“Hello,” I say in the most cultured way I can muster, but I sound just like I always do.
She seems to recover from whatever it is that surprised her.
“Hello, I’m Libby Reynolds,” she says cheerfully. “And this is Timmy. We’ve been wanting to welcome you and your husband to the neighborhood, and here I finally send a note to you and the weather nearly kept us from meeting. I’m so glad the rain stopped.”
She’s a bit shorter than me, rounder, with honey blond hair, full lips, and wide straight teeth. Her little boy looks to be a year or so.
“And I’m Sophie Hocking. Please, won’t you come in?”
“If it’s not an inconvenience?” she says politely.
“Not at all.”
She steps inside and I close the door.
“How strange and wonderful it is to still see Mrs. Kincheloe’s furnishings!” Libby says, looking all around the foyer at the hall tree, the chandelier, the Oriental rug at our feet, the little table by the stairs where I put the day’s mail.
“Mrs. Kincheloe?” I say.
“The doctor’s wife. This was her house.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” I lead us into the sitting room. “Won’t you have a seat?” I gesture to one of the sofas. Libby sits down and positions her son on her lap. I sit across from them in an armchair and Kat retreats to her book on the floor by the hearth.
“From your accent I would guess you’re not from around here,” Libby says congenially.
“No. I’m from Ireland originally. The North.”
“And this is your little girl?” She nods to Kat, seated on the rug near my feet.
“Um. Yes. This is Kat.”
“Kat?” Libby grins.
“It’s short for Katharine.”
Libby looks down at Kat. “What a pretty thing you are. And how old are you, Kat?”
Kat stares at the woman for a moment and gazes up at me.
“She’ll be six in June,” I say quickly.
Libby raises her head slowly, understanding, it seems, that something is a bit amiss with Kat. “Well,” she continues. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you. You and I are the only young mothers on the block! I was sad to hear Dr. Kincheloe had taken that fancy job in Argentina. His wife, Margaret, was a dear, always willing to take in Timmy if Chester had a nighttime function that I was suddenly expected to attend. My husband’s the assistant headmaster of a private academy and they’re always putting on plays and concerts. And I’ll miss those two little Kincheloe boys, too. Timmy loved watching them run and play. It was quite a nice surprise to see you and your husband moving in and that you have a little girl. Is she your only one?”
“Y-yes,” I answer clumsily.
“And where did you move from? Somewhere else here in the city?”
Again, I stumble over my answer. “Ah, well . . . My . . . my husband had been working in Los Angeles and then . . . ah, he came up here to begin a new job.”
Libby stares at me with curious eyes. Answers to easy questions like these should fly off my tongue.
“How nice,” Libby says. “And what is your husband’s job?”
Finally, an uncomplicated question. “He does work for an insurance company. On the road, though. Assessing risk.”
“I have a cousin who sells life insurance. In Portland,” Libby says. “Which insurance company does your husband work for?”
My face warms with embarrassment. I haven’t asked Martin the name of the company he works for. I haven’t cared. And until Libby asked this question I hadn’t considered that maybe I should care. Martin had said it is important for prospective clients to see him as a fortunate family man—because no wealthy man wants to be confronted with the actual proof that tragedy could befall him, not even when buying insurance, which is why he sent for me. But in the month I’ve been married to Martin, I’ve not met one client, not answered one work-related telephone call—the thing never rings—nor have I taken in any mail related to Martin’s employer. I can’t even look for an envelope and guess who my husband works for.
Libby is waiting for my answer. “He . . . that is, it’s a new job and I’m not . . . I don’t . . .” My voice falls away.
Libby cocks her head in a gesture of concern. “Is everything quite all right, Mrs. Hocking?”
Here is a question with such a bizarre answer, I can’t help myself. “That might depend on how you look at it,” I say with a laugh, and then immediately wish I could snatch the words back.
My neighbor’s eyes widen in alarm. “Is your husband involved in some kind of illegal activity?” she whispers.
“No!” I gasp. “No. It’s not that. It’s . . .” Again, I let the words die on my tongue.
Libby regards me for a moment, and then she leans forward and lifts the cloth off the plate resting on the table between us. Lovely petits fours are arranged like little bud-topped houses. “I say we have something sweet and a cup of tea and a long chat. Shall we ring for it?”
Ring for it?
Libby looks behind her, as if expecting someone to enter the room. She swings back around to face me. “Does your maid have the day off today?”
My maid. This is why Libby looked so surprised when I answered the door. She expected my maid to do it. Never did I think I’d be getting a maid when I married Martin Hocking, and apparently he didn’t think so, either. He’s never spoken of it.
“We haven’t hired one,” I say, as delicately as I can.
Libby stands, hoists her son to one side, and grabs the plate. “It’s hard coming to a new place and not knowing anyone. I know people who know where to find a good maid. I can ask for you. Here. You and I can make the tea, can’t we?”
I want to tell her I make it all the time. I want to tell her I don’t think I want someone else keeping this house. Besides Kat, it’s the only thing I have that feels like it belongs to me.
“Of . . . of course. Right this way.” I lead her to the kitchen, where the kettle is already simmering. She smiles at me.
“Well, look there, thinking ahead like that. You’ve already got the water going!” Then Libby asks if Timmy can play with some pots, pans, and wooden spoons so that he won’t grow fussy. I ask Kat to find the makeshift playthings and she readily complies, sitting down on the floor with Timmy as he bangs away on a copper pot. Libby leans up against the pie safe and crosses her arms across her chest. I turn up the heat under the kettle.