it."
Della Lee smiled, like there was a secret joke in there somewhere. "Sell it. Yes. That's what I'll do."
"I can help you."
Della Lee's smile faded. "You have to promise me not to do anything else like this, Josey. Don't go back there to him. Don't contact realtors. And don't tell anyone about me. Promise!"
"Okay, okay. I promise."
"I can't believe you would do this for me." Della Lee reached out tentatively to touch the box, like she wasn't sure it was real. When her fingers touched the cardboard, she gave a surprised laugh.
"When you go up north, you're going to need your things."
Della scooted the box toward her. It made a loud scraping noise against the hardwood floor. "Oh, I get it," she said as she lifted the lid. "You're trying to get rid of me because I know about your sweets."
"Well, there is that," Josey said.
"Josey!" she heard her mother call from down the hall. Josey swung her head around.
"No one's ever done anything like this for me. You know, maybe I can keep this stuff." Della Lee suddenly grabbed the bags and brought them toward her, hugging them. "My stuff," she said, laughing. "My stuff, my stuff, my stuff. I never thought I'd see it again. Could I have a little privacy here?"
Josey hesitated at first, then got to her feet.
"Close the door, will you? And don't forget to go see Chloe at the courthouse and get my sandwich," Della Lee said as she brought a shirt out of one of the bags and put it to her face, inhaling. She frowned, then smelled the shirt again. "That's strange. This doesn't smell like I remembered."
When Josey closed the door, Della Lee was taking out another shirt.
Josey shook her head, thinking, if Della Lee were a candy, she would be a SweeTart. Not the hard kind that broke your teeth, the chewy kind, the kind you had to work on and mull over, your eyes watering and your lips turning up into a smile you didn't want to give.
"Josey!" Margaret called again.
Josey turned quickly and went to check on her mother.
Margaret liked to look at one particular photo after she took her sleeping pill, because sometimes it made her dream of him. She was thirty-one in the photo, but she looked much younger. She always had, until recently. When she looked in the mirror these days, she saw someone she didn't recognize. She didn't see the beautiful woman in the photo. She saw an old woman trying to be beautiful, her skin dry and her wrinkles like cracks. She looked like a very well-dressed winter apple.
Long ago, when she was a young woman, younger even than in the photo, she thought she would be happier here in Bald Slope than she was in Asheville. It meant she would be away from her family and their demands of her. She was only twenty-three when she married Marco, a match made by her father. Marco was almost twenty-four years her senior, but he was rich and charismatic and he had no interest in having children, so it could have been much, much worse. She got what she wanted, a life away from her family and no younger siblings to look after anymore, while her family got what they wanted, money. But Margaret didn't realize how lonely she would be in this strange cool place with the Gothic arches of its downtown buildings and an entire culture devoted to bringing visitors to their town in order to survive. And it didn't take long to understand that Marco only wanted a beautiful wife and the cachet of her old Southern family name. He didn't want her. But when she was thirty- one, for one brief wonderful year, she wasn't lonely. She was happy, for the first and only time she could ever remember.
The photo had been taken at a picnic social, and he wasn't supposed to be in the picture. He was caught by accident so close to her. She'd cut the photo in half years ago, when she thought cutting him out of her life was the right thing to do. But she could still see his hand in the photo, a young man's hand, just barely touching hers. The hand wasn't her husband's.
She could hear Josey moving
Della Lee smiled, like there was a secret joke in there somewhere. "Sell it. Yes. That's what I'll do."
"I can help you."
Della Lee's smile faded. "You have to promise me not to do anything else like this, Josey. Don't go back there to him. Don't contact realtors. And don't tell anyone about me. Promise!"
"Okay, okay. I promise."
"I can't believe you would do this for me." Della Lee reached out tentatively to touch the box, like she wasn't sure it was real. When her fingers touched the cardboard, she gave a surprised laugh.
"When you go up north, you're going to need your things."
Della scooted the box toward her. It made a loud scraping noise against the hardwood floor. "Oh, I get it," she said as she lifted the lid. "You're trying to get rid of me because I know about your sweets."
"Well, there is that," Josey said.
"Josey!" she heard her mother call from down the hall. Josey swung her head around.
"No one's ever done anything like this for me. You know, maybe I can keep this stuff." Della Lee suddenly grabbed the bags and brought them toward her, hugging them. "My stuff," she said, laughing. "My stuff, my stuff, my stuff. I never thought I'd see it again. Could I have a little privacy here?"
Josey hesitated at first, then got to her feet.
"Close the door, will you? And don't forget to go see Chloe at the courthouse and get my sandwich," Della Lee said as she brought a shirt out of one of the bags and put it to her face, inhaling. She frowned, then smelled the shirt again. "That's strange. This doesn't smell like I remembered."
When Josey closed the door, Della Lee was taking out another shirt.
Josey shook her head, thinking, if Della Lee were a candy, she would be a SweeTart. Not the hard kind that broke your teeth, the chewy kind, the kind you had to work on and mull over, your eyes watering and your lips turning up into a smile you didn't want to give.
"Josey!" Margaret called again.
Josey turned quickly and went to check on her mother.
Margaret liked to look at one particular photo after she took her sleeping pill, because sometimes it made her dream of him. She was thirty-one in the photo, but she looked much younger. She always had, until recently. When she looked in the mirror these days, she saw someone she didn't recognize. She didn't see the beautiful woman in the photo. She saw an old woman trying to be beautiful, her skin dry and her wrinkles like cracks. She looked like a very well-dressed winter apple.
Long ago, when she was a young woman, younger even than in the photo, she thought she would be happier here in Bald Slope than she was in Asheville. It meant she would be away from her family and their demands of her. She was only twenty-three when she married Marco, a match made by her father. Marco was almost twenty-four years her senior, but he was rich and charismatic and he had no interest in having children, so it could have been much, much worse. She got what she wanted, a life away from her family and no younger siblings to look after anymore, while her family got what they wanted, money. But Margaret didn't realize how lonely she would be in this strange cool place with the Gothic arches of its downtown buildings and an entire culture devoted to bringing visitors to their town in order to survive. And it didn't take long to understand that Marco only wanted a beautiful wife and the cachet of her old Southern family name. He didn't want her. But when she was thirty- one, for one brief wonderful year, she wasn't lonely. She was happy, for the first and only time she could ever remember.
The photo had been taken at a picnic social, and he wasn't supposed to be in the picture. He was caught by accident so close to her. She'd cut the photo in half years ago, when she thought cutting him out of her life was the right thing to do. But she could still see his hand in the photo, a young man's hand, just barely touching hers. The hand wasn't her husband's.
She could hear Josey moving
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