by Terri Lee
“I’m exhausted.”
“Put your feet up for a minute, you poor thing.” Cassandra urged.
“I think I will.” Frances sighed, her arm hung listlessly over the arm of the chair and a cool glass of lemonade dangled from her fingertips. She leaned her head back upon the cushions and stared at the night sky through the iron fretwork of the gazebo.
Glancing at Charles, she noticed how he reached for Cassandra’s hand as if it were second nature to him. She envied that. She was happy for her brother. Cassandra adored him. She smiled, thinking about the conversation she had with her grandmother earlier. Apparently, Charles and Cassandra would start with a good foundation.
“Come dance with me one last time, Frances, before you run away to school.” Her old friend Eddie tugged at her free hand playfully.
“I’m pooped, Eddie.” Frances hung back.
“Ah come on. The night is too beautiful to be wasted sitting in a chair like a bunch of grannies.”
“Alright, alright.” Frances relented as she allowed Eddie to pull her up from her comfortable seat.
“Did I miss something in the invitation about the dress code for this evening?” Eddie said as he took her hand in his.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean is there a reason you’re dressed like a black widow?” He gave her a cockeyed grin.
“Oh that.” Frances frowned, as she looked down at her somber attire. “I’m making a statement.”
“To whom?”
“My mother.”
“Of course. I should have known.” Eddie laughed, well aware of the frosty relationship between the two. “Did it work?”
“Perfectly. I got just the reaction I was hoping for.” She grinned to herself, remembering the look on Lena’s face when she strolled up to join her mother’s group of friends.
“Why the black, Frances?” Mrs. Daniel had asked with round eyes.
“Didn’t you hear? I’m in mourning.” Frances had sighed dramatically, leaning close as if she were taking the older woman into her confidence. Lena had glared daggers at her, but Frances ignored the tip of the spear by planting a phony kiss on her mother’s cheek. “Hello, Mummy Darling.”
“Mourning? For what?” Mrs. Daniel pressed.
“Oh… the end of summer I suppose.” Frances feigned an abundance of melancholy and then flitted off, leaving her mother to deal with the aftermath.
“Well, good for you.” Eddie said, bringing Frances back to the moment at hand.
The two of them swayed to the notes that floated across the freshly clipped lawn. Frances rested her weary head on Eddie’s shoulder and yawned.
“Boy, you sure know how to boost a guy’s ego.”
“I’m sorry. I told you I was tired.” Frances giggled and shook her head to wake herself up. Leaning her head back, she studied her childhood friend anew. “It’s hard to think that you and Charles will be graduating next year. Where has the time gone?”
“I think the same thing when I look at you, Frances. What happened to the little girl who wanted to tag along whenever Charles and I were trying to escape on a secret mission?”
“I was dreadful, wasn’t I?”
“Now, I’d give anything if you wanted to tag along.” Eddie grinned, and Frances knew he was only half kidding.
“May I cut in, old boy?”
Frances looked up into the smirking face of Graydon Harris. Eddie didn’t look any too pleased about this interruption, but Graydon was not interested in Eddie’s reaction. He held out his hand and Frances was handed off without further ado.
“That wasn’t very nice.” Frances scolded as Graydon danced her further away from the crowd. “We were in the middle of a conversation.”
“Gee I’m sorry. I mistook your look of boredom as a plea for someone to rescue you.”
“No, you mistook the entire situation. I was not bored. He is a long time family friend. I’m just tired.”
“Well then, let’s leave this crush of people and find a quiet place to relax.” He took her hand and led her from the dance floor and out into the night. Somehow, Graydon always seemed to be in charge of the situation.
Frances leaned one hand on Graydon’s arm and with the other she reached down to pull off her shoes. Wriggling her toes in the cool grass, she rolled her eyes. “Ah, that feels good.”
Graydon chuckled, “I’ll never understand women. Why do you want to wear such uncomfortable pieces of clothing?”
“Women will endure any amount of torture if they think it might elicit a complimentary glance from the opposite sex.” Frances was very matter of fact.
“You don’t have to try very hard in that regard.” Graydon looked down at her and she felt for a moment as if he had truly let down his guard.
“Thank you.” She mumbled. “It would be nice to be as comfortable as you boys in your cool white slacks and summer jackets, but it’s a little more complicated for us girls.”
“So I hear,” Graydon grinned. They walked for a bit further before he turned and spoke to her in a serious tone. “You know you’re going to have to stop running away from me.”
“Oh really, why is that?”
“Because one of these days I just might stop chasing you.”
“And that would be horrible, wouldn’t it?” Frances flashed a saucy grin his way.
“Yes, it would. Because you are just prolonging the inevitable. I think we are destined to be together.”
She had to wonder how many times he had used that line before. Or perhaps she was being unfair. She supposed it was possible that he really did have some feeling for her.
“I think people make their own destinies.” She looked at him with determination. “Besides, I don’t think destiny is the word I had in mind.”
“What word would you use then?”
She looked at him with a steely gaze. “I think I’d use the word, calculation.”
“You’ll have to explain that to me.” Graydon seemed genuinely confused.
“I think you would like to have me believe that you are standing here completely at the mercy of the stars that have aligned, that it’s kismet, and that we are destined to be together. I’m simply saying there is much more calculation that has gone into your decision.”
She noticed Graydon’s look of bewilderment and continued, “Don’t tell me that you and your family don’t look over the available females, much like a stable of fillies, read over the long list of pedigrees, and decide which young thoroughbred would be the most beneficial choice. So you zero in on one or two and there you have it…destiny.”
Graydon looked sheepish and Frances grinned, “I’m not saying it’s just you. I’m well aware that every family here is playing some version of that game.”
Graydon regained his composure, “Alright, what if I grant you that there may be a bit of truth in your colorful deduction. What would you have me do? Marry the chauffer’s daughter?”
“If you loved her, why not?” she said, with more fervor that she meant to.
Graydon grinned slyly, “So you are a romantic at heart. I knew it. I always knew there was too much passion and fire behind that steely resolve and sharp wit. You had to be hiding something. That’s why I continued to chase you.”
“You continue to chase me because you can’t take no for an answer.”
“All I know is, when I look into the future, I see you by my side,” he continued, undaunted.
“You barely know me, Graydon.”
“And whose fault is that? You won’t give an inch.” He sounded almost pleading.
He was awfully good-looking, she would give him that much. It was a shame he had to be such a boor. But even now, he was completely unaware that she was unaffected by the lines that had worked so well for him in the past.
Frances started to walk on, her shoes swinging from her right hand, when Graydon stopped her and placing his hands on her arms, turned her towards him.
“I want you to take me seriously, France
s. I want to get to know you.”
Oh no. How did she let herself get into this predicament?
She knew where this was headed and she didn’t want to go there. But before she could think of a smooth exit line, Graydon had leaned in. He kissed her. She was caught off guard by the clumsiness of it. It was not at all what she had expected from the legendary big man on campus. But then she wasn’t actually helping him, either. In fact, she almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Although she found herself in an awkward and confusing situation, there was one thing that was made abundantly clear from that kiss. It left her feeling nothing. Nothing at all.
TWELVE
It was the summer of 1920 and while many things had changed over the course of a year, for Frances it was a sad fact that some things had remained the same. Frances and her family were in the city preparing for two weddings. In a few short weeks, Lucy and her beau Tanner Carlson would be the first ones to step up to the altar. Thrilled to be home from school, Frances was now able to enter fully into the whirlwind of plans and parties during the final frenzied countdown. The harried schedule of events seemed only fitting, following Lucy’s whirlwind courtship.
The second wedding was the much-anticipated union of Charles and Cassandra. The date had been set for early September but there was still much to do in these last few months. Lena, who was not the mother of the bride, nor the center of attention, was nevertheless trying to impose her will in the decision making process.
The fact that the Sellers could have matters well in hand without her input was beyond understanding. Because no one could plan a party as well as Lena Durant. So Frances, held captive at the breakfast table most mornings, was sentenced to listen to the daily list of wrongdoings concerning every aspect of the wedding. And this morning was no different.
“I told her she simply cannot rely on any florist other than Shoenegans, but Beth still insists on using her own florist.” Lena was in the midst of her recent rant. “Who knows what atrocities we’ll end up with on the wedding day?” Lena was pouring over her lists along with the morning mail.
“Atrocities?” Frances looked up from her eggs and rolled her eyes, “I hardly think the fact that Mrs. Sellers and Cassandra choose to use their own florist constitutes an atrocity.”
“Just because she’s the bride doesn’t mean she knows what’s right,” came Lena’s quick retort. “This is my son’s wedding as well and I think I should be allowed to have a say before things fall apart. When everything ends up looking second-rate, it will reflect poorly not only on Charles but on the entire family.”
“Oh good grief, Mother. The Seller’s are not going to have anything second-rate. You’ve been to parties in their home, everything was perfectly fine.”
“A party and a wedding are two different things.” Lena was more than happy to inform her clueless daughter.
“And how many weddings have you presided over?” Frances asked innocently. “Are you going to perform the ceremony too or do you think Father McDevitt can handle that part?”
“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are, Frances.” Lena dismissed her.
“Oh, so now you’re the final word concerning what is and is not funny. Your ever-growing list of accomplishments never ceases to amaze me. Well with that, I’m off. I’m going somewhere where my sense of humor is appreciated.” Frances folded her napkin with exaggerated pomp and flourish and rose from her chair.
“Where, pray tell, might that be?” Lena looked up from her pile of letters.
“To Lucy’s, of course.”
***
“Come in, come in. I have a million things to show you.” Lucy grabbed Frances by the hand, dragging her past the dining room table piled high with wedding gifts and on up the stairs to her room.
Frances hugged her cousin, who was bubbling over with excitement. “You’re positively glowing.”
“I feel as if I might burst.” Lucy threw herself down on the bed.
“Hmmmm…so that’s what love feels like?”
“Partly.” Lucy said. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re finally here to help me.”
“Me too.” Frances settled in on the opposite twin bed and hugged her pillow. “I’m sorry it took us so long to get to the city. But you know neither life, death, nor weddings would keep Lena from her Summer House Party. Then we had the Regatta to attend…Yale lost this year, so Charles has been in a mood. Boo hoo.”
“It’s fine. I know how busy you’ve been.”
“But I’m here now, and happy to say that I’m at your service.”
“Before we get lost in wedding details, I want to talk about you.” Lucy rolled onto her elbow and looked to Frances with concern. “Was it hard to go back to Greenfield?”
Frances stiffened, she’d been expecting this. Her return from college meant it was the first time she had been to the Vermont house since Marguerite had died in January. Thinking back to the day she had heard the news, she knew her father’s unannounced visit at school could only accompany something dreadful. The pit in her stomach at the sight of her father’s ashen face grew with each mile as they headed home. She cried all the way from Bryn Mawr and William was ill-equipped to respond in the face of such raw emotion. Where another father would have pulled his daughter under his protective wing and soothed her tears, William was only capable of reaching out across the large expanse of leather seat between them and mindlessly pat her hand during the interminable ride.
Through her veil of tears, Frances watched her father staring out the window, jaw clenched, as he stoically dealt with his own pain. She would have liked to comfort Marguerite and Paul’s only child. How lonely he must feel. But with no history to guide them, father and daughter sat like islands unto themselves.
“I’m so sorry, Father.” Frances mumbled, determined to bridge the distance.
William lost in thought, turned to her as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Excuse me?”
“I just said…I’m…sorry.”
“Yes. Yes.” William patted her hand again, then turned back to the window, the barren landscape rolling by a more welcoming companion than a daughter trying to make conversation.
Frances sunk into her side of the seat, wrapping the woolen blanket tighter around her shoulders as she stared out her own cold window. Her father was a man of few words even on a good day. He was not prone to small talk. Except to his mother. To Marguerite, he would talk about anything. The two of them often sat up late into the evening, playing card games and laughing over old jokes, until Lena would come and pull him upstairs to bed.
Her grandmother had struggled to bring her son into the world. There had been several miscarriages and missed opportunities over the years and when he finally came to them late in their lives, he came as an answer to a prayer. Marguerite doted on her darling boy, and in return, she had been his first love.
Though Lena had done much over the last twenty-five years to strain the familial relationship as she claimed the allegiance duly hers, the bond once forged between mother and son would not be easily broken. But Frances knew that with her grandmother out of the picture, the balance of power would now inevitably shift in Lena’s favor.
Marguerite, diminutive as she was, had been the anchor in the rough seas of Frances’s life. The two of them had been co-conspirators behind enemy lines as they sought refuge from their common adversary. Marguerite was the repository of love and comfort and safety. How in the world was Frances supposed to live without any of that? She was adrift without her champion. To whom would she run?
The funeral marked the longest day of Frances’s life. Frances declared that a funeral was a grueling endurance test for the grieving. After all the prayers and condolences that came wrapped in hugs and kisses from well-meaning friends and family, she longed to be left alone with her thoughts. At the end of the day, she returned to the graveside where all the painful memories of Robert’s death came flooding back to the surface, as well.
Her gaze rested on the nearby spot
where her brother’s name and documentation of his short history were carved into stone. Sad, how in the end, people are reduced to nothing more than a name and a date chiseled into a piece of marble, Frances thought.
Feelings she thought had been safely tucked away were right there, and the pain was as fresh as the newly turned earth beside her grandmother’s casket. She was reminded of her conversation with Charles on that very subject only last summer, and now she had to wonder would Marguerite be lost forever. Would her memory be swept aside so easily?
She struggled, coming to terms with the fact that she would never hear that lilting French accent again. Nor would anyone else ever refer to her as, mon petite cherie. No, those days were gone forever.
Frances knelt to place the small bouquet of daisies clenched in her fist upon the fresh dirt in the family plot. She had insisted that the florist provide her with a spray of the common posy along with the large display of flowers that Lena had ordered. Marguerite meant daisy, in French. A simple, happy little flower, without pretense of any kind. And Frances nodded quietly to herself as she placed her private offering. The realization loomed over her that as Marguerite was buried in the frozen January soil, a small piece of Frances was buried alongside her. Her tears had run dry over the last days. Now, she stood like a jar that had been emptied. The last of the thin rays of winter sun were slipping away, and as Frances turned to leave, she pulled her coat tighter about her neck, whispering a faint farewell. “Adieu, Grand Mère, adieu.”
She returned to school and promptly tucked her grief in her back pocket, where no one else could see it. She returned to her routine and brushed off any attempts at conversation on the topic. She was barely hanging on. To the world and her school mates she smiled and joked. After all, she was very good at that, although inside she was still numb. She coped as best she could, but it had been a long winter. She actually thought she had been doing fairly well until she arrived home and came face to face with her loss.
Returning to Greenfield without her beloved Grand Mère left her feeling unsettled. It still hurt like hell. But each and every day, she grew a little bit stronger. Frances was happy for the excuse to leave Vermont and head to the house in the city, where memories of Gran did not linger in every corner.