“But they used to go back up the mountain after closing time,” Patrick said. “Now they’re buying second homes here and renting them out. The woman who bought the diner doesn’t even make hamburgers. I ordered a turkey sandwich and it came covered in this green slime that looked like frog snot. For crissakes, there’s a friggin’ tea room next door.”
“A tea room?”
“Knox Rodefeffer’s second wife opened it. Her son goes to Eldridge, and she’s from Boston, where according to her they do everything right. My mom got into a huge, screaming fight with her. We could hear it in here over the music.”
Claire pictured her fierce Aunt Bonnie having a go at the unlucky tearoom owner and pitied the poor woman.
“I’m sorry to hear about next door,” Claire said. “I know you wanted to buy it and expand the bar.”
“She outbid me. I had the mortgage lined up and a down payment saved and she offered Gwyneth twice what it was worth. She offered to buy the bar, too, said it was an eyesore. Rich witch, with that smug smile on her face, looking down her nose at me. We’ll be lucky to hold on to this place. You can’t smoke in here anymore, you know, and there’s an actual law against smoking on the street out front. If our taxes keep going up it’s just a matter of time before we have to sell it to some trust-funders who think they’re gonna get rich roasting gourmet coffee or micro-brewing beer.”
“That’s awful,” Claire said. “I’m sorry about what’s happening in Rose Hill. I don’t want any of the family businesses to close.”
“That’s why I wanted to expand the business, to try to save the place,” Patrick said. “We need some new fixtures, a commercial kitchen, and a dance floor with a stage for a band. I’d like to have a trivia night and a karaoke night. We have to market this business to the college kids and tourists, not just Jimbo, Pudge, and the rest of the locals.”
“I’d pay a lot to see Pudge Postlethwaite sing karaoke.”
“He’s actually a very solid baritone. I bet you didn’t know that.”
“You should have the bar, Patrick,” Claire said. “It means more to you than anyone.”
“It doesn’t matter who runs it if it goes under. None of us wants the bakery and I can’t run the gas station and the bar. You remember Hatch?”
“Hannah’s boyfriend in high school; of course I do.”
“Curtis is of a mind to sell the gas station to him.”
“What about Curtis’s four boys? What about Hannah?”
“I can’t see Hannah sitting in there all day chewing the fat with those old geezers, can you? None of Curtis’s boys are moving back here to Rose Hill. They’re like you; they can’t stand the place.”
“I never said I couldn’t stand the place.”
“You’ve been back, what, five times in the past twenty years?”
“My work took me all over the world, Patrick. I had contracts to honor and obligations to fulfill.”
“You could cut hair in Rose Hill,” Patrick said. “Denise’s looking for a buyer for The Bee Hive.”
Claire could barely suppress a shudder at the thought.
“Doing hair and makeup for films is completely different,” Claire said. “It pays better, for one thing.”
“You’ve got above your raising, Claire Fitzpatrick. You think you’re too good for us.”
Patrick said what he did with a humorous gleam in his eye and a grin, but she thought he was only half-kidding.
“It’s true,” she said. “I’ve gone posh.”
Hannah and Maggie came in. Maggie was tall and blue-eyed like Claire but with more of an Amazonian bombshell figure. Her flaming red curly hair corkscrewed out like fireworks going off in all directions around her head and shoulders, and her pale skin was covered in fine freckles.
As they walked up the aisle Claire estimated it would take an entire day for Maggie’s hair to air-dry after it was washed, and if straightened it would fall clear down past her hips. There were a few silver and white strands now among the red, and pronounced frown lines between Maggie’s golden brows. Claire immediately thought of all the different shades she’d have to mix to cover the gray and match Maggie’s glorious mane. She also reflected that if Maggie were in show business she’d need some nerve paralyzers and wrinkle fillers. Nothing extreme, just some preventative maintenance work now so that any changes made through plastic surgery later wouldn’t seem so dramatic.
‘If she lost weight she’d be striking enough to be a lead actress,’ Claire thought. ‘But she’d break the nose of any producer or director who suggested she take a turn on the casting couch. Plus, with that temper, no one would want to work with her twice.’
“Mary Margaret,” she said as she hugged her cousin. “It’s so good to see you.”
Maggie’s hugs were always quick, as if she endured them rather than enjoyed them, so Claire knew it for the compliment it was. Maggie smiled at Claire with real pleasure at seeing her, but then quickly recovered. She was Bonnie’s daughter and a granddaughter of the formidable Rose, after all. That much genetic starch doesn’t wash out.
“It took you long enough to come home,” Maggie said. “I forgot what you looked like. The last time I saw you your hair was short, spiky, and platinum blonde.”
“Have you lost weight?” Claire asked her. “You look great.”
“She’s so busy she doesn’t have time to eat,” Hannah said.
“You stay busy and I notice you never miss a meal,” Maggie said to Hannah, who was known to have a voracious appetite and the metabolism of a hummingbird. To Claire she said, “I swim every morning at the college and walk the rail trail every evening. Between school, the bookstore and the bakery it’s the only time I have to myself.”
“She’s got a new boyfriend,” Hannah said.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Maggie said, but her face and neck flushed a deep red.
“He’s a teacher at Eldridge,” Hannah said. “They got him from some fancy school in England. He talked Maggie into going back to school and got her a scholarship.”
“I’m considered an adult returning student,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes at Hannah. “Professor Richmond wrote the letter of recommendation that helped me get a grant to pay for school.”
“That’s great, Maggie,” Claire said, as they all sat down in Claire’s booth. “What’s your major?”
“English Lit,” Maggie said, “with a minor in American Lit.”
“There’s lots of jobs, apparently, in the Lit field,” Patrick said. “Our Maggie will be able to wrangle Lit on either side of the Atlantic.”
“Shut up,” Maggie said to her brother. “I’m getting an education, not building my resume.”
“Her boyfriend teaches a class on Shakespeare,” Hannah told Claire. “I can’t understand a word he says but Maggie thinks he’s dreamy.”
“Hark!” Patrick said. “Wouldst thou care for a wee drop of ale?”
“Verily I would,” Hannah said. “But alas, I am a Capulet and cannot imbibe from the frosty mug of a Montague.”
Maggie scowled at Hannah.
“Aren’t you hungry,” Maggie asked Hannah. “Why don’t you go order us a pizza?”
“I might miss something.”
“You might miss my foot up your behind,” Maggie said.
“I’ve missed you two,” Claire said.
That lonely, aching, homesick feeling overwhelmed her again and to her embarrassment, she felt tears fill her eyes. She quickly blinked them away.
As Hannah went out Patrick and Maggie’s brother Sean came in. He was a thinner, more polished version of Patrick, but with the same piercing blue eyes, dark hair, and cleft chin.
‘Sean’s a leading man,’ Claire thought. ‘Put him in a tux and all the women and gay men would swoon.’ She looked at Patrick in comparison, and decided he was more the western or action adventure type. ‘Classic bad boy,’ she concluded.
She embraced Sean and he said, “I stopped by Scott’s on my way here and he says you can pick up y
our carry-on bag and rental car anytime this afternoon.”
“Good,” Claire said. “I loved these clothes when I bought them but I’m getting a little tired of wearing them.”
“You look great,” Sean said. “Too classy for this dive.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Patrick said.
He threw a wet bar towel at Sean, who ducked.
“How’s everything back home in Pittsburgh?” Claire asked Sean.
“This will soon be his home,” Patrick said. “Sean’s moving back to Rose Hill.”
“He told me,” Claire said, and couldn’t hide her horror.
“Don’t make that face,” Sean said. “Mom and Dad are getting on, and I’ve had my big city experience. I sold my house and I’m going to fix up the second apartment over Maggie’s bookstore.”
Claire caught a quick look pass between Patrick, Sean, and Maggie. Hannah came back in with two huge pizza boxes, set them on the table, and hugged Sean.
“Hey, good-looking,” Hannah said to Sean. “When’s the big day?”
“My last day at the bank is May 30th.”
They all sat down and Patrick brought over a pitcher of beer and some glasses.
“What will you do for work?” Claire asked Sean.
“I’m going to polish up my lawyering skills and open a family law practice,” he said. “The community college in Pendleton has a paralegal program and they’ve offered me a part-time teaching position. I’ll still do estate planning, of course, but there’s not a big demand for that here. Rose Hill is a great place to invest right now, so I’m looking at buying one of the empty buildings downtown. They all need to be renovated and that will take some time. I’m hoping to have the apartment finished by the end of the summer and an office open by October.”
Claire again saw the quick warning looks pass between the siblings.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Is there some big secret?”
“Pip’s going to do all the work,” Hannah said. “He’s back.”
“Hannah!” Maggie snapped, and Hannah yelped as she was kicked under the table.
“We were going to tell you,” Maggie told Claire.
“After this meeting,” Patrick said.
“Sorry,” Sean said. “I thought you knew.”
Claire felt her consciousness recede back into her head as she resisted this information. Her cousins seemed to be waiting for her reaction, so she quickly attempted to gather her wits.
“Did he bring his wife and kids?” she asked, in what she had intended to be a neutral tone that actually came out a little shrill.
“Left them, apparently,” Hannah said. “He came back alone.”
Claire pushed Sean out of their side of the booth.
“Where are you going?” Patrick said. “We have business to discuss.”
“Don’t be such a big baby,” Maggie said. “We were going to tell you.”
“Here’s the thing,” Claire said, addressing everyone at the table. “I’m not moving back to Rose Hill. I don’t want any of the family businesses and I’ll sign any papers Sean draws up to confirm that. I’m only staying as long as the police make me, and then as soon as I get my parents sorted out I’m out of here. I love you guys and I love our crazy family, but this is not where I belong. I don’t know where I belong but I know it’s not Rose Hill. It’s my turn to be happy, it’s my turn to have a life of my own, and if I come back here I’ll just disappear; absorbed by this family, by these businesses, by this town. I’m sorry, but I just can’t do it. I won’t do it.”
Claire turned and walked purposefully toward the door as her cousins broke into applause. Claire’s face burned as she grabbed her coat and flung open the door, determined not to look back.
“As God as my witness,” Maggie called after her, “I’ll never be hungry again!”
“Brava!” Sean shouted. “Bellisima! Encore!”
“I think she really means it,” Hannah said, to which Patrick replied, “She’s not going anywhere.”
As soon as Claire’s feet hit the sidewalk in front of the Rose and Thorn she turned right, having made an impulsive decision not to go back to her parents’ house. The door to the bar slammed shut behind her, blocking out her cousins’ laughter. Down the street she saw her Aunt Alice turn the corner by the old diner, headed in her direction. She was walking with some old busybody whom Claire recognized but couldn’t name. Claire ducked into the nearest door, which advertised in golden gilt letters, “Dashwood Antiques, Gifts, Tea Room.”
Sleigh bells attached to the door jangled as she went in. As Claire attempted to take in the pink and white floral chintz explosion that greeted her inside, her nose was assailed by the sickeningly sweet scent of candles poured into glass jars, the clean floral scent of expensive soaps, and the wonderful, exotic aroma of many fragrant teas. Claire had learned a lot about tea in the UK, fancied herself sort of a self-taught tea snob, and thought she knew good tea when she smelled it. There was some good tea in this shop.
“Good afternoon,” someone said from the back of the shop, but the sense of Claire not being welcome was clearly communicated by the woman’s tone. “With what may I assist you?”
Claire turned toward the sound of the voice and her enormous handbag got hung up on a spinner rack of greeting cards trimmed in handmade lace. She grabbed the rack before it fell over onto a display of porcelain Beatrix Potter figurines.
“You’re quite the proverbial bull, aren’t you,” the voice said, and Claire recognized the mocking smugness of which her cousin Patrick had warned.
The woman who approached her was slight in form, with half-readers dangling on a frayed silk cord around her neck, and pink lipstick haphazardly smeared on thin lips ringed with disapproval lines. Upon her head a grosgrain headband held back a poorly cut bob of mousy brown hair that was aggressively graying, but not in an attractive, dramatic way.
She was dressed in the kind of clothing Claire had come to recognize as “old money,” which is to say, slightly shabby but with impeccable labels on the inside, rather than the outside, where they would be considered a vulgar display.
Claire was taken aback by the marks visible on one side of the woman’s face, marks she had been unable to completely conceal with makeup. Claire didn’t miss much when looking at a person’s face; this woman had been slapped recently, and hard.
Claire immediately cast her as the betrayed society wife of a womanizing executive type; brittle, bitter, and recently replaced by a mistress less than half her age. Maybe they’d had a slap fight. Claire had seen one of those up close and they were not pretty.
“I’m so sorry,” Claire said in what she hoped was an imperial manner. “I wonder if you have any Darjeeling Yellow Tea? I’m particularly fond of the tea from the Goomtee Estate in India. It has such a sweet, honey fragrance. Are you familiar with that blend?”
The woman momentarily stared at Claire before stating, “You’re not from here.”
“No,” Claire said. “I live in South Kensington.”
“London?”
The woman’s facial display of disbelief was insulting.
“I’m only here for a short visit.”
“Do you have a child at the college?”
The look she bestowed upon Claire clearly indicated that such an occurrence could not possibly be true, so revolting was Claire’s stumbling entrance and flashy appearance. Her eyes raked Claire from her high heels up to her bright red lipstick, and she curled her lip in derision.
“No, no children,” Claire said. “About that tea?”
“I have Darjeeling, yes, and it’s Indian, but I don’t know from what estate. I’m not usually interrogated about provenance.”
She said this with marked disapproval, as if in addition to her vulgar appearance Claire was further guilty of being unreasonably interested in whence came the tea.
“I’d love to try it,” Claire said.
Claire dropped her handbag on a fragile white c
hair with spindly legs and a tiny seat she was sure would collapse if she had the temerity to sit upon it. She knew her expensive handbag wouldn’t impress this woman, so she shrugged off her coat and draped it over the handbag in a way that the label inside the coat could clearly be seen.
“My mother had a Burberry trench,” the woman said. “She bought it on her year abroad, after Wellesley but before she married Daddy.”
“It performs its function, that’s all I care about,” Claire said, and thought she remembered that line from one of Sloan’s scripts. “If it’s good enough for the Queen…”
“Quite a nice family before the commoners married into it,” the woman said, and turned away, leaving Claire open-mouthed and appalled at such blatant bad manners.
Claire picked up her coat with the intention of leaving immediately, but saw her Aunt Alice and the busybody out in front of the shop looking in the window at the ruffled silk peonies stuck in an antique silver pitcher, starched linen handkerchiefs transformed into a fleet of origami swans, and a handmade wooden cradle full of collectible china dolls and Steiff teddy bears.
Claire moved to the table farthest away from the entrance, at the back of the shop, hidden behind a mountain of quilted fabric handbags and matching accessories, all in a ghastly bandana print of acid green and antacid pink. On the wall by the table were framed illustrations of Scandinavian children, some in sunny nurseries, and some lolling about with puppies in a garden under the watchful eye of a knitting nanny.
“What’s worse than twee?” she imagined Tuppy asking. “What’s twee to the twentieth degree?”
She was amazed to find she missed him. She also found it impossible to believe that the witty, energetic, ambitious young man she had known for such a short time could really be dead. Any minute she expected him to dash in, take a wide-eyed look around, and say, “Well. It’s all just too darling, isn’t it?”
She sighed. A phone rang and she heard the shop owner answer. She imagined the woman’s first name would be a family name, maybe even one of those last names for a first name: Blair, Spencer, Cavender, or Kennedy, and there would be a nickname associated with it like Bitsy or Kiki. Katherine Hepburn would have played her in tennis whites.
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