“I want you to stay here,” I said, grabbing my keys from the telephone table, “in case there’s more bad news to break to the boys.”
I gave him a quick kiss, called good night to Willis, Sr., and sprinted through the crisp night air to our canary-yellow Range Rover. As I turned the key in the ignition and backed the Rover down our graveled drive, I tried in vain to prepare myself for what might be my last visit with the Pyms.
Three
The fields on either side of our narrow, twisting lane were shrouded in darkness and hidden from view by hedgerows, but I was conscious of their presence nonetheless. Harvesttime had come to my corner of the Cotswolds. All too soon, I told myself, the reaper would swing his blade and the ripe sheaves would be gathered.
“Stop being so melodramatic,” I muttered irritably as I cruised past Anscombe Manor’s winding drive. “The crops around here will be harvested by brawny men in big machines, not by a black-robed skeleton wielding a scythe.”
Still, it was hard to ignore the season’s symbolism.
I negotiated the lane’s most hazardous bend, and the Pym sisters’ house came into view, shining like a jewel nestled in velvet. Light poured from each lace-curtained window beneath the shaggy thatch, giving the redbrick walls a mellow glow. I was surprised to see how many lamps were burning in the house—I’d expected it to be as dimly lit as a sick room—until I noticed the vehicles parked on the grassy strip between the lane and the Pyms’ front garden. The row of cars told me that Kit Smith and Nell Harris weren’t the Pym sisters’ only visitors.
Kit’s small pickup was there, as were Mr. Barlow’s paneled van, the vicar’s black BMW, Miranda Morrow’s sky-blue Beetle, Sally Pyne’s ancient Vauxhall, and the Peacocks’ old Renault. I thought I’d received an exclusive invitation to appear at the Pyms’ bedsides, but it looked as though I’d have to wait in line.
I parked the Rover behind the vicar’s sedan, then made my way through the wrought-iron gate and into the leaf-strewn garden. As I passed the dried flower stalks shivering forlornly in the neglected beds and borders, I wondered who would make the garden bloom again once the Pym sisters were gone. Since the pair had outlived their blood relations, their house would be sold to a stranger. Would the newcomer preserve the old-fashioned plants the sisters had so lovingly tended, or would he dig them up and replace them with a modern, low-maintenance lawn? It hurt my heart to think of plain grass claiming victory over the Pyms’ snapdragons, hollyhocks, and sweet peas, so I pushed the unwelcome image to the back of my mind and hurried forward.
I was halfway up the graveled path when the front door opened and a line of villagers spilled onto the front step, with Lilian Bunting, the vicar’s scholarly wife, in the lead.
“We’re agreed, then,” she said, gazing intently at a small notebook she held in one hand. “I’ll devise a rota for cooking, shopping, and general housekeeping duties. Mr. Barlow and Derek Harris will keep the house, the shed, the fences, and the garage in good repair. Miranda will look after the garden and Emma Harris will make sure that none of the fruit goes to waste. Peggy Taxman has already volunteered to deliver their mail directly to the house and Jasper Taxman will see to it that their bills are paid on time. My husband will, of course, tend to their spiritual needs.”
“I have the easiest job of all, it seems,” murmured the vicar.
“You never know,” said Mr. Barlow. “Old ladies can be full of surprises.”
The rest of the villagers chuckled and a comprehending smile crept across my face. The social machinery that had been set in motion for the wedding of the century had evidently been diverted to the communal mission of caring for the Pyms. While I’d been preoccupied with symbols and hypothetical heartbreaks, my neighbors had concerned themselves with down-to-earth practicalities.
“It looks as though I’ve missed a committee meeting,” I said, striding forward to join the group. “Sign me up for general housekeeping, Lilian. I’m a dab hand with a feather duster.”
“Lori!” she exclaimed, looking up from her notebook. “How nice to see you. Our meeting was quite spontaneous, I assure you.”
“Emma’s phone calls instigated it,” Christine Peacock explained. “As soon as she told me about the Pyms, I left Dick to close up the pub and came right over.”
“Each of us drove over as soon as we heard the news,” said Miranda Morrow. “We wanted Ruth and Louise to know that they’re not alone.”
“Peggy said we’d only be making a nuisance of ourselves,” Sally Pyne noted tartly, “so she and Jasper stayed at the Emporium. If you ask me, she’d rather fill her till than help her friends.”