Maine - J. Courtney Sullivan [154]
She sent him a scathing look, as if he had just outed her in front of the pope.
Alice held up her sandwich. “This one?” she asked.
“Oh no, no. The ones that landed on the floor I threw straight into the trash,” Ann Marie said. “It was only a little joke. Ha.”
Kathleen sighed. That would be Ann Marie’s version of a scandalous confession.
They talked about the weather and the crowds at Ogunquit Beach—parking was up to twenty dollars a day there, highway robbery if you asked Alice. They discussed the fact that cicadas were ruining half the birch trees in Wells this summer, and that the monastery in Kennebunk had received a visit from a conference of senior bishops last week. With each new benign topic, Kathleen clenched her fists in her lap, trying to be civil, reminding herself how much worse it would be if the rest of them found out about Maggie.
Alice asked if Kathleen had brought along any of her fertilizer.
“Why would I? Clare says you stockpile it in your basement and then throw it out.”
“That is absolutely not true,” Alice replied. “I’ve been raving about it all summer.”
“Not to me you haven’t,” Kathleen said. She took yet another deep breath. “Sorry, Mom. That was nice of you to say.”
“Of course, now that I have such gorgeous plants, the rabbits have decided to use my garden as their all-you-can-eat buffet,” Alice said. She flitted her eyes at the priest. “The trials of a gardener never cease.”
“You should try putting hair in the dirt,” Kathleen said. “It works surprisingly well.”
“Why hair?” the priest asked.
She opened her mouth to respond, but Alice spoke first: “Oh, I’ve already tried that. It didn’t do a damn thing. And I’ve been spraying cayenne pepper juice all over the place, and they don’t even seem to mind.”
“You shouldn’t do that,” Kathleen said, horrified. She was glad Arlo wasn’t there to hear it. “Their stomachs can’t handle it. It tortures them.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, they’re torturing me,” Alice said. “And anyway, my rabbits seem to love their spices. Maybe I should feed them this paprika sandwich as a treat.”
“Sorry if I used too much,” Ann Marie said flatly. “I’m distracted today.”
“Oh, it’s fine, I was only teasing. And besides, I’m not very hungry,” Alice said, putting her sandwich down on her plate and covering it with a napkin. “Father, Ann Marie made delicious oatmeal cookies yesterday. You should take some back to the rectory.”
“Why not!” Ann Marie said, sounding almost shrill.
After a dessert of neon orange sherbet (again, Arlo would rather die), the priest said his good-byes, promising to return later with some new part for the sink.
Then it was just the four of them. Alice refilled her wineglass and Ann Marie’s, emptying the bottle.
“That was an amazing lunch,” Maggie said. “Thanks, Aunt Ann Marie.”
God, all the woman had done was make a few lousy sandwiches.
“Yes, thanks,” Kathleen said.
Ann Marie looked preoccupied, but after a moment, as if she were being fed a forgotten line from somewhere offstage, she said, “It was my pleasure.”
“Well, we’d better be going next door, Maggie,” Kathleen said, giving her a meaningful look. “I’m absolutely exhausted.”
“You go ahead,” Maggie said. “I’ll do the dishes and be over in a while.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Kathleen walked to the cottage, crouching around the corner by the front door while she lit a cigarette, feeling like an eighth-grade girl. She took a few puffs, then quickly stomped it out. She walked inside and sat alone by the window in the dining room, in her father’s favorite old chair. She would give absolutely anything to have him here now.
A half hour passed before Maggie joined her.
Her daughter flashed a great, warm smile. “Alone at last,” she said.
Kathleen rose and hugged her.
She told herself not to rush. There was time enough to say her piece after she got settled. They talked about the farm, and the good writing Maggie had managed to get done here. They joked about Alice and the priest, and