by Nan Rossiter
Just then, a faint beeping came from the kitchen and Beryl remembered the warming croissants.
“Okay,” Isak said, licking chocolate off her fingers and taking a sip of her coffee. “You guys are sure about the clothes? Those boxes are the only ones you’re keeping?” she asked, pointing to two boxes stacked in the corner of the room.
Rumer nodded. “Ber, did you decide on that jacket from Bean?”
“Yup, it’s in great condition and it’s very retro. I’m going to keep it unless you want it.”
“Nope, I’m gonna take the snow boots.”
“Well, we’re set, then,” Beryl confirmed, taping closed the last box of clothes and setting it on the floor.
“Okay, then—on to knickknacks and jewelry.”
Rumer slumped gloomily onto the bed. “I wish we had more time. I feel like we’re rushing through this. We haven’t had any time to even digest what’s happened.”
“I know,” Isak said. “But when else can we do it? I don’t know when I can get out here again, and we can’t very well have a realtor showing the house when it’s full of stuff.”
Rumer leaned back on the bed and closed her eyes. “Why don’t we just pack up the jewelry and Beryl can keep it until we can get together again. It’s not that urgent.”
“If that’s what you want to do, it’s fine with me. Ber?”
“Fine with me,” Beryl said with a nod as she climbed a small stepladder to reach the shelf in her mom’s closet. She pulled down a cardboard box and handed it to Isak, who dropped it on the bed and opened it.
“Oh, no,” she said softly.
“What?” Rumer asked, opening her eyes.
Isak pulled three neatly wrapped Christmas gifts out of the box, complete with ribbons and tags.
Beryl climbed down from the ladder. “Oh, no,” Beryl repeated sadly. “Those must be the gifts Mum bought in Boston that day.” Isak held out the presents as Beryl continued, “She was so proud of herself because she’d started her Christmas shopping early, but she was worried that she wouldn’t remember where she’d put them when Christmas got here, so I told her I’d remind her—but then she tucked them away without telling me where and, as Christmas approached, she couldn’t find them. She was so upset and she kept telling me she’d wrapped them and put them in a safe spot. We looked everywhere—I even looked in all the places she’d hidden our presents when we were little. Finally, she ended up buying different gifts, but on Christmas morning she was still upset about it and kept saying, ‘I know I got you something else, but I just can’t find it anywhere and I can’t even remember what it is.’ I told her it was okay, but it didn’t seem to help.”
“Should we open them?” Isak asked.
Beryl nodded. “Unless you want to wait till Christmas …”
“No, let’s open them now,” Rumer said, looking at Isak. “Age order—you go first.”
“You don’t need to rub it in,” Isak said. She hesitated. “These are the last presents we’ll ever open from Mum,” she said, her voice choked with emotion.
“Unless we find more somewhere …” Beryl said, trying to lighten the mood, “… which is possible!”
“True!” Isak agreed with a nod. She carefully unwrapped her gift and pulled away the tissue, revealing a beautiful silk scarf. “Oh my,” she whispered, “look at this color!”
Beryl nodded, remembering her mom’s words. “Mum said it was the color of the September sky.”
“It’s gorgeous,” Isak said, slipping it around her neck.
“It’s the same color as your eyes,” Rumer remarked. “In fact, it makes them look even bluer.”
“And it matches your T-shirt!” Beryl teased.
Isak laughed and looked at Rumer. “Your turn, hapless middle child!”
Rumer slipped the paper off her gift with the same quiet reverence. Then she slowly lifted the lid of a small jewelry box and laughed. “Mum always knew I loved turquoise!” she exclaimed, lifting out two silver hoops with gorgeous turquoise stones hanging from them.
Beryl nodded. “We were at one of those outdoor vendors in Quincy Market and Mum saw those earrings with onyx stones and asked the designer if she had them with turquoise. The lady looked and looked. She was just about to give up when she found those in the last box she opened. Mum was triumphant and said it was meant to be!”
Rumer put them on. “How do I look?”
“You look maahvelous!” Isak said in her best Billy Crystal impression.
Rumer laughed and looked at Beryl. “Your turn! What’s the backstory for your gift?”
Beryl shook her head and lightly touched the ribbon. “I only know where she bought it—The Bookend—Micah’s store.” She told them about the display of books and their chance encounter with Micah, then shook her head sadly. “Mum didn’t remember him.”
“She didn’t?!” Rumer said in surprise. “But he worked for her all those years… .”
“I know, but she hadn’t seen him in a long time and, by then, she was having trouble remembering people she saw all the time.”
They were quiet—lost in their own thoughts—until Isak finally asked, “Well, are you going to open it?”
Beryl pressed her lips together and gently pulled on the ribbon. Then she carefully slid a thin book from the wrapping. “You open gifts just like Mum,” Isak teased, “like you’re planning to use the paper again.”
“I might …” Beryl teased back, “on your next Christmas present.” She turned the book over and held it up for her sisters to see. It was a copy of Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s Gift from the Sea. She smiled. “Mum must’ve seen me looking through it when we were shopping.”
Isak looked puzzled. “Doesn’t Mum have that book?”
Beryl nodded. “Somewhere. I always wanted to read it, but I never found the time.” She opened the thin volume and quickly scanned the flyleaf. “Did you know she was an aviator too?”
Isak laughed. “Well, I guess we’re all lucky, lucky, lucky she didn’t name one of us Lindbergh!”
Beryl laughed. “Well, you know, my middle name is Anne.”
“That’s true,” Rumer said. “Do you think … ?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Beryl answered with a grin.
“Mum certainly was one of a kind,” Isak said.
“She certainly was!” Beryl said, embracing her gift as if it were a long-lost friend.
22
“Are we waiting for Micah?” Isak asked as she wrapped up the leftover chicken and put it in the fridge.
“We are,” Beryl answered, downing the last of her Pinot Grigio and washing her glass. “He just texted me and said he’s on his way.”
“You heard your phone?!” Rumer teased, drying the glass.
“Yup,” Beryl answered proudly.
“I guess it depends on who’s texting …”
Beryl suppressed a smile and looked around the kitchen to see if there was anything else to wash. “Isak, are you having more?” she asked, nodding to her glass.
Isak took a deep breath and looked decidedly undecided. “Hmm—that’s a good question. I would, but I think I’m going to have coffee tonight so I can stay awake.”
Rumer handed the empty glass to Beryl, who washed it and handed it back to her. “Is that it?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.
“That’s it,” Isak said, nudging her aside to fill the perk pot with cold water. “Do you guys want coffee?”
“I will,” Rumer said.
“Me too,” Beryl said, drying her hands. She moved toward the stairs. “I’m just gonna freshen up.”
Isak stopped measuring coffee and looked up. “You don’t need to freshen up for us.”
“I’m not,” Beryl assured her.
“You should’ve said something,” Rumer chimed. “We would’ve cleaned up the kitchen.”
“Not a problem,” Beryl called as she ran up the stairs.
Isak and Rumer both looked at each other and Rumer laughed. “I can hea
r Mum now …”
Isak nodded, “Yup, she’d say, ‘And the plot thickens …’ ”
They heard a car pull up, and when Micah knocked on the door, Flannery hurried over and pressed her nose against the screen, her tail wagging.
“Come on in!” Isak called.
He pulled open the screen and Flan’s whole hind end started to wiggle. He knelt down in front of her and looked into her somber eyes. “Hello there, Miss O’Connor.” Almost immediately, the old dog flopped onto her side and rolled onto her back with her legs straight up in the air.
“Wow! You really have a way with women!” Isak teased.
Micah laughed and Beryl appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “Oh, my goodness, Flan, could you be any less ladylike?” The homely dog gazed at her; then her eyes rolled back in her head in shameless pleasure. Beryl shook her head. “She hasn’t had many men in her life.”
Rumer laughed. “Well, it looks like she’s fallen for the first one to pay attention!”
Micah stood up and Flannery’s eyes opened in dismay. “Sorry, ole girl,” he said. “I know you’d probably like me to keep doing that, but my knees won’t like it very much.”
“What’s wrong with your knees?” Beryl asked, getting out four mugs.
“They ache sometimes—I can always tell when it’s going to rain. I think it’s from all those years of running cross-country.”
“I know what you mean. I used to love running, but I did something to one of my knees last fall and now I’m resigned to walking. I guess I should have it looked at, but I just haven’t had the time.” She paused. “Coffee or tea … or we also have the usual—wine, iced tea, milk, water … ?”
“Coffee sounds good, thanks.” He looked around and noticed their shirts. “You should’ve told me it was college night,” he said. “I would’ve worn my Bowdoin shirt.”
Beryl laughed. “We found these in our mom’s bureau.”
“Did you go to Bowdoin?” Isak asked, setting out cream and sugar.
Micah nodded.
“One of my friends went there—Sarah Riley?”
Micah shook his head. “Her name’s not familiar.”
“Well, she’d be older than you. She still lives in Maine. We lost touch for a while, but thanks to Facebook, we reconnected.”
Micah nodded. “It’s amazing how small Facebook makes the world.”
“Are you on Facebook?” Beryl asked in surprise.
“I am, but I’m afraid I don’t check it very often.”
“See!” Rumer said, nudging her sister.
“Beryl is the last remaining holdout,” Isak explained, putting spoons next to the sugar.
Micah laughed. “Well, I probably wouldn’t be on it either, but when my business started to go downhill, I was willing to try anything, so I started a page for the store—and for myself, hoping it would bring people in—but as it turned out, it wasn’t enough.” He looked at Beryl. “You should at least start one for Tranquility,” he suggested. “It’s free publicity.”
“Maybe,” Beryl said, considering his suggestion; then she added, “Are we reading on the porch?”
“Yup!” Rumer said, taking her mug and a pillow from the couch. Micah held the door open and the parade trooped out, including Flan, who immediately plopped down at his feet. Even Thoreau, who’d been acting aloof all day, appeared and seemed ready to rekindle old friendships.
“Okay, where were we?” Beryl murmured, scanning the page.
“We were where Mum promised she’d never leave,” Isak said.
It was still early May—and tulip time—when I pulled up in front of the cabin and saw all the colorful blooms lining the walkway. Sitting on the bottom step with his cane across his knees was David! He stood up slowly, smiling and shaking his head—as if he couldn’t believe it was me. And I climbed out of the car, tears stinging my eyes—I couldn’t believe it was him! I stood in front of him and we didn’t say a word—we just took each other in—trying to find our way back to where we’d left off.
“I brought your lunch,” I said.
He looked at his watch. “It’s about time!”
“I know,” I laughed.
“How’ve you been?”
“Okay.”
He nodded. “Me as well—better now.”
“When’d you get here?”
“Evening before last.”
“I was off yesterday.”
“I know! Some lunatic kid pulled in here like a bat out of hell—even the chipmunks ducked for cover!”
I laughed, picturing the chipmunks diving under the tulips.
“I thought you might’ve found another job.”
I shook my head.
He smiled. “It’s so good to see you.”
I nodded. “It’s good to see you.”
“How are the little ones?”
“They’re fine—busy.”
He laughed. “Aren’t all women?”
I nodded and tried to think of something to say. “How’s your painting?”
“Good—I’ve been taking a break from landscapes. I’m trying to teach myself how to paint people. There’s an open studio near our flat in London—and they have models twice a week.” He hesitated. “In fact, I was going to ask you—I mean, I was wondering … if you might be interested … in modeling.”
I felt my face blush and looked away. “N-no,” I stammered. “I don’t think I’d be comfortable doing that.”
“Clothed, of course—I meant clothed.”
I shook my head. “Even clothed, I don’t think …” I stopped in midsentence and eyed him. “They model without their clothes?”
He laughed. “Of course … .”
“You mean naked?”
He nodded.
“Well, no—definitely not.”
“I’d pay you … and, again, I meant clothed … I wouldn’t expect you to do it for free—or naked—unless, of course, you wanted to …” His eyes sparkled mischievously and I felt my cheeks heating up again.
I hesitated. “I’m sorry, David, I just don’t think I’d be comfortable doing that—even clothed.”
He nodded. “I understand.”
I reached into my backseat for his basket.
“Can you stay?”
I glanced at my watch, flustered by the conversation. “I wish I could, but my littlest one has an earache and I don’t want to burden my mom any longer than I have to.”
He looked a bit deflated. “Well, maybe tomorrow then …”
“Yes, maybe …”
Almost forty years have passed since that day, but our conversation is still as clear in my mind as if it happened yesterday—and I’m convinced it’s because of the conflicted feeling I had. I’d missed David so much, and I’d looked forward to seeing him for so long. At the same time, I was confused and afraid! I was completely drawn to him—and even though I knew he was married and I’d resolved to keep our relationship platonic, when he stood in front of me, I could feel my resolve melting like an old-fashioned New England thaw.
In the days that followed, I delivered his lunch—on time—and lingered! I was amazed that no one ever asked me where I was or what kept me. Some days, when I hadn’t had time for breakfast, he shared his lunch with me; other days, we forgot all about lunch and just sat on the porch and talked. I learned that he’d just turned thirty-one on May 2nd—two days after his arrival at MacDowell—the day I’d declined to stay! I learned he was an only child, that his parents were poor, and that he’d lived in London all his life. He said his mum was a cleaning lady (and a sweetheart!) who worked long hours and multiple jobs; but when I asked about his father, a shadow fell across his face and he said that he’d passed away a long time ago. I also learned that he hadn’t finished high school, never went to university, as he called it, married when he was eighteen, and although he and his wife of thirteen years slept under the same roof, for all intents and purposes, they lived separate lives. He seemed reluctant to elaborate and I didn’t press h
im.
He asked as many questions of me as I did him, if not more! And I told him everything—I had no secrets, no shadows, nor crosses to bear. I told him Tom had been my life—my soul mate—and I missed him desperately. I said I was still close to his parents and they still treated me like a daughter; my parents were alive and well and supported me in every way they could; and, finally, I told him all about the little women in my life who kept me sane—and drove me crazy! I regaled him with their antics and idiosyncrasies, and he laughed and always wanted to hear more—and the little women, as I fondly referred to them, made sure I always had plenty of material!
The days turned into weeks and I found myself thinking about him all the time. I couldn’t wait to get to the cabin at lunchtime. One day, he showed me a painting he was working on—a still life, because no one was willing to model for him! I don’t know if he was still trying, but he showed me a large sketchbook full of drawings from his life class—the curves and shapes of the different anatomies were wonderful. He explained that sometimes the sessions were timed, as a warm-up, and only lasted for thirty seconds or a minute before the model changed position. Other sessions were as long as an hour with breaks for the model every twenty minutes. The thirty-second drawings were fluid and beautiful, capturing the essence of the person—and looking as if he’d never lifted his charcoal off the paper. The drawings from the longer sessions were much more detailed and striking.
He talked about the models: Charlie—a large, bald man in his late fifties with a torso like a barrel; and Diamond—a full-figured woman in her thirties whose breasts curved down to a round potbelly, and whose thighs were thick but shapely; and Pip—a tall, muscular, African man in his twenties. I asked David if he preferred one model over another, fully expecting him to say he preferred drawing women, but he said it was the act of drawing that captivated him—the subject didn’t matter; for most artists, he added, observing naked figures wasn’t a sexual experience. That gave me a lot to think about! Could he look at me without being aroused? Would he admire my slender shape—or decide it wasn’t shapely enough? I wasn’t as well-endowed as some women, but I couldn’t believe that a man—who found women attractive—wouldn’t be aroused at all.
