had said they would arrive around suppertime, but not to put herself out. They’d be too tired from the trip to eat.
Was that any way to take care of children? Of course they would be hungry. The oldest boy—what was his name? Carl, Cecil, Charles? In a sudden panic of unknown origin she hurried to where the phone hung on the kitchen wall and looked at the note she’d written after Annie’s call.
Two boys: Caleb Walter (called Caleb), 12; Alexander Marc (Alex), 4
One girl: Millicent Marie (Marie), 7.
She drew in a shaky breath. Why was this making her so crazy? They are family, never mind she didn’t know them from Adam’s off ox, for heaven’s sake!
She opened the oven and checked the meatloaf. It smelled delicious. She wasn’t about to have people in her house and not feed them. How that would work out over time was another matter. Supper tonight was just the beginning. Annie hadn’t said how long they would be with her. Lilly so rarely prepared a full meal she was glad to do it for tonight, but did not intend to become chief cook and bottle washer to a bunch of strangers.
“She best not make any mistake about that!” she muttered.
She tested the boiling potatoes with a fork and found them just right for mashing. With the practiced efficiency of a woman who prided herself on her cooking she quickly drained the water off into another pot, reserving it for gravy she would prepare right before time to eat. She placed the potatoes in a mixing bowl and set it aside, then poured skim milk (so much healthier and not half bad once you got used to it) and butter (you couldn’t completely sacrifice taste, for heaven’s sake!) in the pan and let it heat. When it began to simmer she added salt and pepper, a little celery seasoning, some Mrs. Dash Table Blend because she liked the sprinkles of color it gave as well as the flavor, and stirred it all together. When she was satisfied it met her exacting standards, she poured the mixture over the potatoes slowly as she turned on the mixer. In minutes she had a bowl of fluffy mashed potatoes that gave off a slightly spicy aroma. She put the food into a casserole dish, topped it with tinfoil and placed it in the oven to stay warm.
Her eyes went to the clock. Five-thirty. If Annie remained true to her word they’d be pulling in soon, probably in the next half-hour or so.
Lilly was giddy, by turns excited and scared witless. She didn’t knowthese people. What was she to say? How was she to treat them? Should she hug them when they came in? Lilly had never been one to do those kinds of things with any but her husband and—when they would allow it—his children. It made her quite uncomfortable for people to embrace her when they came to visit or when she called on them, something that happened rarely anymore. After Harve died folks had shown up regularly to check on her and ask how she was doing. Truth was, that made her uncomfortable as well.
“Is everything okay?” a deacon from the church would ask.
Lilly was tempted to say: “My husband and best friend is dead. What do you think?” Of course, she never did. Nice people didn’t say things like that. Nice people said, “I’m getting better, thanks for asking.”
After Harve died, for at least a year she was numb; it was the only way she could get through life. Everyone had thought Elizabeth or Michael would stay around and see after her when the funeral was over, but they had jobs, friends, lives to live. That was the rationale she used. In reality they couldn’t wait to get away from the pain of knowing their beloved father no longer walked through the halls of their childhood home, his booming laugher filling every corner. She understood. It had nearly killed her, truth be told.
Lilly gave a sharp shake of her head. Don’t think that way, it leads to heartache.
She glanced at the clock again. Barely five minutes had passed.
She twitched her nose, a subtle movement that had etched lines on either side of her nose, the only wrinkles on her otherwise smooth skin. If Harve had been alive he’d have said, “Now Lil, don’t get your het up.” If either Elizabeth or Michael had been around they’d have said… no, not said anything, they’d have rolled their eyes. A nose twitch from Lilly Irish was a sign of disapproval that everyone pretty much ignored.
With nothing else to keep her occupied she bustled into the dining room and set the table, using her everyday dishes and flatware. Ordinarily company would warrant taking out the good stuff, but this was a family with little ones. Her good stuff wasn’t all that good, compared to rich folks like Mrs. Candy from church, but it all matched and didn’t have chip one. Not that her everyday dishes were beat up; they were serviceable, with maybe a chip here and there.
With the table set she stood back and admired the result, tilting her head from side to side as though that would somehow change the perspective. She took a small silk flower arrangement from a cupboard and placed it in the center of the table and nodded approval. The clock read 6:20.
“Maybe suppertime to Annie doesn’t mean the same as it does to me,” she said to the silent kitchen.
She checked to be sure the oven heat was on warm and moved the simmering pot liquor over so it didn’t boil away. She’d need it for gravy. Her nose twitched. She turned her attention to straightening cupboards to occupy her thoughts. No sense in wasting time that could be better spent doing something.
By eight o’clock Lilly had put the food away and scoured the kitchen. It was probably cleaner than in years, which was saying something since she was a stickler about keeping a clean and tidy house. She’d taken out her worry over Annie and the children not showing up by getting everything spit spot, followed by an all out attack on a stubborn stain on the hall carpet. Nearly a month ago a thoughtless dishwasher repairman had tracked something in and Lilly had spent an entire afternoon trying to get it out. Tonight she’d succeeded, but the rest of the carpet around it looked filthy by comparison. Sometimes—much too often in her experience—you just couldn’t win.
She went into the living room. Tidy and rarely used, it needed little more than dusting, which she bustled about doing after she fluffed the pillows on the sofa. When she got to the accumulation of photos arranged on the mantel above the gas fireplace, she paused and smiled. Her favorite among the lot was of Harve and the kids. She had taken it while they were on their first vacation together as a family. It was an ocean side scene with lots of waves and a sandy beach. The two children stood behind Harve who was seated on a blanket trying to read. Michael flexed the muscles on his skinny arms and Elizabeth grinned mischievously from under a floppy sun hat that framed features already showing evidence of the beauty she would become.
Lilly swallowed the lump in her throat. She had stopped thinking about the “if only” years ago. “If only I was their real mother they would love me as much as I love them.” Sometimes, however, she couldn’t help but long for something she would never have.
By nine-thirty her worry had turned to anger. The gall of that girl! She should have called! Thoughtless, that’s the word for it, thoughtless.
Early September winds whipped through the trees in the yard hurling cascades of leaves against the windows. She’d never much liked wind. It always blew in messes that had to be cleaned up.
It was past ten o’clock and she was sound asleep in her bed when the doorbell rang followed by a persistent knocking. She jerked awake and the book she’d been reading when she fell asleep tumbled to the floor. She blinked owlishly trying to clear the muzziness from her head.
A muffled, “Mrs. Irish? Aunt Lilly?” wafted through the house.
Realizing her guests
