Free Falling into Place by Stephanie Greene Page B

There was a furious roiling commotion as twenty massive goldfish raced to eat at the same time.
    When Mr. Whiting came back into the room waving a book in the air, she and Roy were staring at the calm, empty surface of the pond.
    â€œIf you like Ethel, my boy,” he called, “wait until you see this!”
    Roy took one look at the empty fishbowl lying on its side, then at Mr. Whiting coming toward them, and burst into tears.

Chapter 8
    â€œWhat’s this?” said Mr. Whiting, stopping short. He looked from Roy, in tears, to the guilty expression on Margaret’s face, to the bowl on the floor, and finally at Rolly. “Rolly,” he said in a stern voice, “look what you’ve done. You’ve upset our poor guests, just when we were starting to get along.”
    He pulled a snowy white handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to Roy. “Please don’t be upset, or you’ll make me feel even worse.”
    Margaret was still getting over the shock of Ethel. Now she looked at Mr. Whiting. “How did you know it was Rolly?” she said.
    â€œI’m sorry to say that it’s happened before,” he said. His eyes under his bushy brows were so sad, she immediately felt sorry for him. “And it’s all my fault. I should simply stop buying them, but I can’t.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” said Roy.
    Mr. Whiting slowly picked up the bowl and put it back on the edge of the pond. He went and sat down on a chair, and patted the book in his lap. “Come take a look at this.”
    They stood on either side of him as he opened it. It was a photograph album. The page Mr. Whiting had opened to was covered with photographs of fish.
    Siamese fighting fish. In bowls. Each one was slightly different from the one next to it. The following page was filled with fish, too. And the one after that. Margaret stared at them in amazement. There must have been twenty pictures of Siamese fighting fish, each in its tiny bowl, suspended forever, side by side.
    And under every photograph, in faint, spidery letters, someone had written the same name. Ethel.
    â€œI started it when she was so sick, you see,” Mr. Whiting was saying. “She couldn’t get out of bed, and she wanted something pretty to look at. One day when I was out buying her some flowers, I saw this one in a store window.” He flipped back to the first page and pointed to the first picture. “Ethel number one. My wife was delighted. I put it on her bedside table, and she watched it all the time. After Ethel died, I just couldn’t seem to stop buying them.”
    â€œEthel the fish?” said Margaret.
    â€œEthel my wife.”
    â€œOh.” Margaret looked at him. “You named them all after your wife.”
    â€œYou must think I’m a silly old man,” he said. “You children are probably too young to understand what it’s like to miss someone as much as I miss my wife.”
    Margaret thought about her dad. “A person doesn’t have to be dead for you to miss them,” she said.
    â€œYou’re so right, Margaret.” He looked at her approvingly and a glimmer of his good humor came back into his eyes. “I can see that you’re as wise as you are strict.”
    â€œGran misses Tad. She was used to being part of a couple, and I don’t think she feels as if she fits in.” She was surprised at how right the words felt. “That’s why she hasn’t come to any of your meetings.”
    â€œThat’s a pretty normal reaction,” Mr. Whiting said sympathetically. “A lot of people in Carol Woods have recently lost someone, I’m afraid. That’s why many of them live in a retirement community. But most of us adjust. Don’t you worry, Margaret,” he patted her hand. “I think your grandmother will recover. From what I’ve seen of all the rules she has broken, she’s a feisty woman. When she feels