Sharyn McCrumb - Sick Of Shadows

“Yes.”

“Nice girl, Eileen. Should make a lovely bride.” Because, Simmons finished silently, if you threw enough satin and white lace on a scarecrow, it would look presentable. He wondered about the groom, though. The brief announcement in the local paper had been very restrained on that point. He looked again at the cousin, wondering if he ought to include a gallant remark about how nice she’d look as a bridesmaid, but before he could frame this pleasantry into complimentary but unflirtatious terms, she embarked on a topic of her own.

“How do you like practicing law?”

“Uh… fine, just fine. Sure beats studying it. The hours are better.”

“It doesn’t require much math, does it?”

“I’m sorry. Math?”

“Calculus or trig or anything like that.”

“I-no.” Idly, he began to wonder if he had been mistaken about her being a cousin. Visions of Cherry Hill began to flip through his mind.

“And what did you major in as an undergrad?”

“History.”

“Oh. So did my brother. He’s in law school, too. I majored in sociology.”

“Ah.” Simmons kept trying to pick up the thread of the discussion.

“Know any lawyers who majored in sociology?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. Mostly they major in history or political science. Still, it seems like an interesting sort of career. Do you get many good cases practicing in a small town?”

“Mostly we do deeds and wills, things like that.”

“I think criminal law would be more interesting. You know, cases where you could really make a difference-like murder cases!”

Simmons smiled. He heard that speech at every social function he attended. People were always pushing cups of warm punch at him and telling him how much more interesting they thought it would be to practice criminal law in Atlanta. He usually just stood there smiling and nodding, because it took too much effort to explain that rich murder defendants hired famous and experienced attorneys-he was neither-and poor ones got court-appointed lawyers who needed the work and got paid peanuts for their efforts. Deeds and wills weren’t exactly pulse-quickening, but it was a comfortable life, with plenty of time for tennis, and an occasional out-of-the-ordinary case for the social anecdote.

“Are you interested in law?” he asked politely.

Elizabeth frowned. “I don’t know. I majored in sociology, but I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet. I took a course in criminology in my junior year, but it wasn’t what I expected. Mostly statistics.”

Eileen reappeared just then, with Mildred in tow. “This will only take a few minutes, I promise. Then you can put the groceries away. I just need you to sign something.”

“Sign?” echoed Simmons, struggling to his feet. He had the uneasy feeling that the interview was getting away from him.

“Here it is,” said Eileen, handing him a piece of stationery covered with round, childishly precise handwriting. “I’ve asked Mildred to witness it so that it will be legal until you can get the other one drawn up. And Elizabeth, you can be the other witness.”

Simmons frowned. “Well, really, Miss Chandler, I don’t thnk it would be proper-”

“They don’t have to read what I’ve written, do they?”

The procedural question sidetracked him. “What? No. They are only attesting to the fact that your signature on the document is genuine, but-”

“Okay then. Watch, everybody!” Eileen held her pen aloft as a magician might wave his wand before performing the next trick. When they dutifully turned to look at her, she bent and signed her name at the bottom of the pink page, carefully dotting the i in Eileen with a small circle.

Oh, God, thought Simmons, an i circler. I haven’t seen that since ninth grade. I’ll bet this will is a real beauty; she probably included her stamp collection! He consoled his professional sensitivity by reminding himself that he would be getting twenty-five dollars an hour for drafting the document.

“Okay,” he said. “Now that you’ve signed it, they need to sign it. You can cover up the text with a piece of paper if you like. Some people do that.” He handed her a sheet of paper. “That’s right, cover up everything except where you want them to sign at the bottom. But I really do recommend that you wait for an official draft. Really!”

Eileen shook her head. “No. I want to do this as-as sort of a gesture that I’m really getting married. Like a preliminary ceremony.” That ought to satisfy him, she thought. And it ought to make Michael realize about the money. How real it is; how close it is to being ours. He couldn’t change his mind after that. Not that he’d want to, of course, because he really loved her. He said so over and over.

“Oh, please don’t worry, Mr. Simmons,” she said. “It’s only for a few days-until the other one is ready. It will be all right. I mean, nothing’s going to happen to me.”

Simmons looked shocked. “Certainly not!” he said hastily. “That goes without saying. But you must understand that it is a bit irregular. The litigation possibilities in the event-”

But Eileen was carefully aligning the blank cover sheet over her piece of stationery. She motioned for Elizabeth and Mildred to witness it. After a moment’s hesitation, they bent down and scribbled their names on the bottom of the page. Eileen then handed the paper to the lawyer.

“Thank you very much for your time,” she said, walking with him toward the door.

“Just let me wish you much happiness. You just think about that lovely wedding coming up, and put all thoughts about wills and legal matters right out of your mind.”

Eileen nodded solemnly and showed him out. When the door had finally closed behind him, she leaned against it with a sigh of relief. “Now I can go and paint.”

Elizabeth had the house to herself for most of the afternoon. Amanda and Louisa had not returned from their shopping expedition; Dr. Chandler called to say that he wouldn’t be home until dinnertime; and there was still no sign of Captain Grandfather and Michael. She wondered what they found to talk about on the drive to the county library. Geoffrey had stopped in about two o’clock to announce that he was going to a rehearsal for his play, and she had politely declined his invitation to go along. Charles and Eileen were still somewhere between the house and the lake, she supposed.

She finished reading the book she had brought with her, and was in the library trying to do a sketch of Alban’s castle for Bill.

She wondered where Alban was. He had driven off an hour or so before without a tennis racket. She held up her drawing and inspected it. The lines were a little crooked and the proportions weren’t quite right, but Bill would get the general idea. Alban ought to provide postcards, she thought, smiling to herself. After all their laughter at Alban’s expense, it seemed strange to think of him as an ordinary, likable person. The castle looked less bizarre to her than it had at first-probably in the light of his explanation. She decided to leave off the dragon she had originally planned to put in the foreground. But she was still going to put the little flag on the top of the tower, with her version of a suitable motto: “A man’s home is his castle.” Elizabeth walked over to the window to count the tower windows again-maybe his car would be back in the driveway.

It wasn’t, but another car was pulling up in the Chandlers’ drive: a little green Volkswagen she hadn’t seen before. She watched as the driver stopped the car and headed for the front door. He was a stocky, dark-haired man of about thirty, wearing a yellow tee shirt that read “Jung At Heart.” He looked up at the house, then over at Alban’s and shook his head. When Elizabeth saw that he was indeed coming to the Chandlers’ front porch, she hurried to the front door and waited for the bell to ring.