The Year of Pleasures Read Free Page B

widely spaced, dark blue eyes and a generous mouth, deep dimples. “I’m Delores,” she said, and pressed her hand flat against her chest. “Whew!” She was apparently out of breath from her short walk from the car.
    “Betta Nolan.” I held out my hand to shake hers. Her grip was surprisingly strong, nearly painful. “Glad to meet you,” I said, and had to work hard not to massage my hand.
    “How do you like the place?” she said. “Isn’t this garden something? I mean, you can just imagine what happens in the summer. Did you see the Miss Kim lilac bushes in the front? Right up next to the front porch?”
    “I saw bushes,” I said. “I didn’t know what they were.”
    “Well, they’re Miss Kim lilacs, and you know they’re the ones with the
most
potent scent, knock you right on your keester. I have them myself, just love them. I believe she’s got mountain laurel somewhere back here, too; I’m not real sure where.” Delores moved over to some bare bushes, frowned at them through the lower part of her bifocals. “This might be it, I don’t know. But let’s go inside, there’s some pictures of the yard in there.”
    I started toward the back door, and Delores said, “Oh, no, let’s go in the front. I like to do it that way.”
    I followed her around to the front and then up the steps. She was puffing hard by the time she reached the door and began digging in her purse for the keys. “Do you smoke?” she asked, turning around and sizing me up as though she might find the answer by looking.
    “No,” I said.
    “ ’Jever?”
    “Nope.”
    “Well, you’re smart. I finally quit. I’ve got the lung capacity of a flea on account of those things.” She unlocked the door, then pushed it open. “Go ahead,” she said.
    I stepped into the front hall. There was a musty smell, but it wasn’t bad. It reminded me of the old library I’d gone to as a child, so the association for me was one of pleasant anticipation. There were art-glass windows in the entryway that I’d not noticed before. They were lovely, but much simpler in style than the one by the staircase.
    “Let me give you the tour,” Delores said, stepping around me.
    I followed her through a formal dining room, complete with shoulder-high wainscoting. The kitchen had not been updated; the stove and refrigerator were old, and I saw no dishwasher. But why would I need one, for myself alone? The truth was, I had always enjoyed the meditative quality of washing dishes, the scent of soap and the squeak of the sponge, the goings-on outside the kitchen window. Anyway, there was a fine farmer’s sink and a generous-sized pantry, both back in vogue.
    Upstairs were four relatively small bedrooms with fading cabbage-rose wallpaper—again, old enough to be new. There was a very large bathroom with vintage tiles and a claw-foot tub. In my mind, I was already placing my things. Here would be a library, there an office, there my bedroom, and there a combination guest-and-television room.
    “Did you want to see the basement?” Delores asked as I stood before the bathtub, imagining myself shoulder-deep in bubbles.
    I knew what this question meant. Only serious buyers went into the basement. I wondered what I’d look for. John was the one who knew about electrical systems, heating systems. For one long, wavering moment, I thought,
What am I doing? I can’t do this! I need a condominium with water views and a grocery store on-site and a balcony with a container garden and a man wearing a tool belt who’s only a phone call away. I need neighbors on the other side of a wall so that I won’t feel so alone.
But that fantasy, though it felt safer, also felt lifeless. And so I said yes, I would like to see the basement.
    We started down the stairs, Delores ahead of me and gripping the handrail tightly. At the bottom, she turned, smiling, to ask, “How many’s in your family?”
    “It’s . . . just me.” I felt terrible, suddenly. Greedy and