Even Now by Susan S. Kelly

Author:Susan S. Kelly [KELLY, SUSAN S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC000000
ISBN: 9780759525443
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2001-08-01T04:00:00+00:00

From Hannah’s quote book:

Not happiness, but intensity, was what she craved.

—Mary Stewart

Chapter 9

At ten that evening I moved through the house collecting the multiplying clutter of daytime: pencils, glasses, stray shoes. The television was tuned to the sports channel. The mail was scattered on the kitchen table. The coffeemaker was prepped for morning. Hal had come home earlier than I for a change; it was obvious in the mundane domestic details of our semisepa-rate lives.

“Breakfast is the only time you’re here anymore,” I’d said to him that morning. “What time did you come home last night?” I’d gone to bed leaving only the hall light burning.

“Late, after eleven. I stayed afterward to talk with another board member,” Hal said. “And I have a curriculum meeting Thursday night.”

Beyond the window, spooked doves fluttered clumsily away from a pie plate of bread heels, leaving an aggressive bluejay selfishly and wastefully scattering crumbs. “How many committees are you on?”

He swiveled, piqued. “I’m good at this, Hannah. Can’t I have a creative outlet? You have your colum-barium.” I was silent. “Bring home the flathead shovel,” he said. “I’m starting a new section of your wall.”

Not my wall, I’d thought. Hal had ordered three containers of Tennessee fieldstone, declaring his intention to build a walled garden in our yard near a stand of rhododendron. Walling me in as Daintry walled me out.

Now I put glasses in the dishwasher while Hal ate ice cream from the carton. “Where was Mark until nine tonight?” he asked.

“At the mall with Wendy Howard.” Doesy had poked her face through the hemlock hedge. “Haaayyy! Mark and Wendy sure are spending a lot of time together. Maybe they’re having a little thing! Isn’t that cute?” “Wendy’s supposedly grounded, but Doesy’s definition of grounding is to not let her use the phone between four and six in the afternoon.”

“How do you know?”

“She told me.”

“Humor her. She loved Asheville Academy and she’s loaded.”

“What does that have to do with the Academy?”

“Hannah,” Hal said wearily. “Private schools always need money. And if Peter Whicker has his way, we’ll need more. For someone who’s a nonvoting board member, he’s a nuisance.”

“Why?”

“He wants to personally appoint a new member to the scholarships committee. And he wants a significant portion of scholarship funds to go to students based strictly on race.”

“So?”

“So St. Martin’s gives several thousand dollars to the school annually, and Peter. . . well, the rector controls that money, indirectly. It’s a delicate situation. He’s controversial.”

I might have contradicted him, suggesting Peter Whicker wasn’t controversial but committed, dedicated. But I said nothing, unwilling to be drawn into a discussion of Peter’s traits and protecting something I wasn’t sure of. Our conversations, our companionship. Our privacy. “Use a bowl, Hal. You’re dropping ice cream on the floor.” I pointed to the melting droplets with my new sandal—comfortable contraptions that looked as if they’d been made of old tires and that I suspected I’d bought precisely for their unapologetic ugliness.

Hal studied the shoes. “Hannah,” he said with

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