“Thought I would. Might be nice to have some flowers here in October.”
“I’d be glad to help, if you like.” I knew my gesture wasn’t exactly extravagant, but it was a first step toward loving someone without being cautious or thinking about what I could ask for in return.
“I don’t mind if you don’t mind,” Mr. Barry said.
I picked up a trowel and asked where he wanted the first bulb to go. The rain during the past two days had made the earth nice and soft. Getting my hands into fresh, moist soil met some sort of basic need inside me. I felt happy the moment my fingers curled around the rich earth.
Mr. Barry asked if I wanted gloves, but I was enjoying the feel of the soil and told him I didn’t have fancy fingernails that were in danger of breaking off.
“My wife used to paint her fingernails red. Bright red. She painted them every week. I liked her red fingernails. You could always see her hands moving about. Even from across the room.”
“Did she paint her toenails, too?”
“No, she’s always hated her feet. Hates her ears, too. Never wanted to wear her hair back like yours is now. Said she was afraid people would stare at her ears. Why are women like that? Dorothea has beautiful ears.”
I noticed he was talking about his wife as if she were alive. I risked broaching a volatile topic and said, “I’d like to hear more about your wife.”
“She doesn’t say much, but she gets by.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant.
“She’d like to meet you.”
“Okay. Would this morning be a good time?”
“Good as any.”
Sliding the last few bulbs into the cool earth, I rose, dusted off my knees, and followed Mr. Barry into the celery-colored cottage to meet Dorothea. She was seated by the window in a wheelchair with a crooked expression on her face. When she saw me, her eyes brightened.
I went to her, slipped my hand in her quavering left hand, and introduced myself.
Dorothea made a soft sound in the back of her throat and kept looking at me. The fingers on her right hand were curled in, and her wrist was bent. I recognized all the symptoms. My grandfather had a stroke when I was young and lived with us a full ten years. The stroke incapacitated him on the right side and severely affected his speech, but his mind was all there. Was that the case with Dorothea?
I told her about my husband and what he did at Jackamond Studios. She took in every word, using her expressive eyes to respond.
Mr. Barry offered me a chair. I sat beside Dorothea, still holding her hand. Then I treated her to the delicacy my grandfather always wanted: I gave her news about what was going on in the outside.
First I told her about the bulbs we’d planted and how large the mums were growing. Then I told her about the views Jill and I enjoyed from the top of Mount Victoria. Dorothea’s eyes didn’t turn away from me even for a moment. She was a medium-framed woman with short white hair that poofed up on her head like a squiggly shower cap. I thought she had very dainty ears, but I didn’t mention them. I didn’t want her to think her hubby had been telling me secrets about her in the garden.
Clearly, Mr. Barry could help Dorothea in and out of her wheelchair and take care of all her basic needs. But no man can minister to a woman the way another woman can. I wondered if Dorothea had a regular stream of visitors. Even if she did, after spending an hour with her that morning, I decided that for the rest of our stay in Wellington, I’d be one of her regular visitors.
“I’m going to go,” I said when her eyes began to droop. I guessed she probably napped a lot. “I don’t want to wear out my welcome, but I’ll come back and visit you in a few days. Okay?”
She made a gurgling sound in response.
“Good. I’ll see you in a few days then.”
Mr. Barry walked me out the front door. He cleared his throat awkwardly once we were where Dorothea couldn’t hear us. “I’m in your debt,” he said in a deep, yet faint voice.
“No, you’re not. Tony and I are in your debt. As a matter of fact, Tony wanted me to be sure and pay our rent before next Tuesday. I’m going to be gone for a few days, and we didn’t want to be late with the payment.”
“All right.” He raised his hand to wave as I took off down the street.
The sun was nearly halfway through its paces, but I was still a woman on a mission for a morning mocha. Some things, like a Chocolate Fish mocha latte, I didn’t forget about regardless of how many pleasant interruptions blocked my way.
In the week that followed, Jill and I shopped for a new bedspread for me, comfortable travel shoes for her, and something extra special for Dorothea.
Jill came over the morning before we left for Christchurch and helped me give Dorothea my little going-away-for-a-few-days gift. I’d been over to the house to see her nearly every day. My topics of conversation had dwindled by the third visit, so I brought a novel with me the next time. She seemed to love being read to. Especially because the novel I was reading didn’t seem the sort of book Mr. Barry might read to her.
When Jill and I entered, Dorothea was waiting for us. “Good morning!” I said. “I brought my friend Jill with me. Jill, this is Dorothea.”
Their connection moment was tender but a little awkward. Jill didn’t seem to quite know how or where to touch Dorothea. I’d seen visitors act that way with stroke victims before. My grandfather’s friends would look at him as if part of him was broken, and they were afraid to touch any other part of him in case that area might break as well.
I slipped my hand in Dorothea’s strong left hand and leaned close to press my cheek against hers. “Jill and I have a little surprise for you today.”
Dorothea’s eyebrows went up as I held out a small gift bag. I looked over my shoulder. Mr. Barry couldn’t be seen, but I guessed he was in the kitchen, his usual place of retreat whenever I came to visit. He seemed to want to hear everything but not let me know he was interested in the novel or what I had to chat about.
“Are you ready for this?” I leaned closer and whispered, “Your husband let me know what color you liked. Or at least what color he liked on you.”
I pulled a bottle of bright red nail polish from the bag along with a file, a top coat, and some cotton balls.
“What do you think, Dorothea? Would it be okay if Jill and I put a little color on your fingernails?”
The dear woman began to cry.
“Oops!” I said. “I forgot the tissues.”
“I have some.” Jill reached into her purse.
We pulled up chairs and positioned ourselves. Jill took Dorothea’s flexible left hand. I knew how to handle the right one even though it was locked in a curled-up position.
“Let me know if this is uncomfortable in any way.” I massaged the palm of her hand.
“Did Kathy tell you that she and I are leaving in the morning for Christchurch?” Jill asked, warming up to the situation once she started to file Dorothea’s neglected thumbnail.
“Have you ever been to Christchurch?” I asked.
Dorothea made a response, but it was hard to tell if it was a yes or a no. I half expected Mr. Barry to answer for her from the kitchen, but when he didn’t, Jill and I went on as if her contribution to the conversation had been clear.
“We’re flying down and taking the train back,” Jill said.
“And staying at a bed-and-breakfast. Jill found this place, and it sounds charming. Actually, all of Christchurch sounds lovely. We’ve heard that the leaves should be gorgeous.”
Dorothea made a sound in her throat, and I said, “Do you want me to bring back some big autumn leaves?”
“Aaah.”
I let her know I’d bring back a big bouquet of leaves and lots of stories from our trip.
Cheerfully working together, Jill and I lit up Dorothea’s smooth fingernails. The red looked even brighter on her nails than it had in the bottle.
“Mr. Barry is going to love this,” I whispered. “He’ll notice these little ho
lly berries from across the room and think it’s already Christmas.”
Dorothea’s visceral laugh startled Jill, but I’d come to love it. It sounded like a thinner version of Mad Dog’s guffaw. I enjoyed those rare puffs from her sunken chest as much as I enjoyed getting a little chocolate fish. It was like receiving a tiny reward for making Dorothea happy.
The manicure was a grand success. When Jill and I left, Dorothea couldn’t stop waving at us with her left hand, as if she were the Queen Mum and we were her adoring subjects, which we definitely were.
“Poor Mr. Barry,” I said with a giggle, as we crossed the yard back to the garage.
“Why do you say that?” Jill looked at me as if I were being mean.
“There’ll be no living with the woman now that she has red nails! Did you see the way she was waving at us? That red-tipped hand will be ordering him all over the place. All she has to do is point, and the man will be powerless to deny her request. Yes, I’d say our work is done here for the day.”
Jill smiled. “Wellington was running a little short on super-heroes before you arrived.”
“The dynamic duo, that’s us. And the dynamic duo has struck again! Armed with only a bottle of nail polish, Lucy and Ethel go where no man wants to go! With a few vibrant strokes we keep up the never-ending battle of finding ways to empower women everywhere!”
We enjoyed a good giggle in front of the hobbit. I thought the fellow should be happy. This was one of the few times the laughs weren’t about him.
“What time should I be ready in the morning?” I asked, as Jill and I wound down and were about to go our separate ways to pack.
“Is seven okay? Our flight is at nine, but I like to be early.”
“Me, too. And Tony wanted me to thank you again for letting him borrow your car while we’re gone.”
“No problem. Anytime. I’ll see you in the morning.” She gave me a hug. “You did a good thing today, Kathy. With Mrs. Barry. That was a good thing.”
I basked in the glow of Jill’s praise for a little while after she left. What Jill didn’t know was that I hadn’t really gone out of my way or done anything extraordinary with Mrs. Barry. I did what came naturally and comfortably to me, because I worked with elderly people every day. Jill never had asked about my job, and I hadn’t told her. The topic had never come up.
I pulled out my suitcase from under the bed and wondered what conversational topics would come up on our trip to Christchurch. Jill hadn’t told me exactly how Ray had passed away, and I didn’t feel as if that story was one I wanted to ask for. If she wanted to give it to me one day, I would receive it, but I wouldn’t ask.
When we were on the plane together the next morning, I thought Jill was about to give me the story of Ray’s death. She mentioned that the studio had an office in Christchurch and how one of the other location managers had been on site in Christchurch the day of the accident.
But that was all she said. So Ray’s death had been an accident. She seemed to be fighting against a wave of sadness after giving me that snippet of information, and I didn’t want to start down a conversational trail that would set a somber tone for our getaway.
The Christchurch airport was a small building with a single conveyor belt for the luggage. It took us no time to retrieve our suitcases and head outside into the sunny day.
Climbing into the first cab that was waiting at the curb, Jill told the driver the name of our hotel. The cab appeared to be a family van that doubled as a cab. Delicate, white lace doilies covered the headrests.
“These are pretty,” Jill said.
“Some of my wife’s handiwork,” said the driver.
He was a bald man dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt and a red and green plaid vest, and he welcomed us to his hometown by telling us a variety of details about the surrounding area. He had to be at least in his seventies. His grandfather, he said, had come from England and helped settle this province.
“You’ll find my city to be the most English city outside of England. That’s what I tell everyone who comes here. They all agree with me. You will, too.”
“I’m sure we will,” Jill said.
“What do you recommend we do while we’re here?” I asked.
“It’s a nice time of year to go punting. On the Avon. You can hire out a man, and he’ll take you. Don’t know that they’d let two young ladies such as yourselves hire out a skiff on your own.”
His accent was tricky to understand, but I guessed he was talking about going on a boat on the Avon River so I said, “Sounds like fun.”
The cab pulled up in front of our bed-and-breakfast, and Jill drew in an appreciative breath. “Look at this house!”
“It looks like the Fontaine Restaurant,” I said. “Or I should say, it looks like the house your grandfather built.”
“Did you see the front door?” Jill asked after we had paid our driver and started to pull our wheeled suitcases up the front walkway.
“I love the stained glass.” I admired the attention to detail on this restored charmer. The walkway was lined with bright yellow marigolds and two large chrysanthemum plants at the bottom of the steps. The mums reminded me of Dorothea.
“Jill, let me get a quick picture of you at the bottom of the steps. I want to show Dorothea the mums.”
We took turns posing by the flowers, on the steps, and at the front door next to the stained glass.
“How about one by the railing,” I suggested.
“Oh, this porch brings back so many memories,” Jill said. “I love this wicker furniture.”
“Then let me get some shots of you in the wicker rocking chair.”
She chuckled. “You’re going to use up all your film in the first five minutes of our trip.”
“Don’t worry; its digital,” I said. “This is Tony’s favorite of our three cameras. I think my limit on this one is five hundred shots, so keep on posing!”
Jill rested her hands on the back of one of the chairs and struck a chin-up, noble-woman-on-a-mild-afternoon pose with a closed-lip, contented expression.
“All you need is a parasol,” I told her. “Or a tall glass of lemonade.”
“How about this?” Jill reached for a china teacup and saucer resting on the side table. The cup was half full, as if someone had stepped away and might be returning for the final three sips.
“It’s still warm!” She held the saucer in the palm of her hand and pretended to take a sip. “I feel like Goldilocks. You better take the picture quick before the three bears return.”
The front door opened tentatively. Instead of a bear of any sort, a fair-haired woman in a billowy white blouse looked at us shyly. “Hallo?”
Jill was not the only Goldilocks in this fairy-tale setting.
“Hi.” Jill laughed nervously and quickly returned the teacup to where she had found it. “We have reservations. The name is Radovich. We were just enjoying your beautiful porch.”
“Thank you,” our more relaxed hostess said. “Please come in.”
We stepped onto polished dark wood floors and listened as she explained with a hint of a British accent where the loo was located down the hall.
“You are both invited to enjoy the front porch, of course, and feel free to make use of the front parlor and breakfast room anytime you wish.”
We were shown to our room at the front of the house. The high ceiling was accented by a charming chandelier made from a lacy parasol hung so that the open part served as the shade.
“I love this light.” Jill gazed up at the parasol. “I’d like to hang a parasol like this in my bedroom.”
“I saw the idea in a magazine,” our hostess said. “I still have the magazine. You’re welcome to take it with you, if you like.”
“Thank you. Yes, I’d love to see how to hang a light like this.”
From the tall windows flowed sheer ivory curtains. The twin beds were separated by a gorgeous white table where an amber glass vase exploded with purple asters. On the dresser w
as an electric pot for heating water and an assortment of tea bags along with a china teapot and two matching china cups and saucers. Next to the teacups a plate of fancy chocolate truffles waited for us.
“This is charming,” Jill said. “Everything about your home is beautiful.”
“Thank you.” Our hostess gave a humble bow, as she left us to settle in.
“Does it remind you a lot of the house you grew up in?” I tried out the bed closest to the window.
“Only from the outside. Everything inside is different—the floor plan, the ceilings, the staircase. But I love it, don’t you?”
“I do. Especially our room. It feels as if we stepped into a party that’s all set up and waiting for us.”
“It does! So what are we waiting for? Let’s start to party!” Jill lifted the plate of goodies and graciously offered me first choice of the chocolates.
If I hadn’t already decided that I liked Jill as much as I did, that one gesture of offering me first choice of the chocolates would have cinched our friendship forever.
So, what should we do first?” I was leisurely enjoying the last drop of tea from one of the china cups that had been waiting for Jill and me in our lovely B&B bedroom in Christchurch. The chocolate lifted our adventurous spirits, and we were ready to take on the town.
“We should find a map first,” Jill suggested.
“I saw a rack of brochures in the front room when we came in. I’m sure a map would be there. I’ll go see what they have.”
“How about if I meet you in the front room in a minute? I’m going to change. It’s a lot warmer here than I thought it would be.”
I left Jill and browsed through the rack of travel brochures. The first brochure I pulled out gave information about one of the visitor centers that offered cultural presentations by the Maori.
On the back of the brochure the words, “Ki mai koe ki a au, he aha te med nui tenei ao,” appeared over a photo of a Maori warrior complete with a tattooed face, frighteningly popped-out eyes, and an open mouth in a roaring expression.
Sisterchicks Down Under Page 7
