What's for Dinner? James Schuyler (best inspirational books TXT) 📖

group therapy. Very instructive. Also, rather bizarre.”

“I wouldn’t dream of breaking in on your date with your beau, Maureen. I know how rarely you two must get a chance to spend an evening out together. Besides, I’m done in my Lathem’s. I just want a supper on a tray and watch a little TV, if I can keep my eyes open.”

“Oh, were you at Lathem’s too?” Maureen said, sipping the margarita she had ordered.

“I tried on more tacky hats than I would care to count,” Mag said. “After a while I began to think it wasn’t the hats, it was me. In the end I didn’t buy a thing, though there is a suit I may go back and try on again. I’m not sure I need it, but a suit always comes in hands. Navy, piped with white.”

“Sounds smart,” Maureen said, “just your style.”

“Perhaps we could come in together one day, and you could tell me what you really think.”

“That might be nice,” Maureen said.

“Ladies and gentleman,” Norris said, “as the walrus said, the time has come. I can hear my desk calling like a demon lover. Mag, thanks for your company, and I’ll expect you tomorrow at three sharp, bearing the documents in the case.” Norris put some money on the table, made his farewells, and left.

“If I’m going to beat the traffic,” Mag said, “I’d best be on my way. I hate getting caught in a jam.”

“Sure you won’t change your mind and join us?” Bryan said.

“Yes,” Maureen said, “please do. I’ve forgotten the name of the movie we’re going to see, but it’s said to be very fine. One of the more serious kind of westerns.”

“It’s dear of you to insist,” Mag said, “but no, I won’t, I really won’t. Actually this matter of my will has made me rather blue, it brings back memories, and all I want is to crawl into my hidey-hole and hope that it will soon be tomorrow.”

“You’ll feel better then,” Maureen said. “I’m sure of that. You’re a resilient person. I always admire you for it, and Biddy often remarks on it.”

“Dear Biddy: remember me to her.” And with that, Mag too made her farewells.

When Mag had re-entered the sunlit street, Maureen said, “Well!”

“What do you mean, ‘Well’?” Bryan asked.

“I mean what do you suppose that was all about? If I know one thing about Mag Carpenter, she changed that will the day after she buried Bartram. Those little feminine ways thinly cloak one of the most practical little women I’ve ever come up against.”

“You’re nuts,” Bryan said. “I mean, if you’re implying there’s any carrying on between Mag and Norris. Demon lover indeed. Just the fact that they’d be in a place like this together, at this time of day, proves it. If they had a guilty secret, they’d take more care to keep it hidden. No, I’m not buying.”

“It still seems funny to me. Lottie told me about a peculiar visit Mag paid her at the hospital—wasn’t herself at all, and more or less fled as soon as she arrived.”

“Hospitals make some people nervous. They do me. In fact, I’m glad you haven’t asked me to go with you and visit her. Hospitals don’t scare me, I just don’t like them.”

“That’s because you’re so naturally healthy, Bryan. I can tell you one thing: Mag Carpenter is interested in Norris, and she’d better watch her step. Nobody can pull any wool over Mary Charlotte Taylor’s eyes.”

2

“It’s beyond me,” Mrs Judson said.

Lottie put down her paint brush. “It’s not beyond you,” she said. “I’ll lend a hand and start you out.”

“Oh,” said Miss Pride, who was more or less in charge of creative therapy, “I’m sure Mrs Judson can work it out. Why don’t we give her a chance to try it on her own.”

“She has,” Lottie said. “I don’t think a little intra-patient co-operation will do any harm; in fact, I believe it’s encouraged around here.”

Miss Pride, who was young and easily cowed, went off to help an advanced senility case with the finger paints.

“It’s beyond me,” Mrs Judson repeated. Before her lay the makings of a moccasin: stamped out pieces of leather, some thongs, a large blunt wooden needle and a small dish of colored beads.

“You can do it,” Mrs Brice said. “Once you’re started you’ll see how easily it goes.” Mrs Brice was well into her third, or possibly fourth, pair, and was thinking of switching to knotted belts.

Lottie did a little technical explaining, and soon had Mrs Judson hesitantly threading a thong through a hole.

“I love your painting,” Mrs Brice said. “That’s what I wish I could do. I can’t even draw a straight line.”

Lottie laughed. “If it depended on drawing straight lines I’d soon have to give up. They say the famous Italian painter Giotto proved his genius by picking up a brush and painting a perfect circle. Now that’s something I could never do in a million years. It’s more a matter of putting down the colors in different areas, so they approximate the mental picture you have in mind.”

“What is the scene you’re depicting?” Mrs Brice asked.

“It’s a little place on Cape Cod where Norris and I sometimes go for his vacation. These are the dunes, and the sea of course, and the green bushes with pink flowers represent the wild rosa rugosas which flourish there. And this gray blob which is giving me such a hard time is the porch of the cottage where we stay. I’m sorely tempted to turn it into more dunes and roses.”

“Oh don’t,” Mrs Brice said. “I can easily see it’s a cottage—quite a cute one. It reminds me of our camp down at the lake. I wouldn’t go there last summer—Thad had such fun, growing up on his vacations there. He had his own canoe. Now I may feel differently. The sunsets over the lake—our view is to the west—are lovely.”

“I can imagine,” Lottie said.

“Oh dear,” Mrs Judson said, but this time Miss Pride beat