"Perhaps we should leave now," she said quickly. "You know how teenagers are about their privacy."
"You're right," Mrs. Baynes said, closing the door. It wouldn't quite shut, so she left it slightly ajar.
They descended the carpeted stairs in uneasy silence.
"More tea?" Mrs. Baynes asked when they were back in the homey living room.
Norma Quinlan hesitated. Their little chat had taken a nasty turn. She felt positively queasy. Gossip was one thing, but this could give a person nightmares.
As Norma debated her answer, the back door banged.
Norma started. Fearfully, her eyes went to the kitchen.
"Is that you, Kimmo?" Mrs. Baynes asked calmly, as if speaking to a normal child, not a strangler of innocent pets.
"Yeah," said a frowning girlish voice.
Norma stood up. "Perhaps I should be going now," she said nervously.
In from the kitchen came Kimberly Baynes. She wore a flowing yellow dashiki that almost matched her fluffy hair. It hung from her small but womanly body like a tarpaulin on a Christmas tree. She stopped when she saw Norma. Her bright blue eyes flashed with veiled danger. That anger went away quickly and in a thin voice she said, "Hi."
"Hello, Kimberly," Norma said, mustering a sweetness that had fled her voice years ago. "Nice to see you again."
"Same thing," said Kimberly casually. "Gramma, any calls for me?"
"No, dear."
The tentlike dress fluttered disquietingly. "Darn."
"What is it?"
"Robby Simpson's cat had kittens and he promised me one," Kimberly explained. "Remember when we used to have kittens?"
"Distinctly," said Mrs. Baynes, her eyes going to Norma. Norma looked as comfortable as an Israeli in Mecca.
"I have to go now," she said quickly.
"I'll see you to the door," Mrs. Baynes said.
Norma beat Mrs. Baynes to the front door by eight seconds. She flung it open herself. Stumbling out onto the walk, she stuttered breathlessly, "Very nice talking to you, Mrs. Baynes."
"We must do it again," Mrs. Baynes called after her. "Soon. There are so many things I haven't told you."
"Oh, please . . ." Norma Quinlan muttered under her breath as she stumbled across their adjoining lawn to the sanctuary of her own home.
Norma Quinlan hurried inside. She tore right past the telephone and pulled a dusty cookbook off the pantry shelf. She was going to make Fred his favorite dish tonight-Lava Chicken. She hadn't made it for him in years. Not after she put a stop to his little fling with that cheap Calloway hussy. But tonight she would serve him Lava Chicken.
Now that she understood precisely what lived next door, she appreciated him in a new way.
Mrs. Allison Baynes was clearing the living room when Kimberly came storming down the carpeted stairs, her yellow dress fluttering excitedly in symphathy with her agitated arms.
"You've been in my room! How could you?"
"I know you like your privacy, Kimmo," Mrs. Baynes said, unperturbed. "But this is my home too."
"Don't call me Kimmo, you old bag!" Kimberly said with such elemental vehemence that Mrs. Baynes allowed the sterling-silver tea service to slip from her startled fingers. It clattered to the Oriental rug.
"Oh, look what you made me do," she said without rancor.
"And you let that gossip in, too!"
"Mrs. Quinlan is a very nice woman. Could you help me?"
"Why? Why did you let her into my room?"
"Nonsense, Kimberly," Mrs. Baynes said, her voice growing chilly. "What makes you think I would do such a thing?"
"She told me."
"She?"
"And She insists on her privacy."
"I hope you're not referring to that hideous statue. I thought you'd have outgrown it by now."
Kimberly's eyes grew hard and reflective. "Maybe it's the other way around."
"If you won't help me," said Mrs. Baynes, getting down on her hands and knees with difficulty, "then at least take these things into the kitchen as I hand them up to you. I'm not young anymore."
"Maybe She's outgrown this house," Kimberly said, advancing slowly. "Maybe I have too."
"Nonsense. You're only thirteen. Would you take this service into the kitchen for me, please?"
"Sure," Kimberly said lightly. "Glad to."
Ignoring the offered service, Kimberly stepped around her kneeling grandmother.
"What are you doing, Kimberly?" Mrs. Baynes asked.
There was no answer. Only sudden strong hands on her shoulders. Their grip was quite firm.
"Kimmo, what are you doing?" Mrs. Baynes repeated.
"Hold still, Gramma," Kimberly said, pushing down hard.
Alarmed, Mrs. Baynes tried to rise. But the strong hands only pushed harder. They were irresistible.