Twillyweed (15 page)

Oliver relegated a trim slice of potato to his plate and cornered it at right angles to the fish with his knife, putting his fork on top of it as if he expected it to jump away or as though someone would snatch it. For such a big man, it was curious that he ate so delicately. And then there was Paige, the size of a dime and fingers like rose petals, wolfing it all down willy-nilly.

“Where is Radiance, now?” I asked.

“They've kept her one more day,” Mr. Piet said quietly, “just to be sure.”

“Don't fill up on bread and butter, Wendell,” Paige warned sharply.

Oliver said, “This wine will interest you, Claire. It's local, but fetching. What do you think?”

I took a sip. It was white and crisp and cold. “Good.”

He began to tell me about all the vineyards that were established now along the North Shore. At the other end of the table I overheard Paige exclaim defensively, “I only let in one or two potential clients, for heaven's sake!”

Morgan murmured something in an annoyed tone and she answered back in a hasty whisper, “Well, last week you seemed so keen to sell!”

I kept my eyes dancing on Oliver, but I didn't hear a word he said. I was leaning sideways toward the two of them and I caught her sharp whisper, “I'm sure no one took anything!”

The housekeeper, Patsy Mooney, glowing with steam and energy, manned the pantry door. Her little eyes flew around the dinner plates to check who'd eaten what. Panting like she'd run the forty-yard dash, she passed to Mr. Piet, who scudded in and out and intermittently refilled our glasses with the greenish wine. Jenny Rose, I was happy to observe, knew just how to keep Paige—a pious Francophile—in her place, captivating her with naughty south-of-France tales. I love a dinner party, especially when there are servants and you won't have to pitch in at the end with the dishes and the food is terrific and the wine very good. Wendell surprised us and ate enthusiastically. We all did. After the fish, we had lemon sherbet with little flags of mint in pudding cups, and then came lamb chops, three apiece, resting in rosemary and lemon slices and rocking with garlic. There were bowls of asparagus and fresh spinach and candied carrots. We devoured these, too. It was all I could do not to pick up the lamb bones and gnaw on them.

Jenny Rose, who was seated beside me, whispered, “Aunt Claire, I want to talk to you.”

“Of course.”

“I need some advice.”

“Sounds cheap enough.”

“Tomorrow?” She glanced warily aside. “I'll just pop by, all right?”

“Perfect.” I sketched out a little map for her.

Her shoulders relaxed. “Heard from the fiancé?” she probed.

“No.”

“Well rid of him, I'd say.”

I had actually just decided that life might not be all that bad without Enoch when Paige Cupsand, who'd been watching us, reached across the table. “What's that in your ears?” She fingered one of my dangling earrings. “Why, are those buttons you're wearing? Darling, I do believe our guest is wearing buttons in her ears!”

The way she said it, for a moment I thought my first impression had been right after all. And then everyone laughed and I laughed with them. I realized she was simply voicing her surprise. I returned to my delicious asparagus.

Morgan Donovan didn't join in the laughter, though. He left his chair to refresh his hard-liquor drink and came over to me from behind, lightly touching the dangling Lilliput along the way. My neck hairs prickled.

Oliver Cupsand, who'd been savoring his food with a closed-mouth happy chew, noticed this exchange. He patted his lips with his napkin and said pointedly, “Jenny Rose didn't mention her aunt was a famous photographer.”

Morgan regained his seat. “I had to hear it from your old employer. …”

I was a little disappointed to think Morgan acted as secretary for Oliver. “Well, it's been a while—” I began.

“Not only that,” Morgan said, eyes glittering, “but it seems our guest is responsible for solving a murder.”

Oliver looked up in surprise. “You didn't tell me that.”

Actually, it was more like several murders, but who was I to toot my own horn?

Paige enthused, “A famous photographer! You are absolutely in the right place! I'm sure you'll be portraying our little town as soon as—”

And then, to my astonishment, Jenny Rose took it upon herself to interrupt again, announcing, “Auntie Claire needs some time to recoup, I think. Her bed-and-breakfast burned down in a fire and on top of that, she's just found out her fiancé is gay.”

Oliver, just loosening his belt, revolved in his chair and gaped at me. This was just the sort of impudent behavior I'd feared from Jenny Rose. Some people you can just count on not to keep their mouths shut.

“Oh, my dear,” Paige cried. “How awful!”

“Yes, it was, really,” I admitted. Well, what did I care if everyone knew? It was all true.

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Only my pride,” I joked weakly, wishing with all my heart someone would pass around the asparagus again without my asking.

“Was anyone hurt in the fire … ?”

“Oh. No. Just everything I owned was lost. I had insurance, but—”

“And your fiancé?” Oliver probed, fascinated.

“It wasn't because of the fire. We actually got together because of the fire, if you can believe it.” I looked from Jenny Rose's face to my feet in Mrs. Dellaverna's Italian shoes. “Quite recently. It was just this past Christmas. … Romantic, I thought at the time. The truth is that I was as much to blame. I gave my love too soon, before I had the chance to know him. You see, he was so understanding and helpful. My ex-husband­ has always been the guy everybody wants to hang out with. You know, charismatic and fun, but not much use when it comes to real life. He was a loving father, to give the devil his due, but a degenerate gambler, to be honest. I thought Enoch—that's his name, Enoch—I thought he'd be reliable and safe, you know?”

“Don't think about it,” Oliver tried to soothe me.

I shook my head. “If I purposely try never to think of him, he'll always be half there, nudging at my consciousness. What happened was that both my children went back to college, my son's at Villanova—he's a biochem major—and my daughter studies philosophy at Providence, and once they're gone … it's amazing but it's as though they forget all about you. I know they don't really but that's what it feels like. All those years of love and having them around and then, poof, you drop them off at some ivy-covered building and if they answer your messages twice a week it's a lot.” I heard the whine in my voice. “Oh, I know they're all like that in the beginning. It's just … hard to get used to. …” I looked at my hands. Even I had stopped eating. “Well, anyway, I let myself get involved too quickly with Enoch. I see that now. It becomes now suddenly clear that his … tastes lay elsewhere.” I felt sorry for myself and had to shake my head briskly so I wouldn't start blubbering. I held my ear in my hand and pressed hard. “And now, because I came out to see Jenny Rose, one thing's led to another and, well, here I am!” And then, looking around the table at these faces and with a gush of sudden clarity, I realized what exactly I was feeling. Not sorrow. I lifted the delicate glass of white wine to my lips and tasted its clear refreshment. What I was feeling was relief.

“My dear, you can count on us.” Paige leaned across and covered my hand with her light touch. “We're not going to desert you, are we, Oliver?”

Oliver, fully in favor of such melodrama, poured himself another glass of wine. “Certainly not,” he swore, his face steamed and flustered with outrage for all mistreated womankind.

Paige, smiling kindly at me, reached into her sleeve and handed me her lace-trimmed handkerchief. I thought,
This gal's really something
.
No wonder Morgan Donovan is going to marry her. I'd marry her myself if I were a man
. She was perfect. Ironed lace-trimmed handkerchief at the ready. Who had such things? And of course she was still of childbearing age. He could raise a family with her. What was she, thirty-five? Thirty-six? Still ripe. Still bleeding. Still juicy. What had I been thinking? Dried-up old me. He was just sorry for me. And of course I could be useful. You want something done, you get an old broad to do it. He knew that. That was what he'd said, wasn't it? Well, look, I told myself. I'd had a good run. I felt his eyes upon me. If Enoch wasn't what he'd seemed, then I hadn't been either. How could I have been, having feelings for a perfect stranger right after I'd caught my guy in the clinch? I tried to think reasonably. I wanted to fit in. I should be happy just to be here with these intriguing people. I realized I had to rethink this. Morgan was taken. That much was clear. I had this perfectly respectable, handsome, appropriately aged, funny, rich—I repeat—rich guy right in front of me. So what was so terrible? A movie or dinner would be so bad? People grow to appreciate each other, after all. I smiled wryly and attempted to move on, “Jenny Rose, I was wondering if your paintings had arrived?”

“Oh, yeah. Truth be told, I haven't even unpacked them yet.”

I remembered what she'd said about her disappointment at that art gallery in Cannes. Disregarding present company and fortified with wine, I urged, “Don't let some man who knows nothing about you stop your passion from becoming real!”

Jenny Rose blushed furiously. She rolled her eyes and made a face, saying, “Hey! Don't take it so seriously. It's not like I'm Cézanne or something.”

It was interesting that she chose Cézanne, because if there were one artist whose work hers reminded me of, it was him. I cleared my throat. “Please, don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to tell you what to do. It's just … you're letting one person's judgment interfere with your future—your whole life.” And then I heard myself telling these people I hardly knew, “Years ago, when I still thought of myself as an artist, someone told me that I had no talent. I'd just arrived in Germany and still had hopes of becoming a real painter. He was a critic, an art critic. I took what he said to heart and stopped drawing and painting. I stopped right then. I will say he didn't leave me without hope. I had these photos I'd taken of scenes I intended to paint one day. He pointed out that as a photographer I really did have talent. I followed his lead and pursued photography. What I'm trying to say is that I took his word as truth. Even though all my life until then I'd wanted to be a painter, I let a perfect stranger dictate my future—tell me what was meant for me.”

Just then, along came an intricate, show-offy salad, all aged balsamic candied pecans and oak leaves and goat's cheese and cranberry bits at the bottom. We groaned appreciatively.

I went on, “It's not like I didn't have a wonderful career as a photographer. But there are times I pass the odd gallery and I peek in and think, wow, that could have been me, you know?”

And from the end of the table, behind Oliver's chair, Mr. Piet, who'd stood perfectly still in the shadow for the last of my soul searching, said, “Like: I could have been a contender?”

“Yeah.” I smiled and looked into his deep brown eyes. “Like that.”

Jenny Rose, who'd been watching me skeptically, pushed away her salad, fell back in her chair, and yawned and stretched with a great show of nonchalance. “All right, all right. I promise I'll think about what you said.”

I added with heat, “Any talent I might have had is nothing compared to yours.”

“Hmm. Really?” Paige's fork stopped in midair and she regarded Jenny Rose with new interest. “And do you do portraits?”

“She surpasses herself with portraiture,” I told them all.

Paige said to Oliver, “That's perfect. She can do Wendell and you.”

“I'd rather do you, to start.” Jenny Rose closed one eye and scrutinized Paige.

Well done
, I thought.

Mr. Piet hurriedly collected the dishes and returned with a purple cake decorated with nasturtium. “Oh, you must try it!” Paige insisted. “It's raspberry-jam filling surrounded by layers of real whipped cream. Those are edible flowers.”

Obediently, we gorged our way through another achingly delectable gamut of textures.

“I have an idea!” Paige turned to me. “You can do our wedding pictures.”

If I'd have wanted to do weddings, I'd have stayed in Queens and opened a shop on Austin Street. Still, it would be ungracious to refuse. “Any photographer would be privileged to shoot you,” I compromised by saying—a little too late—and hoping she wouldn't exactly take it the wrong way. And, yes, I admit it, sort of hoping she would.

When the meal was done and Jenny Rose had taken Wendell off to bed, the rest of us traipsed through to the living room. I stayed behind and struggled to rearrange the crotch of my tights, which kept creeping down my thighs.

Paige turned in the doorway. “Is something the matter?” she frowned.

“
Tch
. My tights. They don't fit,” I confided.

“You have to go to CVS, just south on Carpenter Avenue for tights. That's where I get mine. Here. I'll write it down. Let me get my pen.” She went to her desk and riddled through it. Then she went through her purse, but it wasn't there either.

I said, “There's a pencil on the desk.”

She wrinkled her forehead, “It's not that. I seem to have lost my good pen.”

Aha
, I thought. I was about to say I'd seen a fancy pen at the cottage, but something—perhaps the culpability that crossed her face—held me back. She wrote the way to the shop on a piece of stationery with a pencil and then led me through to another elegant room, this one with tall ceilings lined with shelves stocked with fancy books, everything wood paneled and with a fire blazing at one end. Even the crown moldings wore tooled etchings. A grand piano, off center, graced an antique gold-and-ruby Persian carpet. A library. It was certainly one of the most impressive rooms I'd ever been in. I said so.