the widow

The Surf Hotel lobby was a far cry from what it used to be under the old management. Kate vaguely recollected what the place looked like when Catherine bought it. Dark. Now it was bright and white, with vases of designer-designed flowers tastefully arranged. Hothouse flowers, out of season. The garden club would hardly approve. A discrete flat screen TV faced a chic furniture grouping. Art books were stacked on a coffee table. The rag rugs, jigsaw puzzles, checkerboards and pinochle scoreboards were nowhere to be found.

    Catherine was in her office, decorated in as tasteful and bland a style as Catherine herself. Beige and gold. The only color seemed to be in Catherine’s nose, which looked pink. There were crumpled Kleenexes on her otherwise pristine desk.

    “I saw Jerry,” said Kate. And then she wondered why.

    “He’s no help,” said Catherine. She stood up and took Kate’s hands.     “He doesn’t seem to get it. No idea how I feel. How you feel. He says he didn’t see you on the boat.”

    “I came yesterday and stayed with Bobby.” Everybody on the island probably knew that by now.

     Catherine made a slight moue of displeasure. “Your father didn’t care for him.”

     “I know, but I do. Anyway, I think I’ll stay here tonight if that’s okay.”

     “I saved your usual room.”

     “Yeah, next to Jerry’s!”

     “Do you want me to move you? Your brother’s across the hall.”

     “I can cope.”

    They discussed funeral arrangements.

     Catherine said she didn’t think she could give a speech.

     Kate said she would. She actually felt in charity with Catherine for maybe the first time ever. Except for the minister thing. Kate was only half Jewish, but her father had been a confirmed Jew. Well, a Bar Mitzvah-ed Jew.

     Catherine gave her a key to the room, and Kate went down to get Bobby’s bike, ride back to the shack and get her stuff.

    What the police hadn’t taken.