“Delphine! Don’t be ridiculous. I feel like I’m stealing from you.” Maggie held out the sleeves of the sweater and sighed. “It’s so lovely. . . . Well, all right. I have cash.”
Jemima’s eyes widened as Maggie removed several fresh bills from her slim red leather wallet. The wallet, Jemima noted, was monogrammed. Without meeting Maggie’s eye, Delphine stuffed the bills into her back pocket and proceeded to wrap the sweater in white tissue paper. Then she put the sweater into a plain brown shopping bag.
“You should have your logo on the bags,” Maggie said. “It’s an easy way to advertise.”
“I’ll show you the bedroom,” Delphine said in response.
Maggie decided not to ask about a receipt. She suspected that Delphine probably didn’t keep accurate accounts of her sales. She followed the other women down the short hallway to the back of the house. The bedroom, Maggie thought, had the comfortable look of a refuge, unlike her bedroom back home, which, thanks to the decorator she had hired, perhaps wrongly, looked more like an impersonal hotel suite than someone’s personal sanctuary.
Maggie walked over to the old dresser and picked up the framed school portrait of a little girl. “Is this Kitty?” she asked.
“Yeah. That picture was taken last September, at the start of the school year.”
Maggie looked from the photograph to Delphine. “She could be your daughter,” she said. “The resemblance is so strong. It’s like looking at you when you were a little girl.”
Delphine smiled. “That’s what everyone says.”
“Has her appetite gotten any better?” Jemima asked, her voice low, as if to exclude Maggie from hearing.
“Not really,” Delphine replied. “Maybe it’s just the heat. Some people lose their appetite in the heat.”
Maggie refrained from making a comment and replaced the photograph on the dresser. The women moved on to the bathroom. “A claw-footed tub,” Maggie noted. “I’d love to have one, but our master bedroom and bath are contemporary. It just wouldn’t work with our décor.” Our impersonal décor.
Under her breath, but loud enough for Delphine to hear, Jemima muttered, “A tub is a tub.”
“And that’s the upstairs,” Delphine said, leading the way back down to the first floor. “The house is small, I suppose, but it’s big enough for me.” And for Harry when he spends the night, she added silently. Harry had a drawer in the bedroom’s dresser for a change of underwear and clothing, but there was no need for that to have been on the tour.
“So, Maggie,” Jemima said when the women were back in the living room. “Is your husband here in Ogunquit with you?”
Delphine eyed her questioningly. She had told Jemima that Maggie was in town alone.
“No,” Maggie said, “Gregory’s in Chicago, on business. He’s a partner in a law firm.”
“My husband is an engineer. He’s been put on part-time,” Jemima added almost defiantly. “This economy is hard on a lot of people. Lots of us can’t afford to be taking vacations.”
“Yes,” Maggie said. For Delphine’s sake she would refrain from giving this Jemima person a tongue-lashing, or a smack across her face. “I know.”
“Jim also forages for exotic mushrooms and fiddleheads,” Delphine said, though what that bit of information could possibly add to the conversation she didn’t know.
Maggie seemed puzzled. “He’s a forager? But where does an engineer learn to forage? And isn’t it dangerous, out there in the woods, with all the wild animals and poisonous plants? Who buys the mushrooms and fiddleheads?”
“Plenty of people,” Jemima replied. “A lot of the local chefs. He does just fine.”
“And what do you do?” Maggie asked.
“What do I do?”
“Yes, what do you do?” Maggie repeated. “I mean, for a living. What do you do for a career?”
Delphine winced. It wasn’t the kind of question people around town asked each other. Maybe that was because everyone pretty much knew what everyone else did. Maybe that was because the question seemed somehow irrelevant, when better questions might be: “How are you doing?” and “Are you and your family well?”
Jemima, however, answered proudly. “I’m a mother of three children,” she said. “And I work part-time as a waitress at Clay Hill. That’s one of our best restaurants.”
Maggie laughed a little. “Oh, I haven’t waited tables since college! I couldn’t do it now; I wouldn’t last a night. I don’t think I’d have the patience to deal with fussy customers. Waiting tables is really a young person’s job.”
Delphine tensed. Jemima smiled tightly. “Then it’s lucky,” she said, “that you don’t have to do it.”
Maggie blushed. She had spoken unthinkingly. “I’m so sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“How about some coffee?” Delphine suggested, and made for the kitchen. “And we should get to those muffins before they’re entirely cold.”
Jemima and Maggie followed Delphine into the kitchen.
Maggie was shocked by the tiny size of the room. Her kitchen at home was at least four times the size of Delphine’s. Not that it got much use, especially since the girls had gone off to college. The breakfast nook might as well not even be there. The grill was spotless with disuse. Mostly, on nights when they were home together, Maggie and Gregory ate dinner—something from a local gourmet take-out place—while sitting at the marble-topped kitchen bar, using their iPhones to text their colleagues.
The sink in Delphine’s kitchen was narrow and deep. Maggie guessed it dated from the 1940s. The stovetop had only two burners, one quite small and the other not much larger. A quick glance around revealed a lack of dishwasher. An old-fashioned two-slice pop-up toaster sat on a small counter next to the sink. The front of the fridge, which had to be circa 1975, was covered with a child’s artwork. Kitty’s, Maggie guessed.
“I guess you don’t cook much,” she said to Delphine.
“Oh, I cook every night. Why?”
“Oh.” Maggie shook her head. “Nothing.”
Jemima took her plate of homemade corn muffins from the counter by the sink and placed it on the square kitchen table, a piece that seemed to dwarf the room. Delphine brought a fresh pot of coffee to the table and they sat. Maggie accepted a cup and that answered Delphine’s question about Maggie’s changed habits. She then took a muffin, sliced it in half, and ate half of one half, without butter or jam. In rapid succession, Jemima ate three muffins, with both butter and jam, almost, it seemed to Delphine, in defiance of Maggie’s self-regulation. Delphine helped herself to one muffin and tried not to smile.
“You don’t like corn muffins?” Jemima asked, a slight note of challenge in her tone, when Maggie had delicately slid her plate away.
“Oh, it’s not that,” she said. “They’re delicious. It’s just that I try not to eat too many carbs.”
Jemima raised her eyebrows just a little bit and took another sip of her coffee. Delphine said, “My mother made this blueberry jam,” and then realized that it was loaded with sugar, hence Maggie’s rejection of it. Fat, too, she thought, glancing at the butter, must be on the list of restricted foods. Delphine pulled the hem of her T-shirt down in an unconscious attempt to hide a tummy that thoroughly enjoyed carbs and fat.
Jemima left soon after, taking the library books with her and wishing Maggie a safe trip back to Boston. So, Maggie thought, this woman has no plans to spend any more time with me. That was fine with her.
“I should be going now, too,” Maggie said, when Jemima had driven off. “I’m sure you have a lot to do.”
Delphine did have a lot to do and she did want Maggie to go, but at the same time she felt responsible for the tensions of the morning. Well, she knew she hadn’t been at fault, but she had brought the two women together. Good manners dictated that she couldn’t let Maggie go without a gesture of courtesy. Jemima was a tough cookie. She could take care of herself. Maggie, if memory served, and who knew if it did, was
a more sensitive person.
“The pictures of your house,” she said. “You said you were going to show them to me.”
“Oh. Right.” Maggie hesitated. The last thing she wanted to do right now was show Delphine photographs that would further emphasize the vast divide between their lives. Four bathrooms, three bedrooms, a den, a living room, a dining room, and a state-of-the-art kitchen as opposed to the cramped, if charming, quarters of a small old farmhouse. Maybe if Jemima hadn’t poisoned the atmosphere with her bad attitude and made Maggie feel like a clumsy, critical interloper she could share the pictures without worry for Delphine’s feelings.
“So,” Delphine asked, “can I see them?”
Maggie shrugged. “Well, the thing is I thought the pictures were still on my iPhone, but I checked last night and it turns out I must have deleted them.”
“Oh, okay,” Delphine said. She had made an effort, and now she really did need to get back to the farm. “I’ll walk out with you,” she said, reaching for her keys, which sat on a small table by the door. She would deal later with the flowers Maggie had brought. With a farewell to Melchior, she pulled the door shut behind her.
9
Delphine sighed as she navigated the holiday traffic in the heart of town. She wasn’t looking forward to an excursion with Maggie, but it was too late to cancel now. It was all because she still felt a bit guilty about Jemima’s behavior toward Maggie the previous morning. She hadn’t expected the two women to become fast friends, but Jemima’s unpleasant attitude had been uncalled for. Then again, Maggie had been insensitive, with her comments about the library and waitressing and foraging and . . . And what if Maggie had had those pictures of her house in her iPhone? In retrospect Delphine was glad Maggie had deleted them. She wasn’t sure she could have faked interest in an opulent and no doubt wasteful home.
Anyway, the guilt had compelled her to call Maggie and invite her to go along shopping that morning. And now she was at Gorges Grant, driving up to the hotel’s entrance, where Maggie was waiting, once again in Capri pants and matching sandals and bag. Delphine was very aware that the other vehicles pulling up to the hotel were in far better condition than her old truck. And they weren’t trucks.
“I put a towel on the passenger seat,” Delphine said as Maggie climbed in, “so you wouldn’t get your clothes dirty.”
“I see. Thanks. So, where are we going? I love shopping.” Maggie laughed. “Well, you know that. How many times did I drag you with me to the mall when we were in college?”
“I don’t remember, but I’m sure it was too many times.”
“What’s on your wish list? Are we going to the outlets in Kittery?”
Delphine shook her head. “No wish list. No outlets. Just some things I need to get.”
Things like a new rubber spatula, as Harry had accidentally melted her old one while trying to make a grilled cheese sandwich in her big old cast-iron skillet. She could probably get one for a decent price at the grocery store if she couldn’t find one at Renys. A pair of jeans for her niece Kitty, as the pair she owned now was pretty worn out. And she would look for a new summer nightgown for her mother. The old blue cotton one she was wearing was practically threadbare. It bothered Delphine that her mother paid so little attention to her own wants. Not that she was much better at that, but she did spend some money on her wool and other knitting supplies. It didn’t feel like splurging. It felt like a necessity, and the knitting did earn back some money. When she didn’t undersell to an old friend.
“Oh,” Maggie said. She wondered if Delphine had gotten around to putting those flowers she had brought her in water. She didn’t want to ask.
A few minutes later, Delphine pulled into a parking lot on Post Road in Wells.
“Have you ever been to Renys?” Delphine asked as they got out of the truck.
“I don’t think so.” Maggie tried to feign enthusiasm but suspected she was failing. “We don’t have Renys in Massachusetts. At least, I don’t think we do. I usually shop at Lord & Taylor, and sometimes Louis of Boston. There are some nice boutiques on Boylston and Newbury Streets, too.”
Delphine opened the glass door for Maggie and let her pass inside. “This place has been around since 1949. They’ve got fourteen stores around the state. And I’m pretty sure it’s still family run.”
“Oh,” Maggie said. “That’s nice.”
“There’s a fun phrase: ‘If Renys doesn’t have it, I don’t need it.’ ”
Maggie smiled. She had no idea what she could say to that.
“You should also give Goodwill a shot while you’re in Maine,” Delphine said. She wondered if Maggie knew that she was teasing her. “There’s a massive store out by the mall in South Portland, though there’s probably one by you back in Lexington.”
Goodwill, Maggie thought. Thank God my mother isn’t hearing this conversation. “Oh,” she said, “that’s okay. I don’t really need anything right now. . . .”
“Really, you can get some amazing bargains. I got Harry a pack of undershirts for three dollars. They’re slightly irregular, but nobody sees them.”
“Well,” Maggie said carefully, “I think Gregory is all set with undershirts for now. . . .” And he would never consent to wear irregular anything, Maggie thought, not even undershirts. In fact, neither would she. What would be the point?
Maggie trailed behind as Delphine set about looking for her few items. It didn’t take long. Clearly, she had never become a recreational shopper.
“There’s nothing for you,” Maggie said when Delphine’s purchases were laid out on the checkout counter.
“I know. Oh, well, the spatula’s for me.”
“Don’t you want anything . . . fun—for yourself?”
“Fun?” Delphine repeated. “No. I don’t need anything right now. Except the spatula.”
I didn’t ask if she needed anything, Maggie thought. I asked if she wanted anything. “I saw a nice blouse back there,” she said. “From what remained of the tag I think it might be a Talbots. It’s a very pretty coral. It would look very nice with your coloring and your dark hair. Do you want me to show you?”
Delphine pushed her purchases farther along the checkout counter as the woman in front of her moved on. “No, that’s okay,” she said. “I’ve got plenty of blouses already. I don’t wear them all that much, anyway. Mostly, I’m in T-shirts in the summer and flannel in the winter.”
Maggie had nothing to say to that. The concept of shopping without getting a little something for herself was truly foreign. Just a little something, a little gift for the effort. Her mother had taught her all about giving herself little treats. But then again, she thought, one needed disposable income for little treats.... Maggie tried to remember if on any of those shopping trips during college Delphine had ever bought anything frivolous for herself. She didn’t think that she had.
Delphine paid for her purchases. As they were leaving the store, two quite elderly women, walking arm in arm, were entering.
“The Simmons sisters,” Delphine whispered as they approached. “You must remember them?”
“Of course I do,” Maggie replied. “But I haven’t thought of them in years.”
Both ladies wore broad-brimmed straw sun hats, decorated with somewhat dusty silk roses, and immaculate white cotton gloves that came almost to the elbow. Martha’s long flowered dress was drawn in at the waist by a narrow belt of cracked patent leather. Constance, a bit stouter than her sister, wore an identical long flowered dress without a belt. Both had blue eyes, now faded and somewhat milky. Beneath their hats Maggie could glimpse hair so white it almost glowed.
“Well, if it isn’t Delphine Crandall,” the thinner of the two women said in greeting.
“Martha, Constance, it’s so nice to see you,” Delphine said. “Do you remember my friend Maggie Weldon? She and her family rented the Lilac House for several years, way back in the seventies.”
Martha put a gloved finger to the tip of her nose and tapped. �
��Oh, dear, now that was a long time ago. Sister, do you remember anything about a Weldon family?”
Constance repeated her sister’s gesture. “Oh, wait now, something’s coming to me. Yes, I do seem to remember Delphine having a friend from away. Yes, and I think her family used to stay at the Lilac House. . . .”
Maggie smiled. “Yes, that’s me, Maggie Weldon. Maggie Weldon Wilkes now.”
“Well, dear, you look just lovely. What have you been doing all this time?”
“Oh,” Maggie said, “the usual, I suppose. Getting married, having kids, building a career.” She didn’t mention the regular Botox injections. She wasn’t sure the Simmons sisters would know what Botox was. She wasn’t sure Delphine would approve.
She’s also been avoiding the library and carbohydrates, Delphine added silently, at the same time scolding herself for the stupidly critical tinge of her thoughts.
“We’re just out for a little shopping,” Delphine said, holding up her bag.
Martha’s eyes widened and she looked suddenly years younger. “We just love to shop,” she said, “ever since we were little girls, remember, Constance?”
Constance nodded enthusiastically. Delphine smiled. “Then we’ll let you get to it.”
The women exchanged good-byes and the Simmons sisters moved on inside the store. Delphine and Maggie climbed into the truck. Maggie carefully adjusted the towel so that her clothes were entirely protected from the cracked and dusty upholstery.
“How old are the Simmons sisters?” she asked.
“Oh, they must be getting close to ninety now,” Delphine said as she pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the road. “Maybe they’re over ninety. I don’t know. I wonder if they even know. Sometimes I find myself forgetting how old I am. I guess age doesn’t seem to matter anymore.”
“Or maybe it matters too much. It was just a thought,” Maggie added quickly. “I didn’t mean to accuse you of lying. Personally, I find myself hyperaware of my age. I think, I’m almost fifty and time is running out. It makes me feel a bit panicky sometimes, like I have to do something now—what, I don’t really know, but do something different or make some essential connection before it’s too late.”
Summer Friends Page 7
