It's useless and only here for show
8th August, 1890 — Hawthorne Hollow, Irvingly
@"Caroline Delaney"
Picnics were supposed to be simple.
Evander could hardly recall how he had suggested it, or why. Spending time with her at events was easy enough by now, but calling on her at home had not gotten less awkward in the few times he had done it: he felt as though he were under a microscope for every second of it. So, he had suggested a few activities, rather vaguely, and of them all she seemed keenest about a picnic.
So far, so good. Evander had not been parsimonious about the planning; he had checked the weather reports daily, had enlisted the cook to prepare a particular picnic menu that he had found in one of her books on household management, had checked this morning that everything had been packed properly in the picnic basket. Had found a perfect spot.
When they had reached that meadow spot early in the afternoon, a short walk out from Irvingly with Caroline and her recently married sister-in-law, Evander had remembered this plan’s one fatal flaw: he had never liked the outdoors, let alone picnics.
But thus far Caroline seemed to be perfectly happy, although the sandwiches had gotten squished on the journey, he was very aware of the little trails of ants that kept skirting, boldly, onto the edges of the blanket, and he kept losing track of the conversation in his efforts to discourage a pair of wasps from jam-on-scones or the lemonade. (Why had he never predicted a need for an insect-repelling charm?!)
“Mmm,” he agreed, as he swatted at the wasp with the back of his hand again, his concentration slipping once more. It was only when he focused back on Caroline that he had no idea what he had just agreed to or with. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
Evander could hardly recall how he had suggested it, or why. Spending time with her at events was easy enough by now, but calling on her at home had not gotten less awkward in the few times he had done it: he felt as though he were under a microscope for every second of it. So, he had suggested a few activities, rather vaguely, and of them all she seemed keenest about a picnic.
So far, so good. Evander had not been parsimonious about the planning; he had checked the weather reports daily, had enlisted the cook to prepare a particular picnic menu that he had found in one of her books on household management, had checked this morning that everything had been packed properly in the picnic basket. Had found a perfect spot.
When they had reached that meadow spot early in the afternoon, a short walk out from Irvingly with Caroline and her recently married sister-in-law, Evander had remembered this plan’s one fatal flaw: he had never liked the outdoors, let alone picnics.
But thus far Caroline seemed to be perfectly happy, although the sandwiches had gotten squished on the journey, he was very aware of the little trails of ants that kept skirting, boldly, onto the edges of the blanket, and he kept losing track of the conversation in his efforts to discourage a pair of wasps from jam-on-scones or the lemonade. (Why had he never predicted a need for an insect-repelling charm?!)
“Mmm,” he agreed, as he swatted at the wasp with the back of his hand again, his concentration slipping once more. It was only when he focused back on Caroline that he had no idea what he had just agreed to or with. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
