Free Truth and Consequences by Alison Lurie

maybe fill in some of the windows with stained glass.”
    â€œYes, I can see it,” Delia breathed. “All purple and gold and cobalt blue, with swirling iridescent Tiffany flowers.”
    â€œThat’s sort of what I planned. There’s several like that in the campus chapel. But these would be original designs.”
    â€œWith the Holy Ghost as a white chicken.”
    â€œThat’s an idea.” Alan laughed. She’s witty as well as beautiful, he thought.
    â€œI love the wild roses.”
    â€œI can’t claim credit for that. They were always here. I think they were just waiting until the chickens left.”
    â€œYou’re lucky. And will there be more follies?”
    â€œI don’t know. Not now. I once thought I might do the Plaza fountain, or an Italian Renaissance bridge over there by the brook.” He gestured widely and unwisely with his sore arm, and winced. “But then my back went out—” For almost fifteen minutes, Alan realized, he had forgotten that he was in pain.
    â€œAnd after that?”
    â€œOh, I had plans for a lot more—drawings and site elevations and everything. But now—” As if he had deliberately recalled it, a spasm struck him: the lizard dug its claws deep into his spine. Suppressing an ugly moan, Alan turned aside, staring out toward the distant lake. He didn’t want to leave Delia, but he needed more codeine and he needed it now. “Listen, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go back to the house,” he told her.
    Slowly, leaning on his cane and breathing hard, not looking at Delia in the stupid hope that she would not look at him and see his ugly grimaces of pain, Alan made his way through the old apple trees. There were lumpy, unsprayed pale-green apples among the branches, and here and there he could see a spray of chrome yellow, predicting autumn. Delia, silent now, followed, her gauzy white skirts trailing in the long grass. As he started up the slope of the lawn, he saw Jane break away from a group of people and come toward him.
    â€œI thought you’d gone inside,” she said. “Are you all right?”
    â€œAll right,” Alan lied, grinding his teeth against the pain. “I was showing Delia the ruin.” In this last word he heard another lie, one of omission—the omission of a single letter, the letter s . Unfortunately, he realized at once, it was a lie that would instantly be exposed.
    â€œYes, it’s just delightful.” Delia laughed lightly. She said no more, but it was clear to Alan that she had heard his lie and recognized it, and that she had deliberately decided not to mention the ruined chapel. He looked at this smiling, innocent-seeming woman with some astonishment. They had only met fifteen minutes ago, and already they were in a conspiracy.
    Jane’s own smile faded. “It’s not a joke, you know,” she said, clearly trying to keep her voice pleasant. “It’s a historical reproduction. It took months to build, you have no idea how hard Alan and his students worked.”
    â€œOh, I can imagine.” Delia laughed again and rearranged her shimmering fishnet shawl.
    â€œAlan’s published a book about ruins and follies, you know.”
    â€œYes, Ah’ve seen it.” Delia’s Southern accent seemed to deepen, and she smiled even more pleasantly than before.
    Jane did not reply. Even in the increasing grip of his pain, it was clear to Alan that there was not and probably never would be any meeting of minds between Delia and his wife, who had already complained to him about the difficulty the former’s demands were causing at the Center. An awkward silence began, but it was luckily broken by the arrival of several other guests, all apparently eager to meet Delia, and one who seemed to know her well already.
    â€œHello there, darling,” this man said, putting a heavy arm around Delia’s creamy bare shoulders.