old Miss Caroline, who was enjoying the company of a couple of her cousins (youngsters in their sixties) by way of watchdogs and companions. When Portia and Glen returned, the cousins would go back to their more humble home, probably with some relief. Halleigh and Andy would move into their own small house.
I wondered about Jonathan and the beautiful withered man.
I reminded myself to call Eric the next night when he was up.
I thought about Bill's unexpected words.
For the millionth time, I speculated about Quinn's silence.
But before I could get too broody, I was caught up in Hurricane Amelia.
There are lots of things I've come to enjoy, even love, about Amelia. She's straightforward, enthusiastic, and talented. She knows all about the supernatural world, and my place in it. She thinks my weird "talent" is really cool. I can talk to her about anything. She's never going to react with disgust or horror. On the other hand, Amelia is impulsive and headstrong, but you have to take people like they are. I've really enjoyed having Amelia living with me.
On the practical side, she's a decent cook, she's careful about keeping our property separate, and God knows she's tidy. What Amelia really does well is
clean.
She cleans when she's bored, she cleans when she's nervous, and she cleans when she feels guilty. I am no slouch in the housekeeping department, but Amelia is world-class. The day she had a near-miss auto accident, she cleaned my living room furniture, upholstery and all. When her tenant called her to tell her the roof had to be replaced, she went down to EZ Rent and brought home a machine to polish and buff the wooden floors upstairs
and
downstairs.
When I got up at nine, Amelia was already deep in a cleaning frenzy because of her father's impending visit. By the time I left for church at about ten forty-five, Amelia was on her hands and knees in the downstairs hall bathroom, which admittedly is very old-fashioned looking with its tiny octagonal black-and-white tiles and a huge old claw-footed bathtub; but (thanks to my brother, Jason) it has a more modern toilet. This was the bathroom Amelia used, since there wasn't one upstairs. I had a small, private one off my bedroom, added in the fifties. In my house, you could see several major decorating trends over the past few decades all in one building.
"You really think it was that dirty?" I said, standing in the doorway. I was talking to Amelia's rump.
She raised her head and passed a rubber-gloved hand over her forehead to push her short hair out of the way.
"No, it wasn't bad, but I want it to be great."
"My house is just an old house, Amelia. I don't think it can look great." There was no point in my apologizing for the age and wear of the house and its furnishings. This was the best I could do, and I loved it.
"This is a wonderful old home, Sookie," Amelia said fiercely. "But I have to be busy."
"Okay," I said. "Well, I'm going to church. I'll be home by twelve thirty."
"Can you go to the store after church? The list is on the counter."
I agreed, glad to have something to do that would keep me out of the house longer.
The morning felt more like March (March in the south, that is) than October. When I got out of my car at the Methodist church, I raised my face to the slight breeze. There was a touch of winter in the air, a little taste of it. The windows in the modest church were open. When we sang, our combined voices floated out over the grass and trees. But I saw some leaves blow past as the pastor preached.
Frankly, I don't always listen to the sermon. Sometimes the hour in church is just a time to think, a time to consider where my life is going. But at least those thoughts are in a context. And when you watch leaves falling off trees, your context gets pretty narrow.
Today I listened. Reverend Collins talked about giving God the things that were due him while giving Caesar the things due
him.
That seemed like an April fifteenth type sermon to me, and
I wondered about Jonathan and the beautiful withered man.
I reminded myself to call Eric the next night when he was up.
I thought about Bill's unexpected words.
For the millionth time, I speculated about Quinn's silence.
But before I could get too broody, I was caught up in Hurricane Amelia.
There are lots of things I've come to enjoy, even love, about Amelia. She's straightforward, enthusiastic, and talented. She knows all about the supernatural world, and my place in it. She thinks my weird "talent" is really cool. I can talk to her about anything. She's never going to react with disgust or horror. On the other hand, Amelia is impulsive and headstrong, but you have to take people like they are. I've really enjoyed having Amelia living with me.
On the practical side, she's a decent cook, she's careful about keeping our property separate, and God knows she's tidy. What Amelia really does well is
clean.
She cleans when she's bored, she cleans when she's nervous, and she cleans when she feels guilty. I am no slouch in the housekeeping department, but Amelia is world-class. The day she had a near-miss auto accident, she cleaned my living room furniture, upholstery and all. When her tenant called her to tell her the roof had to be replaced, she went down to EZ Rent and brought home a machine to polish and buff the wooden floors upstairs
and
downstairs.
When I got up at nine, Amelia was already deep in a cleaning frenzy because of her father's impending visit. By the time I left for church at about ten forty-five, Amelia was on her hands and knees in the downstairs hall bathroom, which admittedly is very old-fashioned looking with its tiny octagonal black-and-white tiles and a huge old claw-footed bathtub; but (thanks to my brother, Jason) it has a more modern toilet. This was the bathroom Amelia used, since there wasn't one upstairs. I had a small, private one off my bedroom, added in the fifties. In my house, you could see several major decorating trends over the past few decades all in one building.
"You really think it was that dirty?" I said, standing in the doorway. I was talking to Amelia's rump.
She raised her head and passed a rubber-gloved hand over her forehead to push her short hair out of the way.
"No, it wasn't bad, but I want it to be great."
"My house is just an old house, Amelia. I don't think it can look great." There was no point in my apologizing for the age and wear of the house and its furnishings. This was the best I could do, and I loved it.
"This is a wonderful old home, Sookie," Amelia said fiercely. "But I have to be busy."
"Okay," I said. "Well, I'm going to church. I'll be home by twelve thirty."
"Can you go to the store after church? The list is on the counter."
I agreed, glad to have something to do that would keep me out of the house longer.
The morning felt more like March (March in the south, that is) than October. When I got out of my car at the Methodist church, I raised my face to the slight breeze. There was a touch of winter in the air, a little taste of it. The windows in the modest church were open. When we sang, our combined voices floated out over the grass and trees. But I saw some leaves blow past as the pastor preached.
Frankly, I don't always listen to the sermon. Sometimes the hour in church is just a time to think, a time to consider where my life is going. But at least those thoughts are in a context. And when you watch leaves falling off trees, your context gets pretty narrow.
Today I listened. Reverend Collins talked about giving God the things that were due him while giving Caesar the things due
him.
That seemed like an April fifteenth type sermon to me, and
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