Free High Spirits [Spirits 03] by Alice Duncan Page B

I’m sure I’d turned a bright red.
           Which brings me to an insignificant point. One of the troubles with being a redhead, even if your hair is more auburn than red, as was mine, is that you blush easily. Every darned time Billy started picking on me, I turned red. It was only one more burden to bear, and a small one at that, so I suppose I shouldn’t complain.
           He stared at me for several seconds. The expression on his face was worrisome, but I was getting angry and feeling burdened, and it didn’t dawn on me what inference Billy would draw from my comment until he spoke again. “You deserve a whole man. I know it as well as you do, Daisy. You don’t have to rub my nose in it.”
           My jaw dropped.
           He shook his head. “I don’t know why you haven’t started running around on me before now.”
           “Running ar— Billy, stop it!” In spite of my drippy hands, I rushed to his side and knelt down. “I’d never run around on you! For God’s sake, don’t you know me better than that?” It hurt like crazy to realize my own beloved Billy would actually consider me capable of having an affair with another man. “I love you!”
           At that moment Pa and Spike came home, and I jumped up, glad our depressing conversation had been nipped in the bud. Spike, his toenails clicking out a fast and jazzy drumbeat on the linoleum floor, raced across the kitchen, his tail held aloft and wagging like an out-of-control metronome.
           Pa shouted, “Good morning, you two lazybones! It’s a beautiful day!”
           Every day was beautiful to Pa, who was one of the cheeriest specimens of mankind God ever invented. My mood improved at once. “Hey, Pa. Did you get some of Vi’s waffles before you left.”
           “Sure did. You don’t think I’d walk out on a waffle, do you?”
           Spike hurled himself like a torpedo onto Billy’s lap, landing so hard the wheelchair backed up a couple of inches. Strong dog. Every time he did that, I cringed, fearing he’d hurt Billy’s legs, but Billy never seemed to mind. He chuckled softly and held on to Spike while the puppy washed his face, searching for stray droplets of maple syrup, I guess. Pa and I watched the joyful reunion between the man I loved and his dog, whom I also loved.
           When I glanced at Pa, he had a sappy expression on his face. I’m sure I did too. No matter how much Billy and I rubbed against each other—and we did it constantly—I couldn’t not love him. When I compared the hunched, unhappy man loving his dog to the man I married, though, my heart nearly broke in half. In other words, everything was normal in the Gumm-Majesty household, more’s the pity.
           But that was neither here nor there. I went back to the sink, finished washing up the dishes, rinsed, dried, and put them away, and toddled off to the bedroom to select that day’s spiritualist costume.
           Sometimes, when I felt particularly guilty about my passion for fashion, I’d make the whole family matching outfits, thereby embarrassing Billy, who thought it was silly for us to dress alike, even for church. Maybe it was, but I’d already started on a new batch of pastel spring coats, including a snazzy little overcoat for Spike. That dog was going to look like a million bucks when I got through with him.
           After glancing out the window to judge the weather, I decided to wear a black-and-white checked suit I’d made of a lightweight woolen fabric I’d bought on a bolt-end from Maxime’s Fabric Store.
           I loved Maxime’s. They always had the best deals. I’d edged the collar and pockets with black bias tape, and when I wore the suit with a black hat, shoes, and bag, I was the picture of a dignified young matron with a spiritualistic bent going out to chat with ghosts on a crisp winter’s day.
           I’d recently had my hair bobbed