At first, the salesman was patronizing, calling them "ma'am," with a faint sneer. But after a few minutes with Shelley and her sheaf of papers, he became a little more respectful, switching to a state of vague alarm, and finally something that looked like panic. After twenty minutes, Shelley named a ridiculously low figure that she said was all they were prepared to pay. He laughed nervously. "I can't do that, ma'am."
“Well then, I'm sorry we've taken your time. Goodbye. Jane, put away your checkbook." She took Jane's elbow firmly and they headed back to where they'd parked the disgraceful station wagon down the street.
“But Shelley, it's exactly what he wants! Do we have to start all over again?" Jane whispered.
Shelley smiled. "No, we've won. You'll see.”
They were only halfway to their car before the salesman caught up with them. He named a figure a hundred dollars over what Shelley. had offered. She countered with fifty dollars less, and he caved in. Jane was dumbfounded.
Shelley drove Jane's car home, while Jane drove the new one to the county offices to get the tags and pay the taxes, then home, where she left it in Shelley's driveway. She'd called the insurance company and gotten the hideous news on what the additional premium would be and was casually loading the dishwasher a few minutes later when Mike and his best friend, Scott, got home from their last half day of school. Jane peeked while the boys circled the truck, admiring it.
“Hi, Mom," Mike said when they finally came in the house. "Whose truck is that?"
“Truck? I don't know." She went to the window again and looked. "Oh, that must be Shelley's nephew. She mentioned that he was coming by today.”
The boys raved about it for a while and Jane went on cleaning the kitchen, trying not to grin. She tried to engage them in a discussion of how it felt to have finished high school, but the topic didn't interest them. Instead, they fixed Cokes for themselves and went back out to drool over the black pickup truck again. Jane followed.
"You really like this thing?" she asked innocently. She kicked a tire.
“Like it? Mom, it's the coolest thing on the road today," Mike said. "Just look at it!"
“I guess you'd like to have one," Jane said. "Like one? Who wouldn't?”
Jane fished the keys out of her pocket. "Then why don't you take this one?”
Mike stared at the keys. Then looked at her. Then at the keys.
“You mean—?”
Jane nodded. "It's yours.”
Mike and Scott fell on each other, slapping, punching, and yelping. Mike grabbed Jane in a bear hug. "Jeez, Mom! Jeez! I can't believe it!”
Shelley had come out to join them when she heard the boys shouting. Scott was making a hideous yodeling noise while doing a victory dance around the truck and stopped to hug her. "Too cool! Too cool!" he crooned. "Mrs. J, you really came through," he said, mauling her in turn.
“We've gotta show the guys," Mike said, jingling the car keys.
“Don't forget the deli opening is in an hour," Jane warned.
Mike slapped his forehead. "Jeez!" he repeated. "Okay. Just a little drive then.”
He and Scott got in the truck and sat for a few minutes, petting and caressing various parts of the interior and talking incomprehensible gibberish about the mechanics. Mike turned the key and they both made orgasmic noises as the engine revved to life. Mike hopped back out, gave his mother another hug and smack of a kiss, and asked if she wanted to ride along.
“No way, thanks. Don't forget your job." The boys roared off and Jane watched until they were out of sight.
“Want a cup of coffee?" Shelley asked. Jane sighed. "No, thanks. I believe I'll just go inside and have a good cry.”
The old house Sarah Baker and her sister had inherited was spruced up and looking lovely. The clapboards had been repaired and painted a pristine white with shiny black shutters for accent. The old cement walk had been replaced with a wide brick one in an old-fashioned herringbone pattern and had a border of sweet-scented thyme along the edges. A martin house had pink morning glories twining their way up the post. The original wraparound porch at the front and sides had been enclosed with floor-to-ceiling crank-out windows, which were opened today.
Small white cafe tables for two and chairs with plump floral-patterned cushions were set up on the porch. At the center front of the house itself, one walked into what had once been a front hall, with a parlor and dining room to each side. The area had been opened up, and sparkling glass display cases enclosed an unbelievable array of deli foods. Jane assumed the back rooms of the first floor were kitchens and storage areas. There was no staircase visible, but Jane had heard that the second floor had been kept as living quarters. Conrad and Sarah Baker would be "living above the shop," as many small shopkeepers used to.
The decorating plan was in keeping with the Victorian house — lots of ferns and lush greenery — but everything was white and bright and clean instead of characterized by the dark sobriety that had been fashionable when the house was new. Jane and Shelley had arrived early, but so had many other curious neighbors. Nearly all the little tables on the porch were occupied by people sampling Conrad's cooking when Jane and Shelley arrived. Conrad, in a chef's white jacket and hat, greeted them with a tray. "Ladies, how good of you to come!" he said heartily. "Have a seat or roam around as you like.”
Conrad was a large, florid-faced man who obviously enjoyed eating as much as cooking. He wasn't fat, just big and fairly solid-looking, as ex-football players often get in middle age.
His wife, Sarah, was behind him, passing out plates and silverware. She was a small, thin woman with tiny, delicate features and a mop of curly dark blond hair held back with clear plastic combs. She had a shy, quiet manner, and though she was smiling, she looked as if this sort of mingling was painful.
Shelley introduced herself and Jane to Sarah Baker, who said softly, "Oh, I remember you from school days, Shelley. And I've talked to Jane on the phone a couple times. Thanks for coming. If you'd like to sit down while there's still a place to, I could bring you some of our special tea, and Conrad will be back around with sandwiches.”
Jane, whose motto was "Never pass up a chance to sit down," took her up on the offer. The tea, when it arrived, was a very nice Earl Grey with the merest hint of a floral scent they couldn't identify. "I may never cook again," Jane said, sampling a cucumber dip Conrad had brought around with tiny sandwiches, some of his homemade potato chips, and a generous serving of cherry crisp.
“Delicious," Shelley said around a mouthful of salmon mousse.
A tall woman who looked like an elongated version of Sarah Baker stopped at the table. "Shelley, nice to see you," she said.
“Grace Axton, this is my friend Jane Jeffry. Jane is Mike's mother."
“I'm glad to meet anyone who could raise such a great kid," Grace said. "We can already tell it's going to be nearly impossible to replace him when he goes to college in the fall. In his new truck! He's so proud of it."
“Mike's here?" Jane asked. In the dark, most motherly recesses of her mind, she'd been half afraid he'd forgotten everything in his thraldom with the vehicle.
“In the back, helping with cleanup before he starts deliveries. Have you seen the kitchens?"
“No, we didn't know we could," Shelley replied.
“Sure. We're anxious to show off everything.”
Shelley said, "Grace, I hardly recognized Sarah. I mean, she looks the same, but I remembered her being really bubbly and outgoing."
“People change," Grace Axton said shortly, and added with a laugh, "I didn't used to have a neck like a chicken, either, but we're not in high school anymore."
“You have a perfectly fine neck," Shelley objected, "but if you saw the back of my upper arms—" After a few chummy, if depressing, comments about aging and the exchange of the names of a couple plastic surgeons, Grace moved off to greet other newcomers.
Mike stopped by to thank Jane again for the truck, then, carrying a cardboard box full of paper bags and cartons, went on his first delivery. As he went down the sidewalk, Shelley murmured, "I can't believe it. Look who's coming."
“What a hell of a nerve," Jane agreed as Robert Stonecipher stepped in the door and glanced around critically. With his showy white hair and handsome features, he looked as if he had been designed as part of the decor. Or he would have, had he not been scowling.
“And he's got his pet dog with him," Shelley added, glaring at the sour-looking old man who was right behind Stonecipher.
“Who's that?"
“I can't think of his name. I always want to call him Foster Brooks," Shelley said. "Foster Hanlon, that's it. He's been hopping up and down and talking ugly about the deli opening, too."
“But they've lost the battle. Why would they show up for the opening? You'd think they'd be embarrassed to visit the site of their defeat. Who's the woman with them?" Jane asked, eyeing the newcomer. She was not especially young, but was one of those terribly "fresh" people who always look as if they'd just stepped out of a tepid shower and a brisk rubdown with something organic that was awfully expensive and environmentally sound.
“Oh, you know her, Jane. That Emma per‑ son who taught the aerobics class we took. Emma Weyworth — no, Weyrich.”