She still had a temper, didn’t I know. She was still stubborn sometimes. But a steely part of her core had melted away with her tears. Francesca had finally come to a real understanding of the folly of Maude and Harry and herself and what that had meant over the last forty years. Enough was finally and truly enough. Some folks never see the top of that particular mountain, and I remember how I noted the change.
It rained the day they arrived. Maude’s hair was soaked and had no curl to it, not even a bend. She closely resembled a drowned rat sporting a drenched and wilting hat. Her too-slim figure was not enhanced by the sheath dress she’d picked up in Des Moines. In short, to Francesca, she was a sight for sore eyes.
“Lord, Maude, wouldn’t you know you’d bring woeful weather with you!” She hugged Maude who remained limp and unresponsive.
Francesca sailed gaily on. “Harry, Maude, you remember Matthew. Matthew, would you help Harry collect the luggage? Sarah, you rub that dog dry before you let her in the house!”
Aside from the fact that this was more words of friendly chatter in one minute than the two had shared in the previous five months, Francesca’s behavior to her sister was remarkable on other counts. Besides the hug, I saw them exchange a kiss for the first time in my life.
Obviously mystified, Maude and Harry glanced back and forth at one another in an effort to figure out what the devil was going on. A new game was afoot, and our visitors hadn’t quite figured out the rules.
Matthew was as taken aback as anyone. I don’t know how much Francesca had confided in him. But watching him watch her, I could see him warming up to the civility of the proceedings.
“I thought I’d give you the guest suite on the western side, Maude. I know how you always loved the view. How does that sound?”
Maude nodded slowly, waiting for the pit in the cherry bowl to manifest itself.
“Here, let’s go up the back stairs. I think it’ll be easier, don’t you? Sarah, if you think that dog is dry, you have another think coming.”
Maude mumbled something about its being a lot of work to ready a room that had been closed up for so long.
“Nonsense, nonsense! If I can’t spoil two of my favorite people, what’s the good of living in this great hulk of a house?”
“Really, Frances,” Harry broke in, “we’d be happy to take that little room on the first floor.”
There it was, a lump in the seam of the conversation. That little guest room on the first floor was currently housing one Matthew Mosley, bachelor, the idea caused a silence.
No one spoke a word for a long — one might even say pregnant — moment. Then, Francesca looked Harry right in the eye, smiled and said, “Matthew is staying there.”
I’m not sure Maude or Harry understood the entire significance of that admission. Maude started to say something, and Harry hurried her along with his hand in the small of her back. They were soon unpacking and putting clothes away before too much thinking was done.
The first thing Harry wanted to do, before going over Daddyboys’ accounts, before planning out the schedule of work we’d lined up for him, before anything, was to get his hands on the “Doozy,”
as I had taken to calling it. Matthew wasn’t too fond of this nickname, which is why I liked it so much.
“Duisenberg. Duisenberg! It’s got dignity, Sarah. It’s got tradition. Dui-sen-berg!”
Harry mooned over the car like a lover. He caressed the left rear fender while he spoke.
“This is the finest example of automotive craftsmanship I’ve ever seen. Of course, I saw a Doozy once before,” he said with a sigh to Matthew, who winced at the sound of that word, “In Paris. In the thirties, it was. A car to fit the times, I always thought. A woman owned it. I was told by a doorman that she was one of those fake countesses, or something. She’d race around the city, and gad! you could hear her coming for a mile. I always wondered if she’d poked holes in the damned muffler!”
Matthew had begun keeping the Silver Ghost in the barn on rainy days. Miss Blossom and RedBird didn’t seem to mind. He’d rigged a lamp up to a battery, the better to putter.
In a thrice, Matthew had the heavy hood up and was showing Harry some of the innovations in the engine. You can’t imagine how impressive it looked, like some huge sleeping python curled in upon itself. It was clean as a whistle.
“Judas Priest!” exclaimed Uncle Harry. “Look at that! Takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”
Matthew basked in the ensuing stream of compliments.
“Smell this interior,” Harry remarked while smacking his lips. “Prewar. You can’t get leather like this anymore. And the woodworking is all hand-done … you can see it! Say, you wouldn’t mind starting her up, would you?”
“Mind? Are you kidding? Sarah?” Matthew said with a mischievous grin.
Looking very smug, I carefully opened the driver’s side and slid onto the soft seat under the steering wheel. I primed the engine, ignited her, and a roar echoed through the barn, causing the horses to prance restlessly in their stalls. It was a moment of pure power, my power as much as the car’s, and I could see that Uncle Harry was impressed. He didn’t say a word, which was even better.
“Rev the engine now, Sarah,” Matthew said.
And I did, taking care to keep the pressure slow and steady. The engine’s growl was even deeper and more satisfying. Lovely!
At that moment, Francesca appeared at the barn door. Flicking her umbrella twice, she had to yell to be heard.
“If you are about finished in here, we need you at Main House for lunch.”
“We’ll be right there, Franny, dear,” answered Matt with a grin.
Harry snuck a peek at Matthew out of the corner of his eye.
After clearing the lunch dishes away, we sat back down around the kitchen table. Francesca handed Harry a list of appointments she’d made for the folks of Lost Nation who needed car repairs.
“This seems fine, Franny.”
Franny? Now, that was odd. I could tell Maude thought so, too. My grandmother didn’t even blink as she responded.
“As you can see, I’ve left four days for the Clinton County Fair, the 16th to the 19th. That’ll give us plenty of time to celebrate Sarah’s birthday properly.”
“It’s an important one, isn’t it?” chimed in Aunt Maude. “I remember when I was about to start my double-digit years. I hounded poor Mums for high-buttoned heeled shoes.”
“You did?” I asked in disgust. “Why ever for?”
“I couldn’t wait to be grown up, I guess,” she answered. “Frances was always the tomboy. I was much more … well … ladylike, I guess you could say.”
Suddenly, Maude’s face fell. You could tell she realized she’d accidentally hurled a gauntlet down right there in the center of the table. She looked quickly at Francesca and was about to say something mollifying when Francesca only laughed heartily.
“You’re still much more ladylike, Maude! That’s not exactly a state secret.”
You could have pushed our entire little group over with a feather.
“Now,” Francesca continued, still smiling, “When we go to Clinton, I think we can all fit in the Duisenberg. At least, that is Matthew’s and my plan if you have no objection.”
“I, for one, can hardly wait,” sighed Uncle Harry approvingly.
“I’ve booked rooms at the Lakeview Court.”
“Oh, Frances!” said Maude, “We haven’t stayed there since we were teenagers. What fun!” She clapped her hands together.
“And I’ve written ahead and made reservations for dinner on the 17th for the five of us at Federico’s.”
Oh, boy. This might turn out to be an okay birthday after all, Paris or no Paris.
Federico’s! They made little bread ball things laced with garlic. And eggplant parmegiana that tasted nothing at all like eggplant. It positively melted in your mouth. They served egg creams and Dr. Brown sodas, because Papa Federico and his family had come all the way from New York.
I always ordered something they called bruschetta, which consisted of triangles of thick bread covered with tomato wedges drenched in olive oil, onions, oregano, dill and garlic.
But the dessert was the best: frozen banana skins filled with whippy-soft homemade fruit-flavored sherbets.
Man oh man! The Big 10 was going to be perfect. It was going to be a perfect birthday.
“Seems to me a special present might be the order of the day, and I don’t mean something practical,” said Uncle Harry. “Frivolous, that’s the ticket. Or something whimsical. What do you say, Franny?”
Francesca looked at Harry in a way I had never seen her look at him before. She was about to answer him when the Clack mail truck rattled into the yard.
The rain had let up momentarily, but the path to the driveway was covered with four inches of water. Matthew ran out the back screen door, which slammed firmly behind him, and over to the car where Hunny was still sorting out our loot for the day. I watched out through the window.
“At last!” she cried in triumph, “I knew I had it here somewhere.”
She pushed the package toward Matt. “Sign here, please. And how is everyone today? That’s Harry and Maude’s car, isn’t it? Thought
I saw them drive through town earlier. You tell Sarah not to open this until her birthday, says so right on the wrapping. Bye, now!”
It was a huge box with wonderful French postage stamps across the right-hand top. I knew Uncle Harry collected stamps, so I graciously offered them to him.
“Great, Sarah. Love to have them.”
Maude broke in, “But isn’t there a letter?”
“Here it is! It was inside!” I yelled, waving the peach-colored envelope around in the air.
“Well, open it, Sweetchild.” Francesca delighted me as only she could when she called me by my favorite nickname.
“Let’s see … ‘Dear kind folks and gentle people’ … that’s us. ‘We are, how you say, truly Frenchified as of this ecrivant.”
“That means ‘writing,’ but doesn’t it sound so much better in French!” laughed Maude.
Our stay at the CINQ is nearing an end. Rachael and I could live here forever, if it weren’t for the large hole in our hearts which can only be filled with your presence. We have dined at the Moulin Rouge. We’ve driven madly around the Arc de Triomphe, fearing for our lives. We’ve trailed lazily down the Seine on a barge and been extended a private tour of the Louvre.
We’ve seen the sun set through the fabled rose window of Notre Dame de la Cite. We’ve bohemed it up and down the left bank (rive gauche) and shunned umbrellas in the rain, like real Parisians.
We even attended a party at the American Consulate last night. All très grand, with liveried footmen no less! And we ran into an officer with the Allied forces here who was the principal of a high school in Clinton before the war!
I flipped the page over.
We talked about the fair there and wouldn’t you know he’d heard of Frances the fearless race car driver? But our true meeting of the minds came over the subject of trout fishing. The officer said he’d rather talk trout than turkey any time.
The upshot is, it seems we’re some kind of removed cousins on his wife’s side and they’ve invited us to visit them at ‘The Villa’ in the
South of France next week! (His money came from Daddy’s Daddy, not Uncle Sam, so Harry, don’t you worry about his wasting the taxpayers’ do-re-mi.).
Mr. Toynbee is all for the trip and hopes to lure me into writing a little article about how small the world is getting. Imagine me, Clayton Louis Morgan, a paid writer! I shall have to wear flowing coats and take to calling my self C.L.
Mr. Toynbee has some bee in his bonnet about my ‘hidden talents’ and is bound and determined to mine them, like gold dust from the mother lode. Well, he’ll be disappointed soon enough.
We miss you all.
Harry, watch out for Tom Blackfeather’s truck. I’ve promised him you can make the same magic I do. I can’t thank you and Maude enough for everything.
Daddyboys
“The South of France,” Francesca twinkled. “How many kings and harlots bathed in the sun there, I wonder?”
“Wait! There’s something from Mother, too.” I read from another piece of paper.
Dear Mother and sweet Sarah,
This has been the finest and best time of my life. I only wish you two could be here with me to make the experience complete. You should see the shoes I bought. Red, red, red! And I purchased a petticoat to match. Won’t Lost Nation melt with envy?
Love and kisses to you and Aunt Maude and Uncle Harry.
Rachael.
“Chance of a lifetime, that’s what it was,” remarked Harry.
Francesca took his hand in hers and patted it. Then, she got up and kissed her sister on the cheek.
“They couldn’t have gone except for your generosity. Don’t forget that.”
I was getting a little more used to this hugging and kissing stuff. But it still seemed odd to see Francesca act this way.
Matthew had been silent most of the afternoon, which wasn’t unusual. The letter seemed to spark some life into him as he suddenly became downright chatty.
“Fran and I thought we’d cook dinner together tonight. We’ve been saving some quail in the freezer just for your visit. And,” he said, turning to me and winking, “we thought we’d play some cards later.
“I love bridge!” said Maude enthusiastically.
“Well, actually,” answered Matt, drawing out the phrase in a purely Oklahoma style, “we’re kinda partial to poker.”
“Haven’t got enough players for a competitive game,” Harry broke in.
“Oh, yes, we do, Harry, my man. Sarah makes five.”
Maude’s jaw dropped.
“You can’t play poker with a child!”
“We only bet pennies, nickels and dimes. Most you lose is a dollar. Besides, it teaches the girl arithmetic,” Matthew explained as he rooted around the hall closet for a deck of cards.
Maude snorted. “Does her mother know about this?”
“Her mother,” said Francesca, “is in Paris, France wearing red shoes and red petticoats and drinking champagne from the bottle. I can’t see how even Rachael could object to a friendly card game.”
“How could that child afford to lose a whole dollar?” Maude couldn’t think of anything else to say at the moment.
“Who says she’ll lose?” asked Matt.
“But it’s gambling!” said Maude.
“With the devil as dealer,” said Francesca with a laugh.
After dinner, which was the best meal I ever ate at Main House cooked by a man, I ran up to my bedroom to get “the stash,” which was nothing more than a piggy bank Grandpap had made me. It was huge and had four different-sized slots for coins that led down into four separate compartments. I’d saved enough money over the years to have started my very own savings account the Christmas of 1943.
Buy-in for the game was a dollar. White chips were pennies, red chips were nickels, and blues were dimes. I took out two dollars’ worth of quarters and jangled them around in my pocket as I ran back down to the kitchen.
“Best quail I ever ate,” said Harry, patting his stomach. “Can’t imagine myself ever whipping up something that gourmet. Quite impressive, Matthew.”
“They were almost sweet,” added Maude, who dried each dish until the pattern was almost worn off. “What did you use, Matt?”
“Triple Sec,” he answered, counting out the chips. Ten whites, six reds and six blues for each person. I could hardly breathe, I was so excited.
“I never heard of that,” said Maude. “Whatever is it?”
“A liqueur, my dear,” said Harry. “Matthew, what do you say to a drop of pretty good brandy? I brought some with me.”
“You twisted my arm, Harry.”
“Here’s my money, Matt,” I said.
“Good girl. Fast pay makes fast friends.”
Maude
started up again. “Frances, this is wrong. I just can’t sit here and … ”
“Maude, shut up.” That was the grandmother I knew. Still, Maude sat back in her chair with her mouth hanging open in surprise.
“You heard her, Maudie,” Uncle Harry said lightly. “Shut up.”
Maude had the grace to smile back. “Why are you all ganging up on me?”
“No ganging up … Let’s just leave any future disputes to the wisdom of Mr. Hoyle,” Francesca said as she set a large bowl of black cherries down on the table next to Matt.
Edmond Hoyle was a writer best known for his works on the rules and play of card games and a favorite of Francesca’s, who quoted him accurately and often.
Over the course of our evening, Matt and Harry began partaking of the brandy at a freer rate. The more they drank, the looser their tongues. Also, the worse they played.
“Count your money on your own time, Sarah,” Matt growled the third time he bought in for more chips.
Matthew and Harry were getting along like two fraternity brothers, an alliance that seemed to provoke Francesca, who was downing hard cider.
Her cheeks grew flushed as her repartee grew pithy. The more she flung her humor around the room, the more Harry and Matt roared with delight.
Francesca was a good card player who happened to like wild games. Baseball was her favorite, with threes, sevens and nines wild and fours bringing you another down card. You had to pay a nickel for the threes and the fours, which caused a lot of moaning and shrieking around the table. You don’t even think of staying in the fray with less than four of a kind.
Some of the conversation and most of the strategy seemed to bounce right over Maude’s head. She’d been awfully sheltered during her life, considering she was a married woman and lived in a good-sized city. She looked like she couldn’t decide what to make of the whole experience. Then, she took a couple of nips of the cider and bluffed us all out of a pot with an ace-high nothing of a hand. The more sips she took, the better her game. She even introduced us to Black Mariah.
“High spade in the hole and high hand splits the pot,” Maude explained with a newfound confidence.
“Maude!” Harry bellowed. “Where the hell did you ever learn such a thing?”
Francesca of Lost Nation Page 12