Free Sick of Shadows by Sharyn McCrumb

something she didn’t want to hear?”
    “Uh … no.”
    She smiled bitterly. “Well, I did. Six years ago.”
    “Six years—you mean, when you …”
    “That was the door bell. I think we had better let Mr. Simmons in.” Eileen left the kitchen with as much dignity as she had ever mustered. After a few seconds’ paralysis, Elizabeth followed.
    *   *   *
    If she had to paint him, she would depict him as a medieval friar. That pudgy body would look like a wine cask under a brown cassock, and the blond ringlets curling around his bald spot made a natural tonsure. The wire-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose gave him a look of foolish benevolence. Did they have glasses back then?
    “I’m sorry,” Eileen murmured. “What were you saying?”
    “I just need you to sign here,” he repeated, holding out another typed page. “Would you like me to run through that explanation again? I’d be happy to.”
    “No, that’s all right,” Eileen assured him. She scrawled her name hurriedly on the line he had marked.
    “Do you have any questions about all this?” Simmons persisted. “About the money?”
    “How will I get it?”
    Tommy Simmons coughed nervously. He had just finished explaining that. “Er—well, Miss Chandler, in a manner of speaking you already have it. It’s in the bank, of course. Would you like to discuss possible investments or savings programs?”
    “No. Not today, please.”
    Simmons began sliding papers into his briefcase. “Well, then, I guess that’s all …”
    “Mr. Simmons?”
    “Yes? Is there anything else?”
    “I’d like to make a will.”
    He blinked at her. Whatever put that idea into her head?
    “Could I?” she asked. “With the wedding coming up, I thought I ought to.”
    Simmons peered into his briefcase. “Well … I suppose we could draft it now, and I could get it typed up for you to sign after—”
    “It’s just a simple one,” said Eileen. “I’ve already written it. I just need you to put it in legal terms, or whatever it is you do to make it official. Excuse me, I’ll go and get it.” She hurried out of the room.
    Tommy Simmons leaned back on the sofa with a weary sigh. He wondered if the family knew about this.It shouldn’t matter, of course; it was her money, and she was of age, but it made him uneasy to do anything without the family’s approval. A simple will, she’d said. That probably meant that the fiancé was going to get it. He’d better postpone the formal drafting until after the wedding, just to be on the safe side.
    He came to himself with a start, remembering that he was not alone in the room. The cousin, or whatever she was, sitting on the sofa, had put down her magazine and was watching him thoughtfully. Simmons produced a weak smile.
    “Are you here for the wedding?”
    “Yes.”
    “Nice girl, Eileen. Should make a lovely bride.” Because, Simmons finished silently, if you threw enough satin and white lace on a scarecrow, it would look presentable. He wondered about the groom, though. The brief announcement in the local paper had been very restrained on that point. He looked again at the cousin, wondering if he ought to include a gallant remark about how nice she’d look as a bridesmaid, but before he could frame this pleasantry into complimentary but unflirtatious terms, she embarked on a topic of her own.
    “How do you like practicing law?”
    “Uh … fine, just fine. Sure beats studying it. The hours are better.”
    “It doesn’t require much math, does it?”
    “I’m sorry. Math?”
    “Calculus or trig or anything like that.”
    “I—no.” Idly, he began to wonder if he had been mistaken about her being a cousin. Visions of Cherry Hill began to flip through his mind.
    “And what did you major in as an undergrad?”
    “History.”
    “Oh. So did my brother. He’s in law school, too. I majored in sociology.”
    “Ah.” Simmons kept trying to pick up the thread of the discussion.
    “Know any lawyers