wonderful surprise it would be for the twins if I created a picture book for each of them, and put the books in their Christmas stockings.
I groaned inside; how ridiculous to be thinking of Christmas on this suffocatingly hot summerâs day. But the summer will soon be drawing to an end; it always does disappear very quickly after July Fourth weekend. Then Thanksgiving will be upon us before I can blink, with Christmas not far behind.
This year we are planning to spend Christmas in England. We will be staying with Diana at her house in West Tanfield in the Yorkshire dales. Andrew and I are reallylooking forward to it, and the children are excited. They are hoping it will snow so that they can go sledding with their father. Heâs promised to take them on the runs he favored when he was a child; and he is planning to teach them to skate, providing Dianaâs pond has frozen solid.
I was ruminating on our winter vacation ten minutes later when Nora poked her head around the sunroom door. âItâs Sarah on the phone,â she called.
âThanks,â I called back, but she had already disappeared.
I slid off the wall and went inside. Flopping down on a chair, I picked up the phone, which sat on a nearby end table. âHi, Sarah. When are you coming out here?â
âI donât think I will be coming,â she replied.
I thought she sounded woeful, a little glum for her; she was normally so cheerful.
âWhatâs wrong?â I asked, gripping the phone a bit tighter, instinctively aware that all was not right.
We had been best friends all of our lives, ever since we were babies in prams being walked on Park Avenue by our mothers, who were also friends. We had attended the same kindergarten and then Miss Hewittâs. Later on we had gone off to Radcliffe together, and we have always been extremely close, inseparable. I know Sarah Elizabeth Thomas as well as I know myself, and so I understood that she was upset about something.
Since she had remained totally silent, I asked again, more insistently, âWhatâs the matter?â
âItâs Tommy. We had a foul row last night, the worst weâve ever had, and heâs just informed me, by phone no less, that itâs over between us. Finished, terminated, kaput. He doesnât want to see me . . . ever again. And he says heâs going to L.A. this afternoon. To be succinct, Mal, Iâve been dumped. Dumped! Me! Can you imagine that! Itâs never happened to me before.â
âI know. Youâve always done the dumping. And Iâm sorry youâre upset. I realize you cared about Tommy. On the other hand, Iâve always feltââ
âYou donât have to say it,â she cut in softly. âI know you never liked him. You were always a bit wary of him. I guess you were right. As usual. How come you know men better than I do? Donât bother to answer that. Listen, recognizing that Tommyâs a bit of a louse doesnât make it any easier for me. I sort ofâliked him.â
Her voice had grown tiny, and I knew she was on the verge of tears.
âDonât cry, itâll be all right, Sash,â I soothed, using the nickname I had given her when we were children. âAdmittedly itâs cold comfort, but it is better this way. Honestly. Tommy Preston the third isnât worth weeping over. The break was bound to happen sooner or later. And preferably now than later. Think how awful it would be if you married him and then this kind of thing happenedââ
âHe did ask me,â Sarah interrupted. âHalf a dozen times, to be exact.â
There was a sniffling sound, and then I heard her blowing her nose.
âI know he proposed. Youâve told me about itânumerous times, actually,â I muttered. âAnd Iâm glad you were cautious and didnât plunge. But why arenât you coming for the weekend? I donât