A Farewell to Yarns

know her, and they mentioned once that she lived in the same suburb as you do. You can’t have many neighbors named Fiona. Such a pretty name.“
    “Then you must know who she is—“
    “Richie Divine’s widow. Yes. That was so terrible the way the newspapers and magazines were so mean to her when she got married again. I’d like to meet her, and I really want to help with your bazaar.“ As she spoke, she was putting the leftover food in the refrigerator.
    Jane suddenly felt a great wave of guilt for not liking her better. Silly as Phyllis might be, she was also very sweet and down-to-earth. There was something innately good about a woman who probably hadn’t so much as lifted a dirty dish in fifteen years, but who pitched right in, clearing the table without a second’s hesitation. There were good reasons Chet Wagner had stuck with her for so long. If only Phyllis could see the one excellent reason he got fed up.
    Jane was quiet all the way to Fiona’s house, mentally chastising herself. Wasn’t part of the reason she got irritated with Phyllis a matter of simple jealousy? She’d mentally accused John Wagner of being jealous over money, but maybe she was, too. After all, Phyllis was an extraordinarily wealthy woman. Jane, who wasn’t exactly poor, still had to carefully monitor every penny.
    Steve’s life insurance and his share of the family-owned drugstores had left her with enough money to comfortably afford the necessities and a precious few of the less expensive luxuries. But while Phyllis was ordering up a Jag for Bobby to drive around without even needing to ask what it cost, Jane was driving a four-year-old station wagon and would have to drive it to death—either its or hers.
    Was it Phyllis’s money that was getting under Jane’s skin? Jane thought not. Lots of people had more money than Jane did. Almost everyone she knew, in fact, either had more or lived as though they did. And she’d never been particularly aware of resentment before. Fiona Howard, for instance, was certainly in a financial class with Phyllis. She must have been her husband’s heir, and Richie Divine records were still played on the radio all the time. Just last summer Jane had bought a tape of his old stuff. They hadn’t had children, so all the royalties must be going to Fiona. And yet, Jane had never felt jealous of Fiona, only mildly curious about how she lived.
    For that matter, the Nowacks were absolutely loaded, but she never felt jealous of Shelley. Shelley’s husband had started and owned a nationwide Greek fast-food franchise that was nearly as common nationally as any of the hamburger or pizza places. But Shelley still bought her sneakers at K Mart and saved grocery store coupons and was always complaining about telephone bills. Of course, if Shelley had been renting a car, as Phyllis did a short time ago, Shelley would have found out the price of everything on the lot and would have demanded a discount if the tires had more than a thousand miles on them.
    No, it wasn’t a matter of money or lack of it. It was a basic difference in mentality or outlook or something that made Phyllis rub Jane the wrong way. No point in analyzing it, Jane told herself as she steered the old station wagon into the Howards’ hedge-lined drive. Phyllis and her hideous son would be out of her life pretty soon, and she wouldn’t need to worry about it. In a day or two, she’d just have to tell Phyllis in the nicest way possible that they were going to have to move into a hotel. And if she couldn’t find a nice way—well, she’d worry about that later.
    Fiona met them in the driveway. “Jane, I’ve been calling, but I missed you. I’m so sorry I put you to this trouble. Just after we hung up, the exterminators called and said their truck broke down, and they won’t be here until tomorrow. I’ve dragged you out for nothing.“
    “It’s fine. It still has to be done by tomorrow, and we might as well do it now. Fiona, this is my friend Phyllis Wagner, who’s visiting me—for a few days,“ she added. “Phyllis, Fiona Howard.”
    The two women greeted each other, subtly summing each other up as women do. A flickering glance to assess hair, clothes, manners then—recognizing they were nominally equals—the warmth of tentative acceptance passed between them. “Fiona, you and Phyllis have some friends in common.“
    “Oh? Who is that?”
    Phyllis looked confused. “I’m not sure. I mean, I told Jane I knew about