Authors: Laura Benedict
As Terrance put her bags in the yellow room, she leaned out just a bit over the balcony and blew a kiss to the two of us as though
she knew we’d been watching. I watched Press’s face. He looked pleased, but I had no idea what he was thinking.
Twenty minutes later, after she’d changed into more casual clothes, she and Press disappeared into the theater to talk to the decorators.
I didn’t see them again until we were all dressed for dinner, except at a distance. After a long conference in the theater, they went out in the army surplus Jeep Olivia had acquired a decade earlier to use on the farm, Press in shirtsleeves and a Panama hat, and J.C. in a studiously country casual outfit of khaki slacks and a bright orange belted safari jacket. One of her beautifully manicured hands held tight to the window frame of the Jeep as they left the rocky driveway; the other secured her own scarf-tied straw hat. I chanced to be in the butler’s pantry, near the window, as the Jeep bounced onto the rutted farm road and passed the springhouse on the way to the orchards. It had been months since I’d been out onto the farm. Even when I dropped by the orchardkeeper’s house with extra food or to visit with his sister, Shelley, who kept house for him, I preferred to leave the farm by the driveway and go around to the paved road that led to the tenant houses. Later, when I became more involved with the orchard operations, I changed my habits.
After Michael went down for his nap, I called the hospital to check on my father, but he was sleeping and I hung up feeling sad and empty. I was tired. Exhausted, really. But I didn’t want to sleep or particularly be alone.
Press had held me for a moment after he rushed home and I told him what had happened, and I felt the wall I’d put up between us shift the slightest bit. But I pulled away when he began to insist that I follow Nonie to Clareston. I almost told him about seeing Eva and Olivia, that I couldn’t possibly leave the house, leave them behind for that long, but I stopped myself. He seemed surprised when I refused, and I knew he was wondering what was wrong.
“Whatever you think best, Charlotte. I just worry that your father will be disappointed.”
Another unkind observation. I was getting used to his small cruelties, and couldn’t help but think again that he simply wished me out of the house while J.C. was there.
Taking my garden basket and some clippers, I went out the mudroom door to the herb garden, thinking I would trim back the oregano and thyme’s fall growth. I stood for a moment with my eyes closed, comforted by the warmth of the sunshine on my face. Just the day before, I’d been driving with Rachel in the Thunderbird and walking the pristine grounds of The Grange, but that seemed like days or even months ago.
We had part-time gardeners who handled the bigger gardens, but tending the herb garden was one of the few activities Olivia and I routinely shared. Marlene had been doing her best to keep up with what I hadn’t been up to doing in those past months, but she had many other jobs to do.
It was a formal hexagonal garden, the herbs separated into individual beds. Each bed had a permanent wood-burned marker, so if I wasn’t sure about something, I could look it up in one of the books in the family library. Marlene wasn’t a very adventurous cook and only used the oregano, thyme, rosemary, seasonal basil, and occasionally the sage. There was also peppermint for iced tea, and of course the lavender that Olivia put into the sachets that were nested in drawers and linen presses all over the house. I was no seamstress, but I was sure I could refill the hand-stitched sachets with dried lavender when it came time the next summer.
I had trimmed the thyme and had a small pile of pruned lavender stems in the garden cart when I looked up to see a man in paint-stained blue coveralls standing silently on the porch a couple of dozen feet away from where I knelt.
He was older than most of the workmen I’d seen coming and going from the theater, perhaps even older than the foreman, who
looked about fifty. (But then, so many people over thirty seemed to be “about fifty” when I was young.) His paint-stained coveralls were old-fashioned, with straps like a farmer’s overalls; and though his shirt was a brilliant, unstained white, there was a smell of turpentine and ash about him. Not woodsmoke but coal, as though he worked around coal fires.
“Yes? Can I help you? The entrance to the theater is on the other side of the house.”
“I was told to ask for the missus. Ain’t you the missus?”
“I’m Mrs. Bliss.”
“You have a job for me?”
“Oh, you must be here about the ballroom.” I was surprised, but suddenly excited. Press had said he would think about it. I wondered if, somehow, J.C. had been involved in his decision to let me go ahead with the playroom. It didn’t matter. I was just glad.
The man nodded. “You tell me what color you want, and I’ll take care of it for you.” When he smiled, he showed only the very front of his teeth as though his mouth wouldn’t open easily. His leathery skin appeared stretched tight over his face and head, like Terrance’s. I wasn’t certain, but he also seemed to be bald beneath his painter’s cap. Perhaps I should forgive myself for being naïve, but I noticed and then promptly ignored the lifeless aspect of his watery blue eyes. I wanted what I wanted, and what I wanted right then was something good to happen.
I stood up, took off my gardening glove, and offered my hand.
He was enormously tall, his hand surprisingly soft and much cooler than my own. Again, the painful half-smile.
“Abram, ma’am.”
The color.
With a flash of irritation, I realized that I might have asked J.C. for suggestions about the exact color I was looking for. If only he’d brought a brochure or some kind of samples.
“I want the walls to be white. Not bright white, but softer. Like. . . .” I closed my eyes searching for a word. An image.
“Like new butter? Or cow’s cream?”
Cow’s cream was the exact image that had come to my mind. Staring into the milk pitcher on my grandmother’s kitchen table after her neighbor had brought some Jersey cow’s milk over for our dinner as a treat for me, the cream floating on top like a soft, shapeless continent.
“How did you know?”
“Everyone wants cream. It’s a very popular color.”
Of course it was. I was reassured.
We went into the house through the mudroom, but the kitchen and hallways were empty. Marlene and Terrance were absent. Upstairs, even the theater was quiet behind its closed pocket doors.
I turned on the lights in the ballroom and we were immersed in the reflection of the lights on the dark red wallpaper with its stern, identical men and beautiful Japanese women. Abram ran his hand over the wallpaper. “You want this paper painted over?”
I bristled. It was only wallpaper.
“I do. Is that a problem?”
His hand dropped from the wall.
“I can do that.”
“You can get rid of those, too? And patch the ceiling?” I pointed to the giant metal circles screwed into the ceiling.
“Yes, ma’am. I can do that too.”
Chapter 20
The Dinner Party
Dinner that night was a fairly tame affair with Rachel and Jack for company, and the sheriff, Hugh Walters, to round out the table. Even though we were technically in mourning (a tradition that had fallen away more and more since I was a girl), I’d suggested a slightly larger party because I didn’t relish the idea of spending empty hours with J.C. and Press. But Press had vetoed the idea quickly.
“She’s not worried about being entertained. I really want you to take the time to get to know her better. I’m sure you could be wonderful friends. I’ll make sure Rachel, Jack, and Hugh are here.”
I’d been doubtful. Rachel and J.C. at the same table again? Despite the formidable nature of Bliss House, I wasn’t sure it could remain standing.
I was wrong. The evening was unseasonably warm, so, after Michael was down for the night, we ate on the patio outside the dining room, our faces softened by the light of several torches.
Press had brought a record player out and put on a stack of records that began with Tony Bennett, a favorite of mine. J.C. and Rachel exchanged a few very civil words, but otherwise J.C. dominated the conversation with gossipy New York stories that the men seemed to find very funny. Not surprisingly, Rachel was subdued, picking at the dinner Terrance served: oysters on the half-shell, consommé, breaded veal cutlets with zucchini and yellow squash, and Marlene’s special iced pumpkin-ginger cake. Rachel was elegant in her black knit maternity dress and jacket, but beneath her eyes there were dark circles that worried me. After the coffee came, she got up, restless, to smoke a cigarette. I followed her to the other side of the patio. The torchlight glimmered in her eyes as though they were wet with tears.
“What’s going on, Rachel? Is it Jack?” She rarely complained about Jack. He was slavishly devoted to her—the kind of man someone like Rachel required. But men often reacted strangely to pregnancy.
“What could possibly be wrong?” First cutting her eyes to Jack, who was listening carefully to something J.C. was saying over her wineglass, she looked back at me with a small, tight smile.
I knew when she was being sarcastic, but also knew better than to try to drag information out of her, particularly information about her feelings. She would proclaim them loudly or she wouldn’t say anything at all.
As we watched, J.C. stood up from her chair and declared that she couldn’t bear to sit any longer with Frank Sinatra singing “Night and Day,” right there under the stars. She asked the men who might possibly be brave enough to dance with her.
Jack looked over his shoulder at Rachel, who stared back, impassive.
“He wouldn’t. Not with J.C.,” I whispered. “Jack would never do that to you.”
Rachel gave a harsh little laugh. “Of course he wouldn’t. Not our Jack. But he does look worried, doesn’t he? Men are such bastards.” She rested a hand on her belly. “Every one of them.”
“You city girls,” I heard Press say to J.C. “You can’t sit still.” But he didn’t get up either.
“What a couple of mama’s boys you are!” She turned abruptly and waggled a finger at Hugh. “I guess that means you win, Sheriff.”
Hugh stood quickly, knocking over his folding chair with a loud clatter, and everyone laughed. I felt bad for him. It had seemed to me an odd invitation for Press to make to Hugh. We didn’t often socialize with him. Because he had come to the house after Eva’s death, I still felt awkward around him. But at least I liked and trusted him.
Before Hugh could pick up the chair, Terrance was there to do it, brushing off the seat with his ever-present white cloth. Then he stepped back through the terrace doors and into the dining room, where he waited. The glass hadn’t yet been repaired, and the small panels of wood in one corner were a constant reminder to me of Olivia.
J.C. was tipsy and her steps were loose, compared to Hugh’s careful moves as he tried to lead her. Rachel and I watched as she caressed the thick brown hair at the back of Hugh’s head, and brought her mouth to his ear. When he finally leaned away from her a bit to look at her face, he laughed a laugh so clear and loud that Frank Sinatra’s voice faded into the background. The album continued, and even after two more songs J.C. would not let Hugh go. Not even after Rachel went to Jack and put her hand on his shoulder to tell him that she was tired and they should leave. Hugh only managed to get in a wave
goodbye
while J.C. blew them a kiss.
I hugged Rachel close and whispered that I would call her, and inside I promised myself that I would. It was like her to be moody and somewhat cold—particularly with someone she disliked as much as J.C.—but not so subdued that she wouldn’t eat.
As the lights of Rachel’s Thunderbird swept over us, throwing our shadows and those of the Japanese maples tall against the house,
I went to sit beside Press, who had settled down again at the table while Terrance cleared the dessert plates and refilled the coffee cups. I finished my glass of wine.
“Champagne cognac, Terrance? Or some of that yummy plum port?” J.C. called over Hugh’s shoulder. “You don’t mind if I boss Terrance around a little, do you, Press, darling?”
Press nodded. “Whatever she wants, Terrance.”
I put my hand on his arm. He was still mine, even if the woman who might try to take him from me was only a few feet away. Despite our distance and my guilt, I wasn’t ready to give him up.
“It’s getting chilly. Maybe we should go inside.”
“Do you want my jacket?” Press started to take his jacket off, but I stopped him.
“No, I’m fine. We won’t stay out much longer.”
We sat another moment, quiet.
“Rachel doesn’t seem well,” I said.
“Rachel is Rachel.”
“She certainly doesn’t like J.C. very much.”
Press laughed loudly enough for both Hugh and J.C. to glance our way. “She’ll learn.”
“Do you want to?” We hadn’t danced since Olivia’s New Year’s Eve party, and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to let J.C. see us together.
“What?”
“Dance?”
“Hell, no. You know I don’t really like it. I only did it for as long as I did to get some pretty girl like you to marry me.”
I smiled in spite of myself. I’d let myself drink two glasses of wine at dinner, knowing Michael was safe asleep upstairs with both the bathroom and nursery doors locked. I’d been self-conscious, particularly with Hugh there, but my discomfort faded as the wine did its work.
“Thank you.”
“For what? Marrying you? That was my pleasure.”
“No, silly. For changing your mind about the ballroom.”
He turned his head to watch J.C. and Hugh. The Sinatra album had started over again, and Hugh was jokingly proclaiming that she was wearing him out.
“Did I change my mind?”
I squeezed his arm, feeling a tiny resurgence of the love I’d felt for him for so many years. Was it possible that it was still there? I wasn’t sure. Remembering now, I’m certain that it was the wine. The wall was still there, warning me, protecting me. But at that moment I was hopeful.
“It means so much to me. I miss our life.”
When he turned back to me, I believed I saw tenderness in his eyes.