A Farewell to Yarns

listening to the radio, and waiting for the bottle sterilizer to finish boiling. That had been such a happy, peaceful time for Jane. Life had been so simple then. And yet Fiona, at the same time, was enduring the heartbreak of losing her sexy, famous husband. It was hard to believe that anyone could have been unhappy at the same time Jane was so contented.
    Jane didn’t remember the words to the song, but she could still hum the whole thing, and she did so as she continued her tour of the room. There were platinum records for “Do I, Do I Ever,”
    “Some of These Nights,”
    “Everything I Am,“ and at least a dozen more. Jane stopped in front of “Loving Loving You,“ and came close to blushing. Steve had bought her that record the day they came back from their honeymoon.
    On a shelf that ran along the north wall there were ranks of other awards and framed pictures. Richie with Bob Hope in fatigues entertaining troops someplace. Richie with President Nixon. Richie with a frumpy middle-aged couple who must have been his parents. Richie with a couple astronauts and another of him in a silly mock embrace with Elizabeth Taylor. There were three shots of Richie receiving awards and four stills from the one movie he’d made. A big color poster advertising the movie hung in the center.
    At the end of the wall, almost lost in the shadows of the corner were two charming photos. One was a strip of four pictures taken in a drugstore booth. Richie and a very young, pretty Fiona. In the top shot, he was making a face, and she was looking at him with shy amusement. In the second, he was nuzzling her neck, and she was looking mortified. The third was a serious face-forward shot of both, and in the last they were kissing primly. How sad it must make her to see that now: Richie, his youth preserved by death, and Fiona growing steadily older. She already looked old enough to be the mother of the boy in that shot. Why did she keep that reminder of what she’d lost?
    The other photo at the end of the shelf was a shot of what must have been a high school band lined up on the school steps. Someone had circled a boy at the end wearing an oversized hat and holding a big drum. His face shadowed, you’d never recognize him, but that must have been Richie. Jane studied the picture, feeling she’d seen it before—the cheerleaders with their pompoms kneeling in the front, the band director standing at the side, the kids squinting into the sun, the boy on the back row holding two fingers up behind the head of a girl in front of him. Every high school band picture in the world must look just like that.
    Jane had lost all track of what she was supposed to be doing and was brought back to reality with a start when Phyllis’s voice broke in on her thoughts. “Jane, where are you? Have you seen that house? It’s darling. Just darling! I’m sure Bobby is going to love it.”
    Jane hurried out of the room, afraid Phyllis would find her there and gush over the Richie Divine memorabilia. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t want Phyllis to see that room, but she didn’t. She felt so sorry for Albert having to share his house with his extraordinary marital predecessor. Of course, Albert was presumably living on the spoils of his predecessor’s talent, so apparently it didn’t bother him.
    The rest of them, including Albert, had gathered in the sunny breakfast room. Whatever had irked him must have passed, because he was sitting at the table, looking utterly relaxed.
    “It has this sweet little porch off the main bedroom with a little railing. Wonderful for sunbathing,“ Phyllis gushed.
    “She nearly toppled off, admiring the view,“ Albert added.
    “Could I use your phone to call and make arrangements?“ Phyllis asked.
    “Certainly, but what kind of arrangements?“ Fiona asked, setting a tea kettle on the stove.
    “To buy it,“ Phyllis said. “Would you write down the address and the name and number of the man who’s selling it?“
    “Yes, of course. But don’t you think you’re acting just a little precipitously?“ Fiona asked. “I probably am,“ Phyllis agreed cheerfully, taking the business card Fiona had handed to her. She went to the phone.
    “Did Albert tell you about Mr. Finch?“ Fiona asked, apparently overcome with an urge to be fair.
    “He mentioned him, yes. But he just sounds like an unhappy old soul to me. I’m sure I’ll get along with him just fine.“ Without another word, she dialed and said,