The Four Seasons

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Jilly picked a corner from her croissant and delicately put it between her lips. “I wasn’t aware that I was wandering.”

  “She lives in Paris, Daddy,” Hannah said, as though he were a dolt.

  “In this family, living anywhere beyond a day’s drive is clearly exploring the wilds.” His countenance lightened. Then with a crooked smile he added, “And we do rejoice that you’ve returned.”

  She cracked a smile, forgiving him a little.

  Rose set a cup of coffee at the table beside a pitcher of fresh cream and a bowl of sugar. She clasped her hands, studying her table anxiously. “I know this isn’t as good as what you’re used to, but…”

  Jilly gratefully accepted the steaming cup of coffee and ignored the cream. “Mmm, Rose,” she said with an appreciative groan. “It’s better.”

  Rose’s chest swelled.

  While she sipped, Jilly discreetly eyed Dennis as he returned to his paper.

  Dennis Connor…He had aged exactly like she’d thought he would. He was always handsome, even in high school, in a mature, intellectual way that she’d once found attractive. Back then he’d worn his blond hair long to the shoulders and parted down the middle. His heavy eyeglass frames were a statement over his dark and piercing eyes and thick, arched brows. And that cleft in his chin. Lord, that dimple had turned quite a few heads back in high school. Hannah had his eyes and the cleft in her chin, she realized, amazed at genetics.

  His hair might have thinned at the crown, his body thickened at the waist, but he’d aged very well indeed. She might even say he was more attractive now, having grown into his mature appeal. There was no denying that Birdie was a lucky woman.

  “I can’t imagine living in Paris,” Hannah said with her chin in her palm. “How can you stand to come back to boring old Chicago? Or Milwaukee?” She rolled her eyes and reached for another croissant.

  “Are you sure you want that?” Dennis asked his daughter from over the newspaper.

  Hannah’s arm stiffened and she furtively glanced at Jilly. A faint red blush crept up her neck and ears. She slid her hand back into her lap, slumping her shoulders forward as though to somehow make herself smaller.

  Jilly’s heart cringed for her. She knew Dennis was trying to be helpful, but men could be such idiots! The last thing he needed to do to an overweight teenager was draw attention to that horrid fact.

  “Hannah,” Jilly said in a breezy manner, “pass me some of that grapefruit, would you? One of the first things I learned in modeling was to eat lots of fruit and drink gallons and gallons of water. It flushes out the system and leaves your skin glowing. It’s de rigueur. Here, darling, won’t you split a grapefruit with me? You know,” she continued, slicing through the fruit, “when I’m exhausted like I am now, I tend to pick at food all day without thinking. And I am absolutely exhausted now. So be my friend, would you? When you see me nibble, tell me to stop. I swear I won’t bite your head off.” She laughed, pleased to see Hannah’s frown lift to a shy smile. Lifting her spoon, Jilly dug into the grapefruit with relish.

  Hannah’s dark eyes lost their dullness as she reached for the other half of the grapefruit.

  Jilly was well aware of the lure modeling held for teenage girls. Her career gave her status. Eyeing Hannah, she thought her niece wasn’t so much fat as she was big, much as Birdie had been at that age. Except that Birdie was a champion swimmer with long, defined muscles as sleek and smooth as an otter’s. With her physique, coupled with her blazing confidence, she was magnificent. In contrast, Hannah was soft, slumped-shouldered and recalcitrant. That glorious sparkle of confidence that was such a hallmark of girls at this age was missing in this child.

  Looking up she was caught by surprise to see Dennis leaning back in his chair looking at her intently. The disapproval she had seen in his eyes was replaced by open gratitude for her rescue. She smiled briefly, acknowledging.

  The back door swung open and Birdie swept in with a gust of cool air. Her arms were overflowing with plastic bags and she was fired up with a sense of accomplishment.

  “What a morning I’ve had!” she announced, her voice as blustery as the wind. “The sun is shining and melting the snow. Nobody will have a problem making it to the funeral. Come see. I’ve bought all sorts of paper products: plates, napkins and cups. And tons of plastic tableware.”

  “Paper products?” Rose went directly to the bags and began sifting through them.

  “Take a look at the pattern, Rose. The gray is somber but not too dark, don’t you think?” She wasn’t asking as much as thinking out loud. She came up for air, looking around the room.

  Everyone sitting at the kitchen table stared back at her in silence. One face caught her attention.

  “Jilly!” she exclaimed, catching sight of her sister at last. “You’re up!”

  Birdie’s face registered delight, surprise, then maybe a hint of disapproval at seeing her so scantily clad and barefoot. Her gaze darted to Dennis, but she regrouped quickly, set down her bundles and hurried to Jilly’s side. They hugged a bit awkwardly, what with Jilly still seated and Birdie bending low. The wind had chilled Birdie’s cheeks and the ice on her woolen coat soaked straight through Jilly’s silk. Yet it was the chill in her greeting that Jilly wondered about.

  “You were three sheets to the wind last night,” Birdie said in a scolding manner. While she spoke, her eyes studied Jilly with a clinical thoroughness. “And you’re pale as a ghost this morning.”

  Jilly immediately brought her hand to her face, smoothing it. “It was a horrible flight, followed by a horrible drive from the airport.” She was gratified to see a flash of guilt in Birdie’s eyes for not having picked her up as promised. “Then, of course, there was the jet lag. But Rose took care of me, as always the perfect hostess. I’ve had coffee and fruit and feel much more myself.”

  She wanted to ask Birdie what her excuse was for looking so bad. She hoped her face didn’t reflect shock at seeing how much her sister had aged since she last saw her. She looked ten years older than her forty-one years, more bulky and pasty. The vivid red highlights in her brown hair had faded and competed now with a new crop of gray. And to make matters worse, the hair was cut in an unflattering, mannish style. Birdie had always been bigger than the other Season girls but she’d been lithe and strong and had carried herself like a queen. Now she was so changed. Was it age or food or just no longer caring that led her to let herself go? She watched as Birdie unwound a brightly patterned fleece scarf and slipped out of her navy pea coat, tossing it over the back of a chair. Crossing the room to Rose, she unconsciously stretched her Fair Isle sweater over her wide rump.

  Rose looked up from the bags, her face crumpled with worry. “But, Birdie, we don’t need all this.”

  “Of course we do,” Birdie replied decisively, coming to her side. She reached in the bag and began unloading the contents.

  Dennis sighed deeply and lifted the paper high to block his view.

  “Really, Rose,” Birdie continued, oblivious. “We’ll go along with the luncheon at home. We have no choice. But this notion of yours to use china and crystal is far too romantic. This is a funeral and we don’t need to be theatrical. It’s too much work to set up, then wash up after all those people. If you’re worried about the expense of paper, don’t be. I’m happy to cover it.”

  Rose’s back was ramrod straight and she had laid her hands over the bags as though to forcibly keep the contents in. “But…” She swallowed hard. “I’ve already unpacked the china.”

  “Rose, be sensible. We cannot use Mother’s dishes.”

  Jilly glanced at Hannah and saw her face set in fury, the same as her father’s, as they listened.

  “Why not?” Rose wasn’t backing down.

  Birdie stopped unpacking and rested her hands on the counter. After an exaggerated pause she said, “For one thing, there isn’t enough of any one set of china to serve this size a crowd. For another, there are not enough salad forks or matching wineglasses. I
t would all be an embarrassing mishmash of patterns. And it’s much too late to call for rentals.”

  “Who the hell cares?” Dennis snapped, obviously fed up with his wife’s interference. “If she wants to use the damn dishes, let her.”

  “Dennis,” Birdie said in controlled fury, furtively checking Jilly’s reaction to his outburst. “Would you go out and get the rest of the bags from the car, please?”

  Dennis tossed down his newspaper with an angry flip of the wrist, then rose abruptly from the table, pushing back his chair so hard it almost toppled over. He took pains to allow a wide berth between himself and Birdie.

  Jilly sensed the tension escalating in the room. Daggers flowed in the gazes between Dennis and Birdie, and again between Rose and Birdie. Jilly sipped her coffee, narrowing her eyes. She’d never seen this side of Birdie before. She’d always been bossy growing up, but now she was more of a bully. In contrast, Rose caved in, staring absently at some point across the room.

  “If Rose has planned to use Mother’s dishes,” Jilly began cautiously, “then that’s what we should do. We don’t have time to argue over the point, so let’s just pitch in and do what she wants.” She put down her cup and lifted her chin. “It is, after all, her call.”

  No one missed the steel in Jilly’s voice. Birdie drew her shoulders back and met her gaze. “Her call?” She took a breath, then said in a controlled voice that fooled no one, “Jilly, I know you just arrived. Perhaps you don’t appreciate all I’ve done to organize this funeral. Everything was set until Rose decided entirely on her own to change everything. Imagine, a luncheon here! You don’t have any idea….”

  “But of course I do!” Jilly replied with a light laugh. “This isn’t a formal sit-down dinner, darling. It’s a petite soirée. You’re making entirely too big a fuss over it. I’ve thrown lunches bigger than this on a moment’s notice. It’s all in the attitude. I think it’s fabulous that Rose is finally going to use all this stuff. Mother hardly ever entertained.”

  “That’s because she was a perfectionist,” Birdie said, drawing herself up. “It mattered to her that things were properly done, or not done at all.”

  “Oh, come on, Birdie,” Jilly countered, waving her hand. “Mother was so intimidated by Emily Post and things like matching china, menus, which side to serve on and which side to take away, that she was simply overwhelmed by it all. The truth is she was afraid nothing was ever good enough.” Her eyes flashed. “She was always so damn worried about what other people thought. That’s why she never entertained.”

  Hannah watched her mother summarily silenced by this mysterious aunt and sat back in her chair. Birdie appeared to be holding on to her position, for the sole purpose of winning in the eyes of her daughter.

  “Come on, Birdie,” Jilly said, rising from the table. “Rose has done all the preparation, let’s have fun putting it together.”

  “Jilly,” Birdie said, thoroughly frustrated at having to defend the only sensible position on the matter. “This is not another game. You can’t fly in after all these years and expect us to pick up where we left off as children. I’m sure your life in Europe is very exciting and glamorous,” she said in a stuffy manner, “but here in America, everything is not always fun.”

  Jilly shook her head, seeing clearly the woman Birdie had become. “Why can’t it be? Birdie, listen to yourself. When did you get so old and sour?”

  Birdie stiffened as though slapped and Jilly regretted her words instantly.

  “We can do this,” said Jilly soothingly. “We’ll make this the most charming, delightful luncheon imaginable. We’ll have china and silver, pink tablecloths trimmed with lace and ribbon, tea sandwiches and flowers everywhere.”

  “Exactly,” Rose exclaimed, her face glowing. “I’m sure that’s the way Merry would have wanted it.”

  It was the first time that morning that Merry’s name was mentioned. Merry, who was already gone from them. Merry, whose presence was suddenly overwhelming. They had been tiptoeing around their grief, trained as they were since childhood to tuck away emotion. But now that her name was spoken she sprang to life in their thoughts.

  Rose’s eyes were bright with tears. Jilly went to her side to wrap an arm around her.

  Birdie did the same. “Glad you’re home,” she said in Jilly’s ear. “Missed you.”

  “Me, too,” Jilly replied, relishing the heartfelt hug from Birdie she’d missed with the first hello.

  Dennis pushed through the door, his arms filled with bags of paper products.

  “Okay then,” Birdie called out, releasing her sisters to face Dennis. “All this stuff goes back in the car!”

  Dennis stopped short, looking confused.

  “Don’t ask!” Birdie swooped up the bags from the counter and proceeded out the door. “I’ll take them back—but I still think I’m right,” she called over her shoulder.

  Dennis shrugged, shook his head and followed.

  Jilly met Rose’s gaze and smiled as the mood shot skyward.

  Outside the garage Birdie paused to take a deep breath and stare at the yard. The sun shone brilliantly in a clear blue sky. Cheery heads of crocuses were emerging through the sparkling snow, valiantly promising spring would come, even if a bit late. Beyond, in the side yard, the hot sun had melted the snow on the rectangle of sidewalk that bordered a forty-foot expanse. That space had been an in-ground swimming pool, long ago.

  She saw in her mind’s eye the brilliant blue of the pool’s water. Bahama Blue, it was called. Every other summer the girls had to help paint that color on the sloping cement walls, looking like Smurfs when the job was done. The pool was the family’s playground. In happier times, Dad would come home from work and jump in like a “bomb,” splashing his girls while they squealed with delight. They’d take turns being hurled from his shoulders, pretending to be mermaids diving off a cliff. One more time, Dad!

  They’d spend the day playing mermaids in the pool and wouldn’t come out until their fingers were pruned and their lips were blue. Especially Birdie. She loved to swim and was a natural, able to hold her breath longer than anyone she knew.

  Mermaids…Birdie’s lips turned up in a smile. She hadn’t thought of that in, oh, so many years. It was their favorite game. Jilly made it up, of course, though she herself had thought up most of the game’s rules, like holding their breaths under Iceland and being dead if they ever touched the drain. That’s how things worked between her and Jilly. Imagination and rules. Right brain and left. They were a good team. They were best friends. Rose had loved the game, too. And Merry.

  Birdie cringed at the vision of a girl’s small limbs kicking beneath Bahama Blue water. She blinked it away and looking out, saw again the rectangle of earth in the yard that was once the swimming pool. Snow piled high over it, creating a mound. It occurred to Birdie with a shudder how much it looked like a gravesite.

  5

  THE “MAY BALL” FUNERAL LUNCHEON, as it was known in later years, succeeded in dispelling the usual gloom and doom Birdie dreaded at such occasions, even if it did rouse the ridicule she’d predicted. She overheard a few smirking comments on the pink damask tablecloths and the yards of lace trim. But overall, Birdie was moved by how many people really loved Merry. Though her sister hadn’t seen people often, the impression she’d made was deep and permanent. Perhaps it was her innocence, or perhaps it was her joy that elicited devotion from everyone she met. All in all, Merry’s memory had been properly honored, even if in pink and lace.

  The final stragglers were clustered in the foyer, gathering their coats and saying their goodbyes. With her red hair pulled severely back in a chignon at the neck, Jilly stood at the door with the poise and straight shoulders of a dancer, sending off strangers and family alike with a grace that Birdie both envied and was proud of. Birdie might have attributed her skill to her training as a model and actress, except that she knew better. Jilly always was the swan in the pond.

  In contrast, she hardly saw Rose all afternoo
n. Her shy sister had skirted through the rooms like Jeeves, quietly attending the buffet, discreetly collecting dishes and scurrying them off to wash. To the guests, she undoubtedly appeared the perfect hostess, but Birdie knew her sister would rather scrub the floor with her tongue than wag it in small talk with all these people.

  As the last of the guests were leaving, Mrs. Kasparov, the real estate agent she’d selected, came forward to discreetly hand her a sales portfolio. She was a diminutive woman with gray-and-black hair and an overbite. With her aggressive manner, she reminded Birdie of a terrier.

  “Here is the list of sales comps and the other information you requested.”

  “Thank you. I should imagine we’ll put the house on the market right away, to take advantage of the spring market. We’ll call you,” Birdie said, nudging her toward the door. Blessedly, Mrs. Kasparov nodded then signaled her husband, who sighed in relief and rose with a cumbersome effort. The couple shook Jilly’s hand warmly at the door, then, after her gaze took a final, hawklike sweep of the room, Mrs. Kasparov left.

  The whole house seemed to sigh when the door clicked shut. Birdie rubbed her neck, thinking she’d love nothing more than to prop her feet up and collapse. She caught Jilly’s eye and they shared a commiserating smile. Their lawyer, Mr. Collins, who had been sitting patiently in a wing chair by the front window, rose on cue.

  “I think we’re all ready now,” she announced. “Mr. Collins, thank you for your patience. Shall we move to the dining room?”

  Reaching out her arm, she placed it around Rose’s shoulder as she passed, and together they went to sit at the dining room table which had been cleared of the luncheon, linen and lace.

  Mother’s mahogany table gleamed under the crystal chandelier. As Birdie sat, she idly wondered who would get the dining room furniture. The table would look lovely in her Tudor house. And who else would need such a big set? Jilly wouldn’t want to lug it to France and Rose would probably get a small condo.