Mulch ado about nothing

now and then? With your background, you’ve probably peed in fifteen or twenty different countries in strangers’ houses.“
    “And I never liked to,“ Jane said with a laugh.
    As they drove up to Arnie’s house, Shelley noticed Geneva Jackson and her husband come out of Julie’s house with a suitcase. “Only one suitcase?“ she said. “I thought they were staying until Julie was out of the hospital.”
    Shelley waved and Geneva spoke to her husband, and he put the case in their car while Geneva came up the street briskly. “We’re on our way to the hospital to bring Julie home!“ she said with a huge smile. “The doctor thought it would be a couple days more, but she’s making such improvement, and with a brother-in-law who’s a neurologist staying with her, her physician is releasing her early.”
    Jane thought that was good news, but if she didn’t find a bathroom soon, she’d create a scene.

Twenty-two

    Jane said timidly, “Arnie, may I use your bath room? I just drank a huge cup of iced tea.“
    “I saw you doing that. You’re really making improvement moving around. The bathroom on the first floor doesn’t have a door right now. I have a carpenter replacing it tomorrow, but there’s another upstairs. Do you need help with the steps?”
    Even if she had, she would have lied. The idea of a man taking her clear to the bathroom door didn’t appeal to her. “No, I’ve practiced and I can make it by myself, thanks. “ She realized that even changing a door must be a wrench to Arnie. After all, his late wife must have touched that door thousands of times.
    She made it up without any trouble at all for the first time. Visiting the very feminine bathroom—pink towels, little shell-shaped soaps that were so dusty they must have been there since the day Darlene died, a sparkling clean tub, old but freshly washed and ironed frilly pink curtains—she realized the full extent of his obsession. Even an old-fashioned rouge tin was sitting on the sink counter.
    She glanced out the bathroom window. Everyone was assembled in Arnie’s backyard. Everyone but Dr. Eastman. As she exited the bathroom, she noticed the bedroom doors to each side were open and couldn’t resist just peeking, without going in them.
    The one to the right was lovely but a bit cluttered. There was a gardening book with a bookmark in it on one of the night tables. A sparkling green water carafe with the equally clean glass turned over the top. The carafe was sweating slightly. Did Arnie really refill it with ice water every day for Darlene?
    The bedspread was dark floral patterns with wide green stripes. Very neat, but very faded. The matching pillows were piled at the headboard. The one on what Jane assumed was Darlene’s side was still a deep green. Arnie’s was faded.
    Dear Lord, he still had her pillow exactly as she’d left it all those years ago!
    When Jane’s husband died so ignobly, one of the first things she did was get rid of the bedding and pillows and treat herself to something she liked. What a difference.
    She stepped carefully to the other side of the small hall and glanced in what probably was once the guest room, now an office with a computer and desks and bookshelves. She was tempted to go in and see what the titles were, but resisted the impulse. She didn’t want to be that snoopy.
    This room obviously had few reminders of the wife. It was probably the only part of the house that was really Arnie’s own turf. There were a couple of awards of some kind on a shelf, several blurred news clippings with pictures of firefighters in action on the bulletin board, and the same kind of paintings on the walls. A pile of paperwork with colored folders sticking out here and there was next to the computer. There was an old-fashioned brass stand ashtray by a butt-sprung leather chair with a reading light behind it. One cigar butt was in it. This was probably the only place Arnie smoked.
    It’s none of your business, she told herself fiercely as she headed back down the steps.
    At least she was cheered by the fact that one room was strictly Arnie’s and apparently well used. It seemed he actually had a few interests of his own. The computer, the memories of his life as a firefighter. Maybe he went out from time to time to visit old comrades or drop by the fire station itself and tell stories to the young men and women about the “good old times. “ Or cook some of their meals from his wife’s recipes.
    She glanced