Page 95 of The Witch's Orchard
“Do you know Shiloh?”
“I used to see her at church, when she was younger. But, no. Really, I only know her from the bakery. She is truly an excellent pastry chef. I can’t imagine a bakery like that will last very long in a town like this but… Well, as I said. It’s a tragedy.”
“Yes,” I say.
I’m sitting on the very edge of the well-worn, overstuffed sofa. If I sat any farther back, I’d sink in and be too dangerously comfortable for cogent questioning.
Deena settles onto a high-backed antique armchair. Her slender form fits well within the confines of the beautifully carved wooden arms. Her feet rest flat on the floor and her posture is impeccable.
“I heard about the accident at the old factory,” she says. “I’ve been saying for years they should tear that place down. Are you unharmed?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m all right. Thank you.”
She tilts her head to acknowledge her own graciousness in asking after my welfare. Her hands are folded in her lap. Her long, supple fingers seem almost weightless, neither tense nor fully at ease.
“Did you attend the festival last night?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Do you usually attend the church festivals?”
If she’d had worse manners she’d have shrugged. Instead, the corner of her mouth just barely twitches.
“Christmas,” she says. “I attend the Christmas Eve service. And, of course, I play the piano for all of the holiday services.”
“Why don’t you attend the other festivals?” I ask.
“They are somewhat… garish.”
“They’re for kids,” I say. “Kids are sort of garish.”
“I suppose.”
“You don’t like kids?”
“I do not have much experience in the area.”
“You didn’t have kids?”
“No. Do you?”
“No,” I say, automatically.
“Do you want them?” she asks.
It catches me off guard.
“I…” I start. “No. I do not. At one time—but no.”
“It happens,” she says. I do not know what, precisely, “it” is. And yet I can feel it. Can feel the shape of it. The heaviness. “It,” whatever “it” is, is a thing that women know of. A thing we all carry. A decision. A gift. A burden. A chance. A mistake. A choice.
“Yes,” I agree. “It happens. Not all of us are destined for motherhood.”
I’m desperate, suddenly, to pull the focus away from childbearing, and I glance around the room. The river-stone fireplace, the raw-edge coffee table, the elegant drapes. Every surface is perfect, clean, dust-free.
“Do you have a maid?”
“Of course,” she says, the unspoken and sarcastic “Don’t you?” omitted but implied.
