Page 48 of Welker

Moira put a lid on the pan that held a meat concoction, and another that simmered the most gloriously aromatic beans, before looking at her watch. “The pastry is in the oven. It’ll take another twenty minutes, then we can eat.”

Margaret looked more than pleased. “Then in the meantime, I’ll give you a tour.” She was clearly proud of her house that, so far, looked extremely well cared for.

She brought them into a living room—which she called the parlor—where Guinevere was now ensconced on the sofa, snoring. Doilies decorated the back of the impromptu bed, which Margaret referenced as “the divan”. The arms and headrests of two adjacent, overstuffed chairs were similarly adorned.

A large, Victorian piecrust table sat between the trio, and was covered in glass prisms, that with the morning sun would send—Welk imagined—a delightful array of colors swirling throughout the room. An old, tube TV sat between two windows, and was clearly the set still in use by Margaret.

Welker shook his head in wonderment. It was like stepping back in time.

“Through here is my dining room,” Margaret told them, leading them off to their right. “But I haven’t used it as such in years since it’s just me, so you’ll have to excuse the mess. I’ve turned it into my craft room.”

Sure enough the table was covered in old, cut-up magazines, pots of paint, scissors, brushes, and so much other paraphernalia that Welker couldn’t begin to name it all.

“I do scrapping,” she told them proudly, “and add my own artwork.”

Moira walked to a few things that hung on a wall. “These are yours?” she asked incredulously. “They’re beautiful.”

“Just a few of my favorites I couldn’t part with,” she grinned. “I bring my newest creations to a little shop in town that sells them for me.”

To say that Welker was speechless was an understatement. Margaret had to be ancient, but she was still very much engaged with the world.

“There’s a bathroom through that door.” She pointed left as they went back into a hallway, “and two bedrooms up with a full bath.” Stairs led to a landing on the right. “There’s not much to see there besides beds and dressers,” she enlightened them. “So I’d much rather use our time to show you my back yard before we lose the light.”

With September coming to a close, it would be dark very soon.

Margaret opened the back door, which had actually been locked from the inside, thank goodness, and urged them onto a small, covered porch before taking two steps down into the yard. Like the front expanse of once-upon-a time lawn, it was now covered in blankets of wildflowers. But Welker could still see structures hidden amongst the myriad of late-fall blooms.

“Raised beds?” Moira asked.

Margaret got a happy, yet introspective look on her face. “Yes. My Henry built those for me when I turned sixty, knowing I didn’t like to bend down anymore to pick vegetables. But now I don’t use them anymore, since I’m the only one they’d feed.”

It sounded awfully sad to Welker.

They continued to meander down a short, well-worn path that let Welker know Margaret must still come out into the yard, often.

“I sit out here when the weather cooperates,” Margaret told them, leading them toward two vintage patio chairs, one of which looked like it hadn’t been used in a very long time. Obviously, it was where her husband had once sat. “Henry spent a lot of time in the yard, and I feel closer to him when I’m here.” Her face momentarily filled with melancholia before brightening. “He’d approve of you two, I know he would,” she stated with certainty.

“I bet he was a wonderful man,” Moira offered gently.

“The best, my dear. He was…everything.”

Welker could tell the atmosphere needed lightening before they all started bawling, so he swept an arm over the rest of the overgrown clearing which held a few crushed down paths leading deeper into the property. “What’s back there?” he asked.

Margaret regained her aplomb. “A few sheds for tools and such. A root cellar I don’t use any more.” She laughed. “And that’s another story. Henry made sure it would double as a storm shelter just in case we got hit with a hurricane like we did back in ’54 with Carol and Edna.”

Welker wasn’t familiar with either of those storms, but why would he be? He hadn’t been born yet.

“Just to humor his memory, I still keep the cellar stocked with a few canned goods and flashlights, and I also make sure it stays clean in case I need to overwinter some produce. You never know when I might start growing potatoes again,” she teased.

Welker knew she actually kept it up because Henry had built it, and she couldn’t bear seeing it collapse into decay.

“Well, that’s the extent of it,” Margaret finally said. “And it’s a good thing, because I’m thinking our food must be ready by now.”

The three of them sat back, replete.

The food had been amazing, and the conversation even better. Moira had finally grown embarrassed by the non-stop praise she’d received over the sumptuous dinner, and told them she’d never cook again if they didn’t stop.

Welker and Margaret eventually exchanged an impish glance that let Moira know, even if they were finished with the subject for now, she’d be hearing a lot more from them in the future.

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