THE PINK ROSES HOTEL WAS A WHITE COLONIAL BUILDING surrounded by rosebushes. At dusk, different shades of purple and cream bathed its walls, delighting the eyes with a gentle lavender-like appearance.
Through the Bed & Breakfast's suite window, a six-year-old girl was watching the sunset scene absorbed. The built-in seat, with its soft flowery cushions and pink wooly blanket, had become her favourite spot as soon as she'd entered the room. Her mother had brought all her dolls, her patchwork quilt, her story books, her coloring books, so that she wouldn't feel the change so much.
Kathy was there, next to the other bed, hanging Pat's clothes in the closet. She was glad to have something to do that distracted her from her older and most recent worries, despite the unsettling feeling that death seemed to be encircling her lately.
It was two days after her conversation with Dr. Cameron and Jesse's decision to talk directly to Angus Musgrove. Mr. Musgrove had not been too eloquent, but neither had he expressed his hostility. He sounded weary - of his sister's fits, Jesse interpreted - and half-convinced that their pursuit was senseless as well as useless. Nevertheless - Jesse again deduced - it was usually less laborious to play along with Frances than to contradict her. So Jesse had decided to go and visit Mrs. Martin and Geneva, and had asked Kathy not to make any drastic decision until he returned. He promised her that he would try to solve things nicely, and soon this mild conflict would be a vague and distant memory.
He'd left that morning, and four hours later, a call from reception informed Kathy, who was feeling too down-hearted to pick up her incipient routine at the Bed & Breakfast, that Pat wished to see her.
"Please, tell her to come up to my room."
"Are you all right? I got worried when you didn't show up this morning."
"Yes, I'm sorry. I should've called."
Kathy was trying to figure out an acceptable but not excessively detailed excuse when Pat explained the true reason of her visit, which was not merely concern for Kathy's well-being. Nevertheless, once she heard the woman's true motivation, the fact that she'd taken the time to inquire about her health was most appreciated.
Libby Williams had passed away a little more than two hours before. Her niece, Patricia Johnson, was concerned about two things, which had led her to where she was standing now: her child and Mrs. Williams' children.
Pat's cousins lived out of town. They were the first and only people she'd called after the local doctor had certified the old woman's death. They would be arriving soon and she wanted to be out of the house by then. Now that her aunt was dead, she no longer felt invited to stay there. She knew too well how severe changes, like a divorce or a demise, can affect otherwise cordial relations. And it might cross her cousins' mind that she could enforce her right to stay in that house as a reward for keeping their mother company. She would not, of course. It had been Libby's generosity and love that had led her to suggest that her sister move in with her when she became a widow. The same generosity and love that she'd showed when Pat had separated from her husband. She would miss her, almost as much as she missed her own mother, and she, by no means, wanted to be a cause of distress for Libby's children.