Quiet Dell: A Novel by Jayne Anne Phillips Page A

outside, dragging the fallen pine tree from the walk. “Do you have something for me, Hart? The card, from the flowers?”
    “Mother! A toboggan from Canada! I can take the fellows sledding!”
    She stood waiting, wearing a benign expression, her open palm before her.
    He reached into his pocket and thrust a small envelope into her hand. “I hate those hats though. Do I have to wear one? I have a winter cap.”
    “Oh, indulge him,” Asta said, holding the card to her breast. “They’re from Quebec, and quite warm and smart. He wants to photograph you three on the sled.”
    “They look like girls’ hats.”
    “Well, look fierce. You heard Charles. They’re patterned on French naval caps, and they do have a military air. Now, put on your galoshes. And bring the girls’ boots to the front porch, as well.”
    “What takes girls so long?” he said, rushing past her.
    Charles was coming in the front door, stomping his feet on the tiles of the entry. “Perfect snow for sledding! I’ve got the toboggan set. Where are the girls?” He stepped to the staircase. “Annabel? Bring my camera as you come down? On the bed in the . . . guest room. That’s right. Don’t drop it.”
    “Was it a large branch that fell, Charles?” Asta slipped the envelope into her shirtwaist.
    “A small tree, I’d say. I’ll saw it up tomorrow. Now, then. Are we ready?”
    The girls appeared in their winter gear, and Hart in his; they put on the blousy winter hats, which were tight across the forehead and bound with thin red bands. They filed outside and Charles arranged them according to height, which he said was the balanced way to sled in a Canadian racing toboggan.
    Asta followed, onto the porch, and watched him snap their picture. The wind whipped snow into her eyes and the children shielded their faces. The sky was a dark, bruised blue. Snow fell slowly, almost haphazardly.
    “You won’t stay too long, now, will you?” she called down.
    “Everyone out till we get to the park,” Charles said. “Hart, you can pull the sled.” He was rushing up the steps to give Asta the camera. “Don’t worry,” he said quietly when he reached her. “They’re with me. Go and rest. And don’t touch a dish. They’re rinsed, and Grethe and I will wash them later.”
    “You are dear, Charles. They’re so excited.”
    “I’m excited.” He was clambering back down the steps, and waved to her as they set off. “Go and rest.”
    “I will,” she said, and went in, shutting the door behind her.
Beautiful, Useful, Enduring
    Each day, she gives herself this moment alone. Often the mail has just arrived. She lies on her neatly made bed, thinking of him, holding his words in her hands. She will read them once and again, and place them in the bureau drawer now emptied of all but the careful bundles tied in specific order, and the photographs laidout like solitaire, each in its place. This being Christmas, there will be no mail, but yesterday’s letter promised she would hear from him, that despite the snows or weather, his fondest wish will reach her, his deepest longing, his knowledge that the new year will bring great changes for them both, and generous love such as only mature and nurturing individuals might find in one another. She takes the small pink envelope from her clothes and draws the message from inside.
    All cares cease! Joyful Noel!
    I love thee.
    (Your) C.
    It is not his script, of course, for he phoned in the order to a Park Ridge florist, but the words are his, and the phrasing so clearly the written voice she’s come to know. He has taken time and trouble to reach her; perhaps he is alone in his rooms, watching the storm, or dining in the restaurant of the fine hotel where he lives. He travels frequently, seeing to his business dealings and holdings; the Fairmont Hotel, he writes, is a fine establishment but can never be home. She reads the card again. Yes, her cares will cease. “C.” In late spring, perhaps sooner,