Free A Fit of Tempera by Mary Daheim Page B

“Here, we’re in the study. The Higbys up the road stopped to tell us about Riley. Isn’t this a terrible day? I’ve lived too long.”
    The study was illuminated by a desk lamp with a green shade and a pair of wall sconces shaped like tulips. It was a small room, made even smaller by the crammed book-shelves, folios, cassettes, and heavy oak furniture. In a dark green leather chair next to the rolltop desk, a slim figure seemed folded up, like one of life’s discards.
    â€œLark,” said Ward Kimball in an uncertain voice, “we have guests. The Grover girls, from next door to Riley.”
    Judith couldn’t help but smile faintly at Ward’s description. But of course, in Ward Kimball’s mind, she and Renie would always be the Grover girls.
    â€œHi,” Judith said, going straight to Lark and reaching for her hand. “We had to come and say how terrible we felt about what happened today.”
    Lark Kimball lifted her head. Her blighted, beautiful blue eyes were red, and the perfect complexion that Judith remembered was blotchy. She didn’t wear glasses, which Judith assumed would do no good. There were tiny lines on Lark’s brow and around her eyes, no doubt caused by making an onerous effort to see. But the golden hair shimmered in the lamplight, the fine features had been honed by time, and the slender figure had blossomed in a delicate yet provocative manner. Judith felt an awful pang: How sad to be so lovely—and not be able to fully appreciate it.
    Lark’s smile was tremulous, touching. Except for those fine lines, she looked much younger than thirty-two. Perhaps her limited ability to see the ugliness of the world had helped preserve her innocence—and her youth. “I remember you!” Lark cried. “Your husband has a wonderful voice. He’s a jolly man, isn’t he?”
    Judith saw Renie smirk. “Dan had a wonderful voice—and he could be sort of jolly.” Judith gulped. Jolly , as in tight as a tic, or on a sugar high. The last jolly memory Judith had of Dan was when his fifty-four-inch belt had broken and his pants had fallen down. “I’m afraid Dan passed away a few years ago. I’ve remarried.” Gently, she squeezed Lark’s slim hand.
    Lark lowered her head. “Oh! I’m so sorry! He must have been young, too.” She paused to gather her composure. “Is that your sister with you? The designer?”
    â€œMy cousin. Serena. Yes. She’s still married to Bill Jones, the psychologist at the university.” Judith let go of Lark’s hand and stepped aside for Renie.
    Lark took Renie’s hand in both of hers. “I went to the university. I took a class from a Dr. Jones. Was that your husband?”
    â€œCould be,” said Renie. “Did he rant like Hitler?”
    Lark laughed, a small, painful sound. “Only if you had a late paper. He was very good. I found his lectures enlightening as well as refreshing. He had more to offer than most professors. And he didn’t toe the academic party line.”
    â€œThat’s my Bill,” said Renie.
    Judith had accepted a straight-backed oak chair from Ward Kimball. Discreetly, she studied the renowned painter as he sat down in front of the rolltop desk. Riley Tobias was right: Ward Kimball had aged, and not particularly well. His white hair was still thick, as was his beard, but his hazel eyes were tired and the skin sagged on his cheeks. He was not a big man, and his spare frame had a fragile air. The Roman nose that had dominated and lent strength to his face now had a predatory look, as if the goodwill he had shown to men had been replaced by a need to be wary, even aggressive.
    Yet his eyes were still kind, if guarded. “Lark could make tea or coffee.” He spoke with pride. “We have seltzer, wine, and mineral water, too.”
    Judith declined, saying they’d just eaten. “We just finished when