by: Dr. Keith M. McDonald
11/1/2004

Wilma Rogers returned to the veranda, carrying the tea tray. “We need a cup, ladies, to recover from that exhausting round of bridge,” she said.

“I think Elsie and I deserve two of those lemon tarts for letting you win,” said Edith McCall. Elsie Burns, her partner in defeat, agreed wholeheartedly.

The cards were set aside and the elegant tray took center stage. Wilma loved to pour and did it with a flourish.

“We are so glad you could join us, Helen, dear,” said Wilma to the fourth lady, Helen Baxter. “Our little group has been playing on Thursdays for twenty-seven years. When Edna Shaw got sick, we thought we might have to break up.”

“Oh, my,” said Helen. “I shall never be able to fill Edna’s place, but I’m honored to be invited.”

“Poor Edna,” said Edith McCall. “It was painful to watch her decline.”

There were solemn nods. Edith had never spoken truer words. A fly droned over the lemon tarts. Wilma Rogers shooed it with a listless hand, as her other hand rescued one of the tarts. Out of sympathy, Elsie Burns did the same, and so did Edith McCall.

“Poor Edna; she’s barely seventy,” said Elsie Burns.

“And alone in the world,” said Wilma Rogers.

A further round of lemon tarts showed the general sadness.

“I think what’s saddest of all,” said Helen Baxter, “is that none of the doctors in Washington County have been able to find what’s wrong with her.”

“Or in Monroe County, either,” added Edith McCall.

“The specialist at Mayo Clinic was very apologetic. Edna said he felt terrible at not being more helpful,” said Wilma Rogers. “She says the whole thing has weighed heavily on her soul.”

“Speaking of souls, ladies,” said Helen, “What do you think of the new pastor?”

“Reverend Sandy MacMillan?” said Edith, brightening. “After meeting him, I know what the Victorians meant by ‘muscular Christianity’.”

“A vigorous young man,” agreed Elsie Burns. “I understand he climbs mountains.”

“And coaches football at Faith Academy,” added Wilma.

“And he puts such life and energy into his sermons,” Helen mused. “He’s a breath of fresh air in the community.”

This flurry of conversation exhausted the lemon tarts. Elsie Burns looked at her watch and so did Edith McCall. Helen Baxter patted her lips with her embroidered napkin and pushed back from the card table.

“You’re not leaving so soon, ladies?” asked Wilma Rogers.

“Oh, dear, Wilma,” said Elsie, “You would not believe the things I have to do around the house.”

Edith McCall had pressing business too, and so did Helen Baxter.

“My place next,” said Elsie, as she led the others to her car.

What with the comings and goings of cleaning ladies, and unavoidable hair appointments, it was a month before the foursome convened at the spacious home of Elsie Burns.

Elsie’s parlor had a floral theme. The divan and love seat were bedecked in a lily pattern, and the wallpaper was laced with clematis vines. A rose teapot steamed on the tray amid matching cups and a little mound of macaroons. Elsie poured and noted the admiring glances of her friends. Her grandmother Burns, an English woman, had taught her to pour, and her friends knew it. She filled Helen Baxter’s cup first.

“We are so glad you have come back, Helen,” she said. “I doubt that we will be seeing dear Edna able to play bridge again.”

The mound of macaroons shrunk, as the foursome digested the news in silence.

“She does look a smidgen better, though,” ventured Wilma Rogers. “I spoke to her after church. She finds Reverend MacMillan’s sermons invigorating. She has made an appointment to talk to him about her troubles.”

“Isn’t it nice that she’s reaching out?” said Edith McCall, to general agreement and a final round of macaroons.

“He is a fine specimen of a man, to be sure,” said Elsie Burns. “He has time for everyone.”

Watches were checked, gracious compliments exchanged, and a l