Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [13]
Finally, we walked out together, swinging the door that led to the long butler’s pantry, across the dining room and across our large foyer, our heels clicking like the tiny hammers of a silversmith plinking against the cream-colored marble. The long distance from the kitchen to the living room was not lost on me. All those shelves stacked with dishes, goblets, serving pieces, vases, and every kind of serving accessory down to six different sets of knife rests and forty-eight old Sheffield fish forks and knives, all made of silver with mother-of-pearl handles. Forty-eight. When was the last time I’d had forty-eight people over for fish? I could not remember that we ever had. Suddenly I wondered how long I would stay in that house, because all at once the excess seemed completely ludicrous. I was a widow now. A widow who had just buried her husband today and had no idea what to do tomorrow. Becoming a widow had never occurred to me. But that simpler life had. I had a lot of thinking to do but not then. For the next few hours, I would play hostess to whomever braved the elements to stop over and offer their sympathy. And then I would plan.
The eight or ten people in the living room were old high school friends of Russ and Sara. Naturally, they offered their polite condolences to me and to all of us. I made all the small talk I could and then drifted into the dining room alone. I noticed that the rye bread on the turkey sandwiches was beginning to curl on the edges. Going stale, hard crust, inedible . . . like so many things. Everything had an end, unpredictable maybe, but certain.
Where were Addison’s colleagues? The only other people who rang the bell and stayed for a while were Addison and Mark’s tennis partners, Mel his lawyer, and Dallas his accountant. I should have asked them what was going on with Addison’s finances and if there was a will, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. No, that was business for another day. It was remarkable enough that I was still standing.
No one else came, no one from the neighborhood, not Joanne who did my hair or the women who sold me my clothes at Neiman Marcus. Where was my landscaper, my plumber, my electrician, or the guy who ordered all our wine for us? Maybe they didn’t get the news. Maybe their bills never got paid? Maybe it was the weather?
It was almost four o’clock in the afternoon, the skies were growing darker by the minute and the weather was deteriorating still further. The wind howled around the house, the trees bending in fury. I was still standing in the dining room and heard the door close again. The house seemed quiet and I thought, well, the last visitor has left.
Patti came and stood by the table, inspecting the food.
“Look at all this stuff,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. “What a waste.” But then waste was the name of the game in Addison Land.
“I couldn’t eat a thing. Not a thing! Well, maybe a bite. You want me to fix you a plate?”
“No thanks. I don’t think I can swallow food right now.”
“Gotcha. Well, how about a glass of wine?”
“No. I don’t think . . . wait a minute. You know what? I will definitely have a glass of wine if you’ll have one with me.”
“You got it, sister!” Patti lifted the bottle from the cooler and wrinkled her nose. “Party wine. This might be the time to crack open some of Addison’s Chateau Wawawa, instead of this swill. What do you think?”
“You’re right but I don’t feel like going down to that musty cellar and digging around.”
“Then swill it is. Ice will improve it.” She filled about a third of a goblet and handed it to me. Then she poured some for herself and held up the glass to toast. “What shall we drink to? Old Addison?”
“Sure, why not? The gates of hell are open today. Hope you had a nice trip!”
Patti giggled and told me I was horrible. We clinked the bowls of our glasses and I said, “Oh, fine. Here’s to you, Addison Cooper, wherever you are, long may you wave!”
“Yep. Long may you wave—whatever that means. Let