Dean spent the afternoon busying himself with the chores of Bird Song, partially out of guilt for having dumped the morning duties on Fred and in part to take his mind off the ever-present feeling he'd caused long term or, heaven forbid, permanent damage to his seven-month marriage. He cleaned the kitchen, dusted the entire downstairs and, as the weather remained mild, even washed the first floor windows, hoping when and if Cynthia saw them it would not be in the sun. In between, he telephoned Indiana a dozen more times. Dean even called the hospital-"No, Mrs. Dean was not there, thank you. I'll convey your message. Yes, her mother is much better and sleeping." In spite of all his cleaning, Bird Song didn't seem to have the same shine as it did when Cynthia was in residence. He considered flying to Indiana, but decided against it, at least for a day or two.

Gladys flitted back and forth, like a moth in a lamp shop, alternating with Dean for the hall phone, apparently conversing with an editor who was expressing interest in the lurid tales of Belfair of Draghow and her sexual mischief about the stars. There were whispered conversations about money-hers, Dean presumed-followed by excited talk of the man driving up from some obscure New Mexico town to meet her at Bird Song. The inn needed the business. Donald Ryland and Franny Mulligan were checking out this evening, as soon as he returned with Donnie, followed by the Quincy sisters scheduled departure in the morning. With only Gladys on board, that left eight rentable rooms, one wrapped in yellow tape, and a winter heating bill on the office desk.

Dean dumped some sort of casserole, frozen and packaged, into the oven without bothering to read what would emerge as their supper. While he fancied himself at least an experimental, if not good cook, in his present state of mind he found himself reverting to bachelor days of quick-is-best.

"Sort of like old times, ain't it?" Fred commented as he poked about the kitchen.

Dean thought back to the fifteen years the two of them had shared similar meals and chores, with each sure he was doing more work than the other. It had seemed a contented life at the time, but not so much so in retrospect. Dean didn't answer his stepfather.

"Don't mean old times are better than new times." Fred said as he turned to Dean. "I miss her, too." He waited for Dean to respond but when he didn't, he continued eating. "But I can't say I miss that Shipton lady none."

Dean wanted to shout, "I killed her, Fred. As sure as if I tied that cord around her neck and kicked out the chair." But he said nothing. Mrs. Lincoln mellowed into his lap, as out of character as a clown at a wake. She even commenced to purr, as if to say, "Get on with it, you jerk. So you screwed up. Like it's the first time? Deal 'em again. We're still in the game." He knew she was right, but even her feline comfort didn't seem to help.




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