A Quiche Before Dying

cushions. It was definitely a woman’s house. Jane wondered if it had been like this when Ruth’s husband was living or whether Ruth and Naomi had gradually made it over to suit their tastes.
    Naomi came in the room as Jane was studying a china shepherdess on the mantel. “Oh, Jane. I didn’t hear you come in. Ruth should have told me. Is she showing off the garden?“
    “Yes, to my mother. Is that your cookbook collection?“ Jane asked, gesturing toward a bookshelf of old books next to the fireplace.
    “Why, yes. I’ve made scones for our tea from one of them. Would you like to see some of my favorites?”
    Some of the books weren’t even really books anymore, just sets of loose pages with ribbons and strings keeping them together. Others were so formidably bound that Jane found herself wondering about the strength of the women who’d first acquired them. Most were published works, but some of the oldest were handmade to pass from mother to daughter, often with drawings and sketches to illustrate methods of preparing and cooking. Naomi not only collected the books, she tried most of the recipes to the best of her ability—given directions like “churn until curdled“ and “take a two-month-old piglet . .“ She promised to copy down some of the best recipes for Jane.
    “My very favorite is a recipe for relish from a Victorian-era book. The author says to season until `it’s as sharp as a mother-in-law’s tongue, and use in very small portions,’ “ Naomi said with a laugh. Jane liked the way Naomi handled the fragile old books—with care, but not fanatic care. In her hands, they weren’t just objects of historical merit, but old friends.
    “Oh, you’ve shown off your books without Cecily here,“ Ruth chided, coming back into the room with Jane’s mother in tow. “Now you’ll have to do it again. Ladies, do sit down while I get the tea.”
    Naomi ran through a few of the high points and had just retold the relish story when Ruth backed through the kitchen door, balancing a huge silver tray. Naomi tried to help her, but Ruth said the tray was far too heavy for her. She set it down on a low coffee table.
    Jane’s eyes nearly bulged at the sight of the food on the tray. There was a plate of tiny sandwiches cut in fancy shapes with a cookie cutter and sprinkled with a dusting of parsley, another piled high with scones, a bowl of what she later learned was sweet clotted cream. The tea steaming in a small silver tea urn was strong Earl Grey. It was accompanied by tiny bowls of colored sugar. To finish, there were fragrant puff pastries with crushed nuts in a gooey candied syrup over the tops. And tucked among all the dishes were sprigs of rosemary and several tiny glass vials with delicate brilliant yellow flowers and fragile, pungent foliage. “Dahlberg daisies,“ Ruth explained. “They grow like weeds, and most people don’t even know about them.”
    Jane could hardly speak. The look, the smell—heaven! While they ate, Ruth and Naomi frankly bragged on each other, Ruth complimenting Naomi’s cooking, and Naomi boasting about Ruth’s gardening, particularly an iris that Ruth had developed and named for her late husband. When Ruth referred to Naomi as her “little sister,“ Jane was surprised. Naomi, frail and ill, looked a good ten years older than the robust, tanned Ruth.
    “Missy told me the two of you are planning to write a joint autobiography,“ Jane said when she finally reached the point that she could stop gobbling and talk. She felt as if she could just tuck in her arms and legs and roll home. “Why didn’t you turn it in to the class?“
    “Each of us has written a large portion of our own, but the problem is in how to join the two,“ Ruth said. “That’s why we were so anxious to take Missy’s class. Alternating chapters seems obvious, but I think would be confusing unless one of them is cast in the third person. And of course, there’s very little logical overlap. We didn’t find each other until so recently.“
    “Yet you seem like you’ve been together forever,“ Cecily said, daintily sucking a little syrup off her fingertip. “How did you get separated, if you don’t mind my asking?“
    “No, not at all. It was a long time ago. Our parents both died during the war—World War Two, which seems a thousand years ago now. I was only six, and Naomi was a baby,“ Ruth explained, giving her sister a quick smile. Naomi returned the smile, but shakily. Jane was