Life and Other Inconveniences(40)

Today, Riley was with that Jason, which I supposed was fine. At least he’d owned up to fatherhood, though he certainly hadn’t offered to marry Emma, which would’ve been the right thing to do. In my generation, if one was irresponsible enough to get pregnant out of wedlock, one married and dealt with it. Not that Jason had been a prize, mind you. But neither did I want Emma to be a single mother.

I got dressed with care, as I did every day. Those yoga-pants women or, worse, those who proudly touted the fact that they were in their pajamas all day . . . I did not understand them. Today, since the weather was fine, I wore a crisp white blouse, cream trousers, sassy patent-leather orange heels of my own design and a red-, orange-and blue-printed silk scarf from my spring collection a decade ago. A classic scarf was every woman’s friend.

Too bad Emma didn’t care about things like clothes. Style was one’s invitation to the world to judge you. Her invitation said, Ignore me. Solid colors, usually in shades of blue. Jeans. Most days, she didn’t wear jewelry, and her hair, which was an ordinary color, length and style, was often pulled into a ponytail. I yearned to make her over, but those days were gone. Even when she was sixteen and I took her to a salon in Manhattan, she barely cared.

Riley, at least, had a little flair. Not the kind I personally enjoyed, but I’d called Beverly and told her we were coming into the showroom later this week, and my great-granddaughter was to be treated like royalty (by which I meant she was to be allowed to take whatever she wanted). Beverly had paused before answering, but then said, “Of course.” Which was the least she could do.

“Donelle!” I called, picking up my handbag (bottle-green tweed with brown leather accents). “Are you ready?”

“I’ve been ready for an hour,” she called from the kitchen. She and Helga straightened up from their whispering as I came in.

“Very well, let’s go, then,” I said. It irked me that Helga and Donelle were friends. I supposed I couldn’t blame Donelle, since she, too, had been the help once, but Helga was such a dour thing, both in looks and personality. “Have a lovely morning, Helga. We won’t need lunch, but please include asparagus on tonight’s menu. My granddaughter enjoys it.”

“Your great-granddaughter,” Helga said, sticking her tongue in her cheek most unattractively. It was a reprimand, perhaps her way of telling me I’d slipped, or chastising me for caring more what Riley liked than Emma. Not that Emma and Helga had been fast friends back in the day, mind you.

“Asparagus, Helga,” I said. “Thank you.”

Donelle and I got into the car and headed out of town. Already, traffic was picking up for the summer season. Someone waved to me at the corner of Water and Bank Streets, and I waved back, unsure whether I didn’t recognize him because he was someone I barely knew, or because of my condition.

I drove to Palmer Farm, which had been owned by the same family for generations and was now being sold into lots for tacky, poorly made McMansions and the new-money people who would inhabit them. Then again, I didn’t know what would happen to Sheerwater once I died, did I? The thought made my chest ache sharply. The house had been in Garrison’s family for a century. I’d completely redecorated it three times. It was part of me. One of the best parts.

I turned off the road into the drive that led to the gracious old farmhouse, now empty. Had this property been in the historical district, I would’ve fought to keep it pristine, perhaps making it into a park for the town, or at least conservation land. But the greedy Palmer descendants had no attachment to it and could only see the benefit to their bank accounts. No one lived here, and no one had for the past ten years, ever since Jacob Palmer had gone to that dreadful nursing home. He’d finally died last winter, thank God. Dementia was a horrible thing to endure.

Visiting him each month had only reinforced my resolve to die on my own terms.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Donelle said as I parked the car behind the old stone barn.

“Oh, hush. Practice makes perfect.”

“Think about what you just said.”

“I’m simply scouting locations, Donelle. As you well know.”

“For your suicide.”

“Yes. For my suicide.” And what could be a more lovely place than a field on a high summer day, the blue sky deep azure?

“How can you do that to that poor girl?”

“Riley barely knows me.”

“I was talking about Emma.”

“I doubt she’ll miss me,” I said.

“Her mother committed suicide, dummy.” Donelle scowled. “And what about Clark? How’s he going to take this, huh?”

I sighed. “When they learn about my condition, they’ll understand. Perhaps even be grateful.”

“Grateful that you shot yourself in the head?”

“Not in the head, Donelle! I would never do that.” I paused. “In the heart.” I didn’t want a ghoulish scene, after all. The first responders in Stoningham were all volunteers. I’d heard that Archie Baker fainted at a car accident last week. A gunshot to the head would ruin him.

A bullet to the heart. It couldn’t hurt more than Sheppard’s disappearance, and all the agonizing hours since then. I might not die right away, according to the answers I found on the Internet. (I shuddered to think I was relying on Google for my end-of-life decisions, but assisted suicide was still illegal, unfortunately.) But a gunshot wound to the heart would do the trick. I’d be in shock, and I’d bleed out quickly. If it hurt, it wouldn’t for long.