by Nancy Thayer
“Stop it!” she scolded herself, and ripping her attention away from the mirror, she went back down the stairs—slowly, so she wouldn’t fall—and into the kitchen to turn the burner on under the teakettle.
She took out the flowered Limoges teapot that had belonged to her grandmother and filled it with loose leaves of Earl Grey. Running her hands over the rounded belly of the pot, she admired its classical lines, delicate painted flowers, and brilliant gilding. All her life she’d intended to pass this tea set down to Laura.
During her visit to San Francisco this Thanksgiving, Faye had realized that Laura would never use this pot. Would never want to use this pot. The life Laura and Lars lived was so different from Faye’s. Streamlined. Urban. Modern. And, it seemed to Faye, centered around electronic equipment. Lars and Laura were always on the computer or cell phone. Megan, at four, spent what to Faye were inappropriate amounts of time in front of the computer and television. Or else she was shipped off to the expensive, elite neighborhood preschool, while her little brother, only six months old, dawdled in a play-pen at the accompanying nursery. Lars worked endless hours, and Laura also worked, in her own way, keeping to a rigorous exercise routine with her trainer at the local health club, supervising the live-in housekeeper/ baby-sitter, attending committee meetings for the chicest charities, and planning cocktail and dinner parties for Lars’s partners and potential clients.
It amazed Faye how different Laura was in San Francisco from the way she’d been just three short years ago, when Megan was still an infant. Laura had been depressed and overwhelmed with the responsibilities of motherhood. Now, somehow, she’d found herself; she’d entered that kind of “I am woman, hear me roar” phase that Faye could remember from her early days as a young mother. Laura had had her thick, long hair, for so many years tumbling to her shoulders, sheared into a kind of skullcap that made her eyes huge. She had lost more weight than Faye considered healthy, and racing around in her tight, rather athletic-looking clothing, she resembled a young boy, or an elf.
And she was radiantly happy.
The children were thriving, Lars looked at Laura with adoration, they were all having great fun—and their lives were so different from Faye’s!
They loved California. They’d never return to the East Coast.
As Faye flew home from her visit, she’d leaned her head against the window of the huge humming plane, considering all this, trying to come to terms with the truth of it, struggling not to feel rejected, or disappointed, or solitary. Or, admitting she was solitary, but capable of making this phase of her life into one she not merely survived, but actually enjoyed. After all, she had her friends, she had a beau, and now, again, thanks to Ruth, she had her work.
The thought of Ruth’s portrait, waiting for her in the little bedroom/studio, lifted Faye’s spirits. The picture was finished; Faye had had it framed, and was keeping it until Christmas, when Ruth would present it to Marilyn.
It was a good portrait.
Somehow, as if a spell had been lifted, Faye was painting again. Really working.
Just before Faye left for San Francisco, while she was getting ready to take apart the little scene she’d set up, her attention had been captured by the way the light fell on the birds’ nests in Ruth’s portrait. The scratchy texture of the nests and the subtle, varied hues of the dried grasses challenged her. An image appeared in her mind— a still life of the nests, juxtaposed with fresh flowers. Daffodils? No. Something autumnal. Mums? Perhaps a sheaf of bright mums, lying on their side, their fluffy petals silky against the crisp grass of the nests—that would be fun to try to capture. During her stay in California, the thought of that still life nestled against her heart like a gold locket.
So that was what she was returning to: her work. It had always been part of who she was, why she lived, and now it had regained its place in her life. This year, she hadn’t bothered to put up a tree in the kitchen. The little blue spruce in the living room was much smaller than any she’d ever had before. Since she’d been home, she’d been absolutely high, full of energy, eager to get to work every day, obsessed with thoughts of building a real studio in her back garden, so interested in her work that she considered Christmas a kind of interruption.
Three days ago, Carolyn Sperry had phoned and asked if she could meet with Faye. Regarding a business proposal, she had added, mysteriously.
Of course, Faye, always polite, had agreed, but she’d thought, Egad! Now what? She knew Carolyn wanted Aubrey to date Polly, but would she be brazen enough to offer Faye money to stop seeing her father? What else could she mean by a business proposition?
As Faye set out the teacups, cream and sugar bowls, and silver spoons on the tray, she saw that her hands were shaking.
“I liked it better last year,” Alice mused thoughtfully, as she reclined on a sofa in the lounge of The Haven, cuddling her namesake in her arms. She drove out almost every day, to take care of baby Alice so Jennifer could take a bath or a nap.
Shirley, kneeling on the floor amid a crackling muddle of wrapping paper, paused to study the Christmas tree. “I know. Me, too. It’s bigger than last year’s tree, so all the ornaments are there, but it still lacks something.”
“Maybe we should hang some tinsel?” With the tip of her finger, Alice pushed back the blanket around the baby just a millimeter, so she could see all of her smooth, curving cheek.
Shirley watched Alice gaze adoringly upon her granddaughter. “Maybe some pacifiers and booties?” she teased.
“Maybe,” Alice cooed.
“Oh, Alice!” Shirley laughed.
Alice looked up. “What?” She focused. “No, hey, I heard you. I mean it. What if we hung little bits on the tree that symbolized what we’re celebrating this Christmas? Pacifiers would be cute! And some lacy tags from Havenly Yours. And since Marilyn went to Scotland, she could hang bagpipes, or little Loch Ness Monsters . . .”
“Are you nuts? You know Marilyn broke it off with Ian because of her mother. That’s certainly nothing to celebrate, and as for me—I could hang, um, let me see, what have I achieved this year—oh, I know! A broken heart!”
Alice’s face fell. “That’s not all you’ve achie—” Shirley waved her hands. “I’m sorry, Alice, forgive me for being such a pill.” Pushing aside a roll of wrapping paper, Shirley lay back on the floor, stretching, closing her eyes.
“You’re not a pill.” Alice said everything in a light, breathy voice, so she wouldn’t wake the infant in her arms. “But you’re not at ‘The End,’ either. You’re just kind of at a station, waiting for a train.”
“I don’t know.” Shirley allowed herself to be honest. “It’s been over three months, Alice, since Justin hit the road.”
“Since you righteously kicked his nasty ol’ ass out of here,” corrected Alice.
“Whatever. Since I’ve been with a man.” Self-pity struck her. She sat up, as if she could physically move away from it, grabbed a present, centered it on a square of paper covered with dancing reindeer, and grabbed the scissors. “I wish I could be the kind of woman who doesn’t need a man!”
“Well, you are, in many ways.” Alice leaned sideways, stretched out an arm, and grabbed her cup of tea from the table. “I mean, you’re professionally and financially self-sufficient. It’s not like you lack meaning in your life.”
“I know. I know.” Shirley measured a length of scarlet ribbon and snipped. “Still . . .”
“Still, you’re happier with a man around.” The baby squirmed and squinched up her face. Alice loosened the blanket around little Alice’s feet and retucked it.
“Yes, who isn’t?” Shirley said, defensively.
“I’m not arguing.”
“That’s a first,” Shirley muttered under her breath.
Alice just smiled. “All right, we’ve named the problem. What can we do about it?”
“I wish I knew!” She reached for another box.
“Let’s see.” Alice tapped her lower lip with one long
, red nail. “If I met Gideon at the symphony, and Polly met Hugh at the doctor’s, and Marilyn met Ian while traveling, then how . . .”
“Sounds like there’s a light-bulb joke in there,” Shirley chuckled.
Alice brightened. “I know! Remember last year? We all found one single man for Faye to date.”
“Yes, and remember last year? When none of them worked out? Faye met Aubrey at our open house, by accident.”
“Hm.” Alice subsided against the sofa. “You’re right. Well, then, let’s think of places where you could meet a guy.”
Shirley set a present under the tree. “Not here, because mostly women come here.”
“Okay, how about a bookstore?”
“Right. I’ll just lounge around the auto repair section.”
“That’s not a bad idea.”
“Actually,” Shirley said, as she cut along another roll of paper, “I’m kind of off books in general, after Justin.”
“Understood. What kinds of clubs could you join? Or maybe you could take some courses. Remember, you met Justin when you took that business management seminar.”
“That might work. But not until after the first of the year. So that’s another month without getting laid.”
Alice pointed a finger at Shirley. “Is that all you want? Think about it. Remember how old you are. Men your age, our age, aren’t going to be as lusty as younger men.”
“So I’ll date younger men.”
“I don’t think that’s smart. You seem to get in trouble with younger men. Besides, Shirley, men are already, naturally, psychologically younger than women. You were dating Justin, who was fifty, which was sort of like dating someone, oh, forty-two, but if you date someone sixty-three, he’ll be fifty-five.”
“Maybe psychologically or intellectually, but sexually, to date a man who’s fifty, I need to date a man who’s forty.” Confused, Shirley threw up her hands. “Look. I’ll date anyone any age, but first I have to meet someone, and I don’t seem to be doing that!”
Alice leaned her head against the sofa and closed her eyes. “We’re two creative, intelligent women. We ought to be able to find a solution. I mean, even a hundred years ago, women answered ads as mail-order brides, so—” She sat up, swung around, set her feet on the floor, and faced Shirley. “I’ve got it. We’ll sign you up on an online dating service. Match.com or something like that.”
Shirley looked at Alice. “Hmmmm.”
“It’s brilliant!” Alice said. “Tell me it’s not.”
Thoughtfully, Shirley twirled a strand of hair. “I’m not so sure about brilliant, but it could be fun . . .”
“Let’s go try it out now!” Alice said, getting to her feet.
“But I’m not through wrapping—”
“Oh, you can do that later! Come on!” Alice clopped away across the parquet floor, and in her arms, little Alice made kissy movements with her mouth as she slept.
“Your house is really lovely,” Carolyn told Faye as she settled on the sofa by the fire. Carolyn was clad in a snug-fitting camel pantsuit that set off her sleek blond hair. She looked chic, young, and terrifying.
“Thank you.” Faye finished the tea ritual and handed Carolyn a cup of steaming Earl Grey. She felt like a hippo entertaining a gazelle. Leaning back in her chair, she aimed for a pose of relaxed confidence, but even though Carolyn had seemed friendly so far, Faye knew that if she tried to lift her cup off its saucer, everything would chatter like teeth in the Arctic.
“Delicious.” Carolyn sipped her tea, and with steady hands, returned the wafer-thin cup to its saucer. “Faye, I’ll get right to the point. I think the Christmas card you sent us is absolutely beautiful. And when I was here for your Halloween party, I saw your paintings. Aubrey told me you did wonderful work, but I had no idea. Your paintings are exceptional.”
“Thank you.” Faye’s infinite relief sparked off a hot flash.
“Sperry Paper is hitting hard times,” Carolyn continued. “We’ve got so much competition these days. We produce premier-quality, personal stationery, but we’re looking for ways to branch out. I’d like to put out a line of note cards, with your paintings reproduced on the front. Some of what you’ve already done would work well for what I have in mind. But I’m hoping you wouldn’t be averse to creating a few scenes especially for our purposes. Holiday scenes, for example, and occasion scenes. Birthdays. Anniversaries. That sort of thing.”
Faye was stunned. If she’d been standing, she would have fallen down. As it was, she was overwhelmed, her brain short-circuited with shock.
Apparently Carolyn was used to causing this sort of response. “I’ve mentioned it to Father, by the way, and he thinks it’s an excellent idea.” When Faye still didn’t speak, Carolyn shifted on the sofa, crossing one sleek leg over the other. Her hand fiddled with the heavy gold chain around her neck—the only sign that she might be nervous herself. “I realize I haven’t been what you might consider welcoming over the past few months. I apologize. My father’s been very happy since he’s been dating you, and I want you to know I’ll stop trying to match him up with Polly. I can be stubborn and I like to have my own way, but I know when it’s time to quit.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Faye admitted. Deep breaths, she reminded herself.
Carolyn’s cell phone rang. She reached into her handsome leather briefcase and shut it off. “I don’t want you to feel pressured about this. Obviously, this business arrangement stands completely apart from your relationship with my father.”
Faye finally managed to speak. “I’m so glad. I like your father very much. And I’d like to be your friend, too—” She noticed Carolyn’s slight flinch. “—although I realize, what with your baby and running your business, you don’t have much time for friendships.”
Carolyn smiled. “Sometimes I can be a wicked, cold bitch, I know.”
“That’s all right,” Faye assured her. “I’ve met worse. And I like your idea about the note cards. I’ve just started painting again. When my husband died, I—lost interest for a while. But now, well—would you like to come up to my studio to see the still life I’ve set up? And I’ve got some old paintings stored there as well. You might want to look through them, to see if you like something, to give me an idea of the sort of thing you’ve got in mind.”
“I’d love to see them.” Carolyn stood up, eager.
Faye stood up, too, and when she set her cup and saucer on the table, her hands were as steady as if she were holding a brush.
29
MARILYN WAS DREAMING. IT WAS THANKSGIVING, OR perhaps Christmas—some holiday. She was at a party with her Hot Flash friends, and all their acquaintances, and lots of other people, too. Glamorous men and women laughed and drank Champagne. Marilyn’s mother clutched her arm tightly, afraid of getting lost in the crowd. Suddenly, they were all called in to dinner. Marilyn found her place card next to Ruth’s at a table with a few strangers in a room annexed to the main room. Slices of turkey lay on her plate, but nothing else. Marilyn sneaked a look around the corner of the door into the other room, where her friends sat at a long table laden with bowls and platters of delicious, aromatic food: creamed onions, chestnut stuffing, garlic mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce.
“Could I have some mashed potatoes, please?” Marilyn whimpered.
No one even noticed her.
Marilyn woke up with a start. It was seven in the morning. She could hear Ruth fumbling around in the bathroom. She covered her eyes with her arm, letting the dream sift back into the recesses of her brain.
“Okay, now,” she said aloud. “That was just pathetic.”
Tying her striped bathrobe around her, she headed into the kitchen to start breakfast. She liked coffee; Ruth liked tea.
Cold rain streaked the windows, and even in this well-insulated building, she could hear the wind moan. Flicking on the television, she curled up in a chair and waited for the Weather Channel to give the local forecast. She never used to watch TV in the morning, o
r during the day at all, and only rarely watched it in the evening. She had so many research articles to read, or students’ papers to grade. But Ruth liked to have the television on all the time, and now that Marilyn was on sabbatical, she had no papers to grade or committee reports to read. She was supposed to be doing her research, but going to her lab made her squeamish these days, afraid she’d run into Faraday. She’d seen him several times since he broke off with her, and he’d always been polite, but clearly it was uncomfortable for them both.
“Good morning, dear!” Ruth toddled into the living room, clean, clothed, and fragrant with lavender cologne. She pecked a kiss on Marilyn’s cheek, then went into the kitchen to pour a cup of tea. “What’s on the schedule for today?” Ruth stirred milk into her very strong tea and added a teaspoon of sugar.
“I was thinking we’d get our tree.” Marilyn put a couple of eggs on to boil. “But it’s going to rain all day, perhaps turn to snow. Maybe we’d better wait until tomorrow.”
“If it snows later on, we could get it then. It’s always fun to choose Christmas trees in the snow.” Ruth dipped her spoon into the sugar bowl.
“You’ve already put your sugar in,” Marilyn told her.
Ruth giggled. “Oh, did I? I guess I have a sweet heart.”
“Sweet tooth,” Marilyn murmured as she popped bread into the toaster.
They settled down at the table, their eggs in their little cups, the clever egg-slicing device next to Ruth’s plate. It made Marilyn smile to watch her mother attend to the opening of her egg. It was a moment of pleasure and concentration for Ruth as she carefully fit the aluminum ring over the top of the egg and snipped the shell, then neatly lifted off the top bit of egg, revealing the shimmering yellow yolk inside the solid white.
“Perfection!” Ruth said, as she did every morning. She sprinkled salt and pepper on the egg, dipped in her spoon, and nearly purred with pleasure.
This is a moment in a life, Marilyn told herself. This is a good moment in a life that deserves lots of good moments.
She ate her own egg without much noticing its flavor. All food seemed bland these days. All life seemed bland— bleak.