Free Ashes to Ashes by Lillian Stewart Carl Page A

expression settling like a house on uncertain foundations.
    “Oh. I’m sorry,” said Rebecca. And after an awkward pause, “Steve has no mother. I see.” The two women briefly met on common ground.
    Dorothy’s expression lightened from grim back to merely dissatisfied. “Have to run. I promised my son Chuck I’d help them get settled in their new house. Just between us, Margie’s a dear, but no housekeeper. I hope she’ll improve now they’ve got the nicest new place in the development out toward Dayton. Savoy of Nob Hill Ranch. Real brick veneer fireplace in the family room.” She swept the stone walls, the huge wooden door, the queen’s effigy, with a withering glance. “This place makes you appreciate a real house.”
    “Yes, it does,” replied Rebecca, but she meant the opposite. She’d grown up in a series of tract houses and apartments so similar she couldn’t remember which was in Denver and which in Atlanta. Dun Iain had character— if maybe a little too much character.
    “I told Dr. Campbell about the tuna casserole I left you for dinner.”
    “Why thank you. I didn’t realize your duties included cooking.”
    “They don’t, but I thought you might be too busy to eat properly.” Her glance started at the crown of Rebecca’s head, traced a path to her toes, and moved back up. “Some women believe those fashion magazines with the models who look like they’ll blow away in a strong wind.”
    “I never read fashion magazines,” Rebecca replied, and added to herself, I’m not that far gone. She found her keys in the pocket of her jeans but had no memory of having put them there. That was Eric’s blinding effect. “Actually I won’t be here tonight. I’m going out to dinner with Mr. Adler.”
    “Oh?” Dorothy’s pale, drained eyes lit with a conspiratorial smile. “He’d be a great catch, wouldn’t he? Such manners. The kids today think manners are old-fashioned— they just honk their horns at each other. Good luck to you. Just remember not to act too smart. Men like their women decorative.”
    Rebecca knew for a fact that she and Dorothy were from different planets. She picked up her typewriter. “Thank you,” she said with finality.
    “See you next week.” Dorothy at last left.
    It took Rebecca a moment to remember that today was Friday. She set the typewriter down again, went into the kitchen, and washed her hands.
    That casserole had better go into the refrigerator; already there were punctures along the rim of the foil, made, most likely, by cat incisors. In the refrigerator Rebecca found additional odds and ends of food provided by Dorothy’s culinary altruism. She took enough pressed ham for a quick sandwich and completed her lunch with vile instant coffee and a stale Oreo she found in the pantry. One of the wooden shelves, she noted, was rickety.
    Judging by the dishes in the sink, Michael had been in here calmly eating crackers, cheese, and tea while she’d been outside running an emotional gauntlet from elation to terror. Fine. She didn’t need a champion.
    Out of habit she started to wash Michael’s dishes, too, then caught herself and washed only her own. She hauled her typewriter upstairs. Again the cloying reek of lavender hung on the air of her room. She looked again for an air freshener, still couldn’t find one, and opened the window.
    Michael was in the Hall, down on his knees scrounging in a sideboard. Bits of crystal and cutlery were scattered on the floor around him. At her step he said to the depths of the cabinet, “Good of you to come back.”
    If he was implying she hadn’t been working, she’d concede the point. By way of explanation she asked, “Have you looked at that bizarre mausoleum/ dovecote combination out there?”
    “Technically it’s only a tomb, not posh enough for a mausoleum. Only a miser like Forbes would’ve thought of addin’ a doocot. Like feastin’ on his own dead.” Michael sat back on his heels and inspected a