a whole lot better than walking around hot, sunny parking lots sticking fliers under windshield wipers. Do you really think you’ll get any business from this?”
“I’m guessing somewhere around one per cent return. We put out two hundred fliers this morning, so I might get two jobs. Two jobs would be great.”
Beth bit her lip and stared at her cookie.
“I know. Not a whole lot compared to HE&M. But it would be two more than I have right now, and I have to start somewhere.”
“You should have more clients than you can handle. You know that people are calling HE&M and asking for you all the time. Macklin has forbidden everyone to tell where you are.”
“It figures.”
“I think Mrs. Fleider is going to track you down, though. She pitched a real fit when Macklin told her you were gone.”
“I would have like to have finished that properly,” Sarah said. Leaving clients dangling was almost the worst part of losing her job. Almost.
“I just hate seeing you have to struggle so much,” Beth said.
Sarah sighed. “I have to admit it’s not being easy. I never intended to do this without having enough start-up money.”
“Miss Gault.”
The reedy, accusing voice was one Sarah had hoped she’d never have to hear again after he had fired her. She looked up. Homer Macklin, of course, mouth tight and frown in full bloom. She couldn’t be so lucky as to mistake that voice.
“I hope you are prepared to explain yourself,” he said, waving one of the fliers they’d just distributed.
Damn. Sarah had recognized his car in the bank parking lot and had very carefully not put one of the fliers on it. Oh well. “I can’t say that I am, Mr. Macklin,” she said, trying to look innocent. “I don’t have to explain anything to you anymore.”
His face reddened.
Rage, she supposed.
“Explain this.” He shook the tasteful, cream-colored flier in her face.
Having Macklin looming over her like some kind of doom was distinctly uncomfortable, so she got to her feet. “It’s an advertisement offering my services as a free-lance accountant,” she said, trying to make her voice casual.
Her words seemed to be gasoline on the fire of his temper. He swelled, like a toad getting ready to go “ribbit.” Sarah glanced past him at Beth, who was frozen with a cookie halfway to her mouth.
“I can see that. I’m waiting for an explanation of how you think you can get away with this.”
Enough was enough. “Mr. Macklin. In case you have forgotten, I do not work for you. I am not bound by any of your rules.”
“You signed a non-competition contract. You are enjoined from any jobs in accounting or related fields for five years.”
“Well, actually, Mr. Macklin, I never did sign that contract. You might want to check your files.”
He turned scarlet, then purple. This must be true rage, and she thought he might explode. He stared at her for a long, long minute. Just when she thought physical violence was the next thing on the agenda, he turned and broke into a shambling run toward his car.
Sarah’s knees didn’t seem to want to work right and she sank to the blanket.
“My Lord, Sarah,” Beth said, setting her sandwich on a paper napkin. “I’ve never seen him so mad. I thought he was going to hit you.”
“So did I.” Sarah’s voice shook in spite of her efforts to keep it steady. “Good thing I never signed that damned contract, isn’t it? It wouldn’t be enforceable, but I couldn’t afford the legal fees to get out from under.”
“Wh—what do you suppose he’s going to do?” Beth asked.
“Don’t know. After getting egg all over his face last time, I had hoped he’d leave me alone. Guess not.”
“You really showed him. But he must truly hate you. What if he starts a whispering campaign against you? That would be just his style.”
Sarah frowned. “It would. And I couldn’t fight something like that. All I can do is the best work I can manag
e, assuming I ever get any work, and assuming taking care of the moms leaves me enough time to do it.”
“You’ll get jobs.”
But Beth didn’t sound as certain as Sarah would have liked. She shivered in spite of the sun that had crept across her back. “I’d better get going,” she said. “Christine tires easily these days and I don’t like to be gone too long.”
****
When Sarah got home, she heard her mother coming down the hall. “I’m home,” she called, and went to the door between kitchen and hall. Hilda came out of the elevator and started down the hall, the walker shoved far out in front of her.
“Oh, Mama.” Sarah bolted down the hall to steady Hilda. “I’ve told you a thousand times not to push the walker so far out in front of you. You’re going to fall,” she fussed. As she spoke, she repositioned the walker and moved her mother’s hands to a more stable position.
“Don’t pick on me, Sarah.”
Sarah looked down at the frail little old lady that had replaced her dynamic, sensible mother. That querulous tone was so unlike the mother she’d known all her life. But then, a lot of things seemed to be different these days. Like the stubborn insistence on using the walker improperly. And all they needed right now was a broken hip.
“Where have you been, dear?” her mother asked, dot-stepping the walker into the kitchen.
“I knew you could do that properly,” Sarah said. Why can’t she do it that way all the time? The thought came with a burst of real anger followed by remorse. These flashes were coming more and more often lately, and always brought a new load of guilt. So bad of her to be angry at her mother for being old. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired. Beth and I were out distributing the fliers.”
“Fliers?”
“For my business.”
“I still don’t see why you have to do that, Sarah. It’s so unladylike. How will you have time to do that as well as go to your job?”
Sarah bit her tongue to keep back an angry comment. They’d discussed the situation a dozen times. And each time, her mother had forgotten. Each reminder of her mother’s failing mind gave Sarah a new chill, an uncomfortable and unacceptable mix of sadness and anger, terror and resentment.
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