the field where sunflowers would bloom in August, past Sweetened Water Pond. Her grandfather always stopped the horse-drawn wagon there so Dolly could drink. They turned onto Main Street. Late yellow and white roses twined around the picket fence in front of the jail.
Victoria waved regally to the summer people in shorts and knit shirts who gaped at the car and wondered who its celebrity passenger could be. They passed the brick courthouse and the grand Whaling Church, and turned left onto North Water Street.
Dorothy Roche lived in one of the big white whaling captains’ houses, each one built to face the harbor. Since the street didn’t run parallel to the harbor, each house was at an angle to the street.
Tim pulled into a brick-paved driveway, and Victoria waited for him to open her door. She took his arm and swept up the brick steps, through the door that was opened as though by magic, into a front hall that smelled of lavender furniture polish and camphor.
Dorothy Roche greeted her. This was a Dorothy Roche who differed from the woman Victoria had seen on Wednesday. True, she was short, her hair was that awful metallic auburn, and her face was tight and shiny, as though her skin had been pulled back to her ears. But she was dressed in polite beige slacks and matching blouse. She held out her hands, apparently genuinely pleased to see Victoria.
“I’m so honored to have you here.” She released Victoria’s hands. “We’ll dine alfresco by the grape arbor. But first, I have a request.”
Victoria cringed, wondering about this request. She followed her hostess into a room to the left, which turned out to be the library.
“I had an ulterior motive in inviting you here, Mrs. Trumbull,” Dorothy said sweetly, looking up at Victoria. “I own a copy of every one of your poetry books, and have read and re-read them with such delight. If it’s not an imposition, might you sign them for me?”
Victoria couldn’t help but feel a surge of pleasure.
On a polished mahogany table at one side of the large room was a display of her books, the covers protectively encased in archival plastic. There was a fountain pen next to the stack of books, and a chair arranged so she could write comfortably. This attention made her warm a bit more toward her hostess. The Rolls-Royce had started the thaw.
Victoria signed all of the books with, “Best wishes, Victoria Trumbull,” and glanced up at Dorothy, who had been watching her with a look of admiration.
“Thank you, Mrs. Trumbull. That means so much to me.”
“You’re welcome,” said Victoria, getting to her feet.
The house was pleasantly cool. Victoria assumed the harbor breezes played in through the big front windows, but they were all closed.
“Central air,” Dorothy explained. “It’s the only way to protect my wonderful floors and woodwork. And the drapes, of course.” The curtain fabric had the same floral design as the wallpaper. Dorothy continued, “I feel an obligation to honor the past of my house.”
Victoria thought of her own lived-in house, ancient when Dorothy’s was built. Victoria’s house thrummed with the sense of earlier generations. There was a mark on a fine mahogany table where a long-ago baby had cut its teeth. The old pine kitchen table sported crescent-shaped hammer marks from a forgotten teenager’s carpentry project. She cherished the initials carved on the wavy old window glass in the upstairs bedroom, probably with the diamond from a new engagement ring.
They moved from room to room. The library, front parlor, and formal dining room were all as some decorator must have supposed they looked a hundred fifty years ago. The kitchen, with its high-tech appliances, was an exception.
They went out a side door into the garden. A pond on one side teemed with goldfish. They strolled down a slate path to a grape arbor, where a table was set with linen and Limoges luncheon plates with a whimsical mixture of berries, butterflies, and green
Victoria waved regally to the summer people in shorts and knit shirts who gaped at the car and wondered who its celebrity passenger could be. They passed the brick courthouse and the grand Whaling Church, and turned left onto North Water Street.
Dorothy Roche lived in one of the big white whaling captains’ houses, each one built to face the harbor. Since the street didn’t run parallel to the harbor, each house was at an angle to the street.
Tim pulled into a brick-paved driveway, and Victoria waited for him to open her door. She took his arm and swept up the brick steps, through the door that was opened as though by magic, into a front hall that smelled of lavender furniture polish and camphor.
Dorothy Roche greeted her. This was a Dorothy Roche who differed from the woman Victoria had seen on Wednesday. True, she was short, her hair was that awful metallic auburn, and her face was tight and shiny, as though her skin had been pulled back to her ears. But she was dressed in polite beige slacks and matching blouse. She held out her hands, apparently genuinely pleased to see Victoria.
“I’m so honored to have you here.” She released Victoria’s hands. “We’ll dine alfresco by the grape arbor. But first, I have a request.”
Victoria cringed, wondering about this request. She followed her hostess into a room to the left, which turned out to be the library.
“I had an ulterior motive in inviting you here, Mrs. Trumbull,” Dorothy said sweetly, looking up at Victoria. “I own a copy of every one of your poetry books, and have read and re-read them with such delight. If it’s not an imposition, might you sign them for me?”
Victoria couldn’t help but feel a surge of pleasure.
On a polished mahogany table at one side of the large room was a display of her books, the covers protectively encased in archival plastic. There was a fountain pen next to the stack of books, and a chair arranged so she could write comfortably. This attention made her warm a bit more toward her hostess. The Rolls-Royce had started the thaw.
Victoria signed all of the books with, “Best wishes, Victoria Trumbull,” and glanced up at Dorothy, who had been watching her with a look of admiration.
“Thank you, Mrs. Trumbull. That means so much to me.”
“You’re welcome,” said Victoria, getting to her feet.
The house was pleasantly cool. Victoria assumed the harbor breezes played in through the big front windows, but they were all closed.
“Central air,” Dorothy explained. “It’s the only way to protect my wonderful floors and woodwork. And the drapes, of course.” The curtain fabric had the same floral design as the wallpaper. Dorothy continued, “I feel an obligation to honor the past of my house.”
Victoria thought of her own lived-in house, ancient when Dorothy’s was built. Victoria’s house thrummed with the sense of earlier generations. There was a mark on a fine mahogany table where a long-ago baby had cut its teeth. The old pine kitchen table sported crescent-shaped hammer marks from a forgotten teenager’s carpentry project. She cherished the initials carved on the wavy old window glass in the upstairs bedroom, probably with the diamond from a new engagement ring.
They moved from room to room. The library, front parlor, and formal dining room were all as some decorator must have supposed they looked a hundred fifty years ago. The kitchen, with its high-tech appliances, was an exception.
They went out a side door into the garden. A pond on one side teemed with goldfish. They strolled down a slate path to a grape arbor, where a table was set with linen and Limoges luncheon plates with a whimsical mixture of berries, butterflies, and green
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