French Braid(26)

But she was always present for those mornings. She made sure to be home before he woke up, and she had his breakfast on the table by the time he came downstairs.

She planned to stop doing that at some point. But not quite yet.

The day after they met Morris, Alice phoned Mercy and said, “So!” and then she waited. “So, I guess you had a visit from Lily,” she said finally.

Alice and Lily had never been close. They were just too different from each other, Mercy supposed. But apparently they did confer about their parents now and then, in that furtive, head-shaking way that siblings tend to do, because it was obvious that Lily had asked Alice to put out some feelers. Mercy was cagey, though. She said, “Mm-hmm.”

“So what’d you think of Morris?”

“He seemed nice,” Mercy said neutrally. “Have you met him?”

“I have.”

How many times? On what kind of occasion? Did she find him likable? Trustworthy? What, exactly, did she think was going on here?

Mercy didn’t ask a one of these questions. She said, “Maybe I’ll have him over for dinner with the whole family.”

“Okay…” Alice said, plainly waiting for more.

“Are you and Kevin free this Sunday?”

“We’re supposed to go to his mom’s.”

“Next Sunday, then?”

“We can do next Sunday.”

“Fine,” Mercy said. “I’ll talk to Lily.” And then she said goodbye, still without delivering any verdict on Morris.

She sort of enjoyed that conversation.

Except that Robin refused to allow a family dinner. He said, “Hold on: what? You want to open up our house to our daughter’s paramour?”

“Paramour!” Mercy said. She was surprised he knew the word. “He’s her fiancé, honey. We want to welcome him into the family.”

“But how can she have a fiancé when she’s already got a husband, huh? Where is B.J. in all this?”

Robin had always disliked B.J. Behind his back he called him Elvis. When B.J. and Lily eloped, Robin swore they must have “had to,” and he had seemed almost disappointed when no baby appeared.

Speaking of which…

If only Mercy could explain about Lily’s being pregnant, maybe he would be more understanding.

On the other hand, maybe it would send him clear around the bend.

It was this possibility, rather than her promise to Lily, that kept her from sharing the news.

She called Alice back and told her they would have to put off their dinner. “Oh?” Alice said, and waited to hear the reason.

“I’m really not sure when we can do it,” Mercy said. Then she hurried to ask how little Robby’s pull-ups were going. Robby had reached that stage where she could pull herself up to a standing position but didn’t know how to sit down again. She would stand wailing in her playpen, exhausted, till Alice forcibly bent her knees and lowered her to the ground. Whereupon she’d immediately stand again. Alice had a lot to say about that. She forgot to pursue the subject of dinner.



* * *



—

The name of the woman Mercy had met at the dry cleaner’s was Evelyn Shepard, and she phoned in mid-October and invited Mercy to tour her house. “I think we’ve settled in by now,” she said, “and I wanted to see how you might choose to paint it.”

“I’d be happy to come take a look,” Mercy said.

“If you can stop by when my husband’s here too…”

“I can do that.”

“And maybe bring some samples of your work? I showed him the picture on your card, but—”

“Of course. I’ll bring my portfolio,” Mercy said.

And she made a mental note to hunt through her desk drawers at the house for the leather-grained cardboard portfolio she’d saved from her days at the LaSalle School.

They chose a Saturday morning, which meant Mercy had the car. She parked down the block from the Shepards’ house in order to get an overall impression of it as she approached; she wanted to arrive armed, so to speak. It was a standard three-story colonial, red brick with forest-green shutters. Well, never mind; she usually preferred interiors to exteriors anyhow. She pressed the doorbell and then studied it intently. Her vision seemed to have sharpened and she was alert to every detail. But it was an unexceptional doorbell, a white rubber button set in a fussy brass plaque.

Evelyn Shepard opened the door and said, “Good morning, Mrs. Garrett!”

“Oh, please, call me Mercy,” Mercy said.

“And I’m Evelyn. Won’t you come in?”

Evelyn wore heels, on a Saturday in her own house. Just low heels, but still. She was slightly younger than Mercy but already matronly-looking, with carefully curled brown hair and a dressy flowered dress belted tightly at the waist. “Clarence?” she called. “The artist is here.” She led Mercy across the foyer—Persian carpet, crystal chandelier—and into the living room, which was very large and formal, with a grand piano at the far end. Mercy’s eyes were going click, click, click, registering all they could. “You have a lovely home,” she said politely, and she sat where Evelyn directed, on a slippery satin sofa, but then instantly stood up again when Clarence entered the room. “Oh! Clarence!” his wife said, as if he had surprised her. “This is Mercy Garrett, the artist.”