Sharyn McCrumb - Sick Of Shadows

The wedding is now nine days away. I’ll probably write you again then and let you know how it went. I’ve decided that Michael looks too timid to run away from it. Aunt Amanda would probably track him through the swamps, baying.

I wish you would get a telephone in your apartment. Surely you and Milo could divert some of your beer money toward acquiring a telephone. Writing is tiring and takes up more of my time than you deserve. It is now nearly time for lunch, so I will close. I expect an answer to this, Bill!

Love,

Elizabeth

Someone tapped on the door of the library.

Elizabeth slid the letter to Bill into its envelope, and sealed it. “Come in!” she called.

Eileen peeped around the door. “Elizabeth? I thought you must be in here. Are you ready for lunch?”

“I guess so. Let me just put this letter out for the postman. Am I late?”

“Oh, no! Not for lunch or anything. I just came to see if you wanted any. I mean, we’re the only ones home.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Michael wanted to go to the library in town and Captain Grandfather offered to go with him, because he wanted to look up something about sailing ships.”

In the kitchen, Elizabeth sat while Eileen rummaged about in the refrigerator, occasionally singing out “Tomatoes!” or “Olives!” and setting a container on the countertop. Elizabeth tried to think of cheerful lunch-time conversation.

“How is your painting coming along?” she said.

“Oh, all right, I guess. I did a lot of work on the shadowing this morning. I wish I could paint this afternoon, but I have that appointment. What kind of dressing do you want?”

“French.” Elizabeth took the cutting board from the counter and began to chop vegetables while they talked.

“I suppose we should be having a wedding rehearsal in a day or two,” Eileen murmured.

“Fine!” said Elizabeth, much more cheerfully than she felt. “Are you nervous about the wedding?”

Eileen looked wary. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, stage fright, I guess. Most girls get the jitters a few days before the ceremony.”

“Stage fright,” Eileen repeated. “That’s a good word for it. I guess that is what I feel. I’m not afraid of marrying Michael, of course, but the idea of walking down the aisle in front of all those people, and afterwards, talking to strangers-”

“But, Eileen! They won’t be strangers! They’ll be your friends-people that you invited to the wedding!”

Eileen looked at her steadily. “Will they?”

For a minute they devoted their full attention to the salads. Elizabeth dabbed her fork at stray bits of tomato and considered the implications of Eileen’s reply. “Will they?” Of course they would not be her friends. Aunt Amanda had sent out all the invitations. Who even knew if Eileen had any friends? But, if she did, they certainly ought to be asked.

“Eileen, listen!” she began quickly. “I’ve been addressing invitations for your mother, and I know where the extra ones are-in that desk in the library. If there’s anybody you want to invite, just tell me, and I’ll send them an invitation sneaked in with the others. It’ll be no problem at all!”

“There’s only one person I want to come to my wedding,” said Eileen softly.

“Who is that?”

“Michael.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Eileen! You’re not going to elope, are you? Because if you go off to South Carolina after all this work and planning, Aunt Amanda is going to have a French fit!”

“Don’t worry, Elizabeth. Everything will be all right. If I have to wear that battleship of a white dress and shake hands with every old lady in the county, I’ll do it. It will be worth it. Giving Mother her own way is always worth it.”

Having had some experience with Aunt Amanda’s temper, Elizabeth silently agreed with Eileen’s assessment. Amanda Chandler could be a terror when not given her own way. Her family had learned not to argue with her, if only for the sake of peace and quiet. Robert Chandler had obviously been taking the path of least resistance for years, with the result that he scarcely had any opinions left. Willfulness was an interesting trait, Elizabeth thought. Usually when people insist on a thing, and no one else cares much either way, the person who insists carries the day. Elizabeth had noticed, though, that some people nearly always cared a great deal about everything-such as what to have for dinner and when-so that indifferent people were seldom able to choose. A phrase she had once seen on a tee shirt summed up Amanda Chandler perfectly: What’s your opinion against millions of mine?

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Eileen!” she blurted out. “It’s your wedding, not your mother’s! Just put your foot down.”

The cathedral chimes of the front door echoed down the hall.

Eileen stood, casting a nervous glance toward the door. “Elizabeth did you ever try to tell my mother something she didn’t want to hear?”

“Uh… no.”

She smiled bitterly. “Well, I did. Six years ago.”

“Six years-you mean, when you…”

“That was the door bell. I think we had better let Mr. Simmons in.” Eileen left the kitchen with as much dignity as she had ever mustered. After a few seconds’ paralysis, Elizabeth followed.

If she had to paint him, she would depict him as a medieval friar. That pudgy body would look like a wine cask under a brown cassock, and the blond ringlets curling around his bald spot made a natural tonsure. The wire-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose gave him a look of foolish benevolence. Did they have glasses back then?

“I’m sorry,” Eileen murmured. “What were you saying?”

“I just need you to sign here,” he repeated, holding out another typed page. “Would you like me to run through that explanation again? I’d be happy to.”

“No, that’s all right,” Eileen assured him. She scrawled her name hurriedly on the line he had marked.

“Do you have any questions about all this?” Simmons persisted. “About the money?”

“How will I get it?”

Tommy Simmons coughed nervously. He had just finished explaining that. “Er-well, Miss Chandler, in a manner of speaking you already have it. It’s in the bank, of course. Would you like to discuss possible investments or savings programs?”

“No. Not today, please.”

Simmons began sliding papers into his briefcase. “Well, then, I guess that’s all…”

“Mr. Simmons?”

“Yes? Is there anything else?”

“I’d like to make a will.”

He blinked at her. Whatever put that idea into her head?

“Could I?” she asked. “With the wedding coming up, I thought I ought to.”

Simmons peered into his briefcase. “Well… I suppose we could draft it now, and I could get it typed up for you to sign after-”

“It’s just a simple one,” said Eileen. “I’ve already written it. I just need you to put it in legal terms, or whatever it is you do to make it official. Excuse me, I’ll go and get it.” She hurried out of the room.

Tommy Simmons leaned back on the sofa with a weary sigh. He wondered if the family knew about this. It shouldn’t matter, of course; it was her money, and she was of age, but it made him uneasy to do anything without the family’s approval. A simple will, she’d said. That probably meant that the fiancé was going to get it. He’d better postpone the formal drafting until after the wedding, just to be on the safe side.

He came to himself with a start, remembering that he was not alone in the room. The cousin, or whatever she was, sitting on the sofa, had put down her magazine and was watching him thoughtfully. Simmons produced a weak smile.

“Are you here for the wedding?”