By the time the question-and-answer period began, I felt sick.
I looked over at Priscilla. Her attention was concentrated on the librarian type at the podium, as if there had never been a more riveting subject than Browning. The hall felt stuffy, even though the floor-to-ceiling windows were wide open. I was amazed at how many spinsters you could pack into one room. I had attended many lectures with Priscilla and was rarely restless, but after listening to the speaker drone on for over an hour, I had to escape. We were in the middle of a row (Pris always insisted on sitting in the center) so I had to “excuse me” past at least eight frumpy women who were annoyed at being disturbed. Priscilla looked at me with concern, but she didn’t follow me out.
In the hall I went to the watercooler, leaned over, and took a long drink.
That summer fifteen years ago, Max and I had been sitting on the seawall in late August and the sun was setting all pink and orange over the Boston skyline. Max handed me a brown paper bag and in the bag was his manuscript. He was finished.
“I’m moving to California and I want you to go with me,” he said.
I didn’t even have to think about it. It was one of the only times I can remember that I immediately knew what I wanted.
The next morning I took the commuter boat to Boston so I could tell Priscilla. I’d tell my father later, but first I wanted to test the news on Priscilla. Teddy would follow her lead. I found Priscilla in her breakfast nook, nursing a cup of coffee and reading the Boston Globe.
“Hello, dear. You’ve been making yourself scarce. Pour yourself a coffee and sit down so we can have a chat,” she said. That summer Priscilla had spent most of her time in Kennebunkport, presumably with some man, and she had just come back so there was no reason I would have seen her.
“How is everything? And why haven’t I seen you more? Tell me about your experiment in literature.”
I wasn’t thrilled by her patronizing tone.
“It’s going very well,” I said. “The first recipient of the fellowship has finished his book.” I tasted my coffee.
“I hope he can find a publisher. That would be a real feather in your cap,” Priscilla said.
“And in his.”
“It would be good for the foundation.”
I paused, not knowing how to approach the subject of Max. I took another sip of coffee and blurted it out.
“Max has asked me to go to California with him,” I said.
I wanted Priscilla to act as my mother’s emissary, to take all she knew about my mother, put it in a blender, and come out with the essence of what my mother would have said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. We don’t even know this boy,” Priscilla said.
“You can meet him,” I said.
“I’m afraid you’re escaping your grief,” she said.
“You’re wrong,” I said. I had never told Priscilla she was wrong before, but this was the first time I felt manipulated, as if maybe she didn’t have my best interests at heart. The feeling was so deep I could barely reach it, let alone recognize it.
“You’ll ruin his career and your life,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“He’ll have to spend his time figuring out how to support you both. It will leach his energy away from his writing and he’ll resent you for it.”
“But I have the trust fund. And I can work.”
“The trust doesn’t kick in until you’re thirty and you’ve never worked. Besides, do you think any man wants to live off his significant other or partner or whatever you’re going to call yourself—even today? You think he’ll be proud of himself if his history reads that he married his patroness? Think about the word patronize, Jane. Patron and patronize are from the same root.”
“He didn’t ask me to marry him. He asked me to go to California.”
“Worse. At least if he asked you to marry him, you’d have some respectable connection, such as it is. This way, he’s free to drop you whenever he wants to. I’m only thinking of you. I’m standing in loco parentis, saying what I think your mother would have said.”
“My mother wouldn’t have tried to protect me from life.”
“You’re wrong. She tried to protect you from everything unpleasant in life. Even with her illness. She was sick long before she ever told you. She didn’t want you to suffer. She never wanted you to suffer,” Priscilla said.
“Well, it didn’t work. I suffered all the same. People do, you know.”
“I know what she would have wanted. I knew her best. You don’t understand anything about men. You never have. I’d be more likely to trust Miranda with something like this.” I didn’t bring up Guy Callow, but then no one knew what really happened with him—and Miranda hadn’t suffered much. “You and Max come from different backgrounds. He’s just beginning on what is a very difficult career. Give him a chance. If the love is strong, a few years won’t change it.”
I didn’t believe her. Romantic songs and books prattled on about eternal love, but I knew that if I didn’t go with Max now, I’d lose him.
When I called Teddy, who was on the Vineyard, to tell him my news, he told me that he wouldn’t give me any money (not that I had asked for any) and that, of course, I’d have to give up the foundation.
“The Fortune girls don’t run off to California. Not on my watch,” he said. “Besides, you won’t like it. It’s not your kind of place.”
How would he know? He’d never even been there.
Priscilla came out of the lecture and saw me leaning with my forehead against the wall. She put her hand on my back.
“Buck up,” she said. “The thing with that writer was so long ago. You really should have forgotten about it by now.”
I lifted my head from the wall. Priscilla stood there with her solid stick figure encased in a tweed skirt. Perhaps any normal person would have forgotten, but it wasn’t as if so much had happened to me since to make me forget.
“I wasn’t thinking about Max,” I said.
“I just thought that since we were escaping the house so we wouldn’t have to see his sister, he might be on your mind.”
“It was hot in there. That’s all.”
“The windows were wide open. I actually felt a chill.”
“I was hot,” I said.
“Whatever you say, dear.” Priscilla peered over her half-glasses with a look so tolerant I felt like I’d shrunk to the size of the buckle on her shoe.
We walked home from the library and entered the house, where Miranda and my father were having drinks in the sitting room.
“You should have stayed, Jane,” Miranda said. “They were really interesting people.”
“Nothing like what you’d expect in show people,” Teddy said. I think Teddy still thought in terms of vaudeville. He didn’t equate “show person” with someone like Joseph Goldman, who ran a multimillion-dollar company.
“Emma looks like Lauren Bacall, and you really can’t do better than Lauren Bacall,” Miranda said.
“And he had presence,” Teddy said. “He certainly wasn’t what you’d call attractive. He was far too short for that. But he had what it took to command a room.”
“So now it’s just the brass tacks,” Teddy said. His face was ruddy and he wouldn’t have liked it if he’d known. The drink in his hand was obviously not his first.
My father, Miranda, Astrid, and Dolores all left on the same day.
Priscilla was furious that Miranda had chosen Dolores as a companion on this sojourn to Palm Beach. She thought Dolores was certainly not in the league of a Fortune, even a Fortune without money. Besides, she thought my claim on my family should be stronger than that of a stranger, and she was far more angry than I was to see me so easily discarded. True, I didn’t want to go, but they might have acted, just for a minute, as if I’d be missed. I realized that I had been under the misconception that I performed some important function in my family. But now it looked like my role could easily be assumed by just about anyone.
A black Lincoln Town Car arrived to take Teddy, Miranda, and Dolores to the airport.
“That’s the very least we can do,” Miranda said. “We can march out of here with style.”
“Well, goodbye, dear,” Teddy said. He kissed me on the cheek and checked his watch. “Where is Dolores? She’s late.”
A taxi pulled up and Dolores toppled out. She was lugging an army surplus duffel over one shoulder. With the other hand she pulled a rolling suitcase. She also had a handbag and a carry-on piece. She juggled it all without much grace.
“Come on, then,” Miranda called to her from the front steps. “We don’t want to miss our plane. We should have ordered a limousine. The Town Car is going to be tight with the three of us,” she complained.
“I could keep the cab and meet you at the airport,” Dolores said. Miranda paused to consider this. She looked at Dolores and her haphazard luggage.
“Of course not. We’ll all fit.” Teddy signaled the driver, who took Dolores’s bags and shifted them into the Lincoln, then came up the steps and gathered some of Miranda’s luggage.
Miranda pecked me on both cheeks, European style, took her Louis Vuitton train case, and trotted out to the car. She was wearing high heels and a Chanel suit—no jeans and T-shirts for her. She would arrive in Florida with all the ostentation of a small-time celebrity.
My father took several bags, and between him and the driver, they eventually filled the car. The trunk wouldn’t close, so instead of leaving the neighborhood with the desired aplomb, they looked slapdash and Beverly Hillbillyish. But it didn’t matter. There was no one but me and Astrid to watch them go.
After they left, Astrid looked at me. There were tears in her eyes, but she was smiling.
She wrapped me in a strong hug. It made me uncomfortable. I wasn’t used to hugging people and I never knew what to do with my hands. I always ended up patting the other person on the back awkwardly.
“You’re the only one of them who is worth anything, Jane,” she said, “and don’t you ever forget it.” She handed me a piece of paper with her new address on it. “I want to know how you are, and if you ever need a place to stay, you can always come to me.”
Ironically, in the end, it was our maid who thought to offer me a place to stay, but I was going to my sister Winnie’s for Thanksgiving. It was a command performance. Winnie’s life as a wife and mother wasn’t exactly what she had imagined it would be and she had difficulty keeping up with it. She often called to complain that she was sick and needed me “immediately or before.”
Priscilla had already left for Canada, where she would spend the holidays with her sister.
I thanked Astrid, thanked her for everything. I could never thank her enough. I watched her walk away toward her friend’s car. Several people had come during the past few days to help her move, and it made me wonder about her life outside of our house. It was obviously far more rich than I ever imagined. The end of the Fortune family establishment was the best thing that could have happened to her. She was on the threshold of a new life.
Alone in the house, I spent days wrapping up what Max would have called tchotchkes. The silver service, pewter bowls, snuffboxes, china figurines, the framed letter from President Martin Van Buren. I stored it all in the basement, where at least it would remain insured. I packed the rest of our personal things and moved them to a Public Storage facility on the side of the highway, one of those places with rows and rows of orange doors.
It made me smile to think how horrified Miranda and Teddy would be if they knew that some of their prized possessions would be “wintering” on the edge of Route 128.
Chapter 11
Miss Fortune: the perfect guest
I arrived at my sister Winnie’s on a Saturday morning.
“I’m in here,” Winnie called from the recesses of her family room. “The door’s open.” Winnie’s voice was weak and complaining, but there was nothing unusual in that. She was out of her depth as a wife and mother and she made up a series of ailments to shield herself from both responsibility and criticism. Complaint had become a habit for Winnie and I think she enjoyed it. It’s the prestige of the ill. People can’t very well ignore you when you’re sick, nor can they expect much from you. I had been humoring Winnie since the day she was born. She had been a fussy child: the first to cry on a long car trip, the first to throw a tantrum if she got bored, cold, or hot. She was just never comfortable, our Winnie.
Winnie was at the back of the house in a large window seat. She had an afghan pulled up to her chest. It was one of Priscilla’s signature afghans, made from squares of expensive but leftover yarns. Winnie was staring out toward the enormous field that separated her house from the large farmhouse that belonged to her in-laws.
I went over to her, bent, and kissed her on the cheek. Her cheek was soft and powdery, lacking all resilience, and her smell always reminded me of my mother.
“What took you so long?” Winnie whined. “I thought you’d never come.”
“I told you I’d be here today. And here I am.”
“It’s so dull around here and I’ve been feeling so sick. Charlie took the boys out and I haven’t seen anyone all morning.”
“Well, I’m here now,” I said. “Can I get you some tea or something?”
“Thank you, Jane. You’re a savior. I think if I get up, I’ll just fall over, not that anyone cares about that.”
On my way to the kitchen, I traversed the carpet, which was littered with toy trucks and action figures that had died on the battlefield.
“I know, it’s a mess,” Winnie said. She waved her hand toward the room. “It’s just all so overwhelming and Jorie already left for Thanksgiving.” Jorie was a student from Framingham State College who lived with them and helped out with the boys.
“Charlie’s mother said she’d come over to see me,” Winnie went on, “but she hasn’t come anywhere near me. Typical.” Winnie paused and twitched her nose. “Can you smell that? Can you?” Winnie opened the window and cool air rushed in. “It’s that damned manure. I think they want to drive me crazy. I really do. They built the house here on purpose just so I’d have to deal with the stink of manure day and night.”
Charlie’s parents had subdivided their farm and built a house for Charlie and Winnie. It was a five-bedroom Colonial on a rolling piece of land beside some woods. Everything in the house was new and the best that money could buy.
Winnie’s house was several acres from the main house, and did indeed exist on the border of a farm that accommodated twenty-four horses, some of which were owned by the Maples, while others were boarded by people from nearby towns. Yes, the constant smell of manure wafted from the barn, but that’s how barns smell. I was sure the Maples had not set out to drive my sister crazy.
With horses so easily accessible, I would have thought that Winnie, who had won prizes for dressage when she was young, would take every opportunity to ride, but she never got on a horse anymore.
“I’ll get the tea,” I said from the far side of the room. I went into the kitchen. The breakfast dishes were piled high beside the sink.
I put the kettle on, filled the sink with hot water, and piled the dishes into it. While I waited for the water on the stove to boil, I went into the laundry room, picked up an empty basket, and carried it to the family room and used it to collect the fallen soldiers.
“You don’t have to do that, Jane.”
“I don’t mind,” I said.
“You are so resourceful,” Winnie said. “I don’t think people give you enough credit.”
I wasn’t too flattered by Winnie’s assumption that I was gifted just because I knew how to pick up a few toys. Still, it’s pleasant to receive a compliment no matter how lame or ridiculous.
The teakettle whistled and I went back into the kitchen. Winnie kept a collection of teas in a cabinet over the stove. Black teas—Darjeeling, Earl Grey, English Breakfast—and herb teas—ginseng, Lemon Lift, Passionate Peach. When Win
nie put her home together, she relied heavily on Martha Stewart Living. Winnie dotted the house with scented candles and dried flowers. Her theme was French country modern. My sister didn’t have an original bone in her body, but her talent for mimicry was unsurpassed. Winnie was so good that on some days she was just like Martha Stewart—all that was missing was the unbridled ambition, the frenetic energy, and the felony conviction.
I chose Darjeeling, and while the tea steeped, I moved the dishes from the sink to the dishwasher. This small domestic task was both simple and satisfying. It made me feel useful and gave me a glimpse into how I might feel if this were my own kitchen and I were part of a young family. I filled a tray with sugar, milk, two hand-painted mugs, and carried the tray in to Winnie. I knew Winnie had painted the mugs at a store in town called Glaze & Amaze. She often went there. I set the tray down on a small table in the corner of the room. The table was covered with a yellow and blue cloth and the bowl in its center held fresh lavender.
“Come on, old girl. Come and sit down,” I said. I sounded like Priscilla—stodgy. Winnie tossed the afghan onto the floor (Priscilla wouldn’t have liked to see it dropped on the floor like that), came over to the table, and sat in one of the white wicker chairs that flanked it. I poured the tea. Winnie looked up at a wall clock, a wooden reproduction with a yellow face.
Winnie was wearing a velour sweat suit, the type you often see on women as they run around town doing errands in their Suburbans. Winnie’s suit was a pale blue that matched her eyes. Her thin blond hair was cut to just below her ears and framed her face with gentle curls.
“I love the mugs,” I said.
“Do you? Do you really like them?”
“I do,” I said, though the colors were murky.
“I just love doing it. It makes me feel so fulfilled. I asked Charlie to buy me a kiln, but he says my love for ceramics is just a phase and I’ll get over it. I think he’s wrong. I think I’ve found my true calling.”
The Family Fortune Page 7