time, in pant suits, who are eagerly looking over what I think of as “my table.” Have they heard? The elder of the two, with short-cut gray hair and wearing a bow tie, looks up. So I get up in case they have, go over to them, and introduce myself.
“She doesn’t know what she’s getting into,” I hear Sue Bagley whispering loudly.
“She knows,” says Chris. “And now I’m afraid we have to be off. Nice to meet you.”
Do I dare? After the two women congratulate me on the choice of books and introduce themselves as Alice and Patience, I suggest they come over and sit down and have a cup of tea. Sue Bagley, observing this, has evidently decided to follow the nuns out and waves a goodbye to me at the door.
“Just about enough for two cups.” I empty the teapot.
“Thirty years ago,” says Patience, the younger of the two, her red hair not yet tinged with gray, “we used to hang out at Sylvia Beach’s Shakespeare and Company in Paris. There has been nothing like it, around here anyway, but you do create an atmosphere …”
“In spite of that insulting woman who just left,” says Alice. “I heard her warn you.”
“Oh well, she’s lonely and eccentric. I pay no attention.” But I want to answer Patience’s kind remark. “What do you mean about ‘an atmosphere’?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How does one define an atmosphere?” Patience looks over at Alice, inviting her to define it, I suppose.
“Intelligent, welcoming, and not commercial.” Alice is clear-cut. “You won’t make money, I’m afraid, but you’ll make friends.”
“Good. That is what I hope. Already in this first week so many strangers have dropped in and stayed to talk, I am amazed.”
“But what do you do when someone drops in and stays and stays?” Patience asks.
It makes me laugh because I have been asking myself that very question. “God knows. I suppose one can pretend to be very busy filling out nonexistent orders.”
“It must be fun,” Alice says. “You look as though it is.”
“I’m almost afraid of everything going too well,” I answer. I feel these two are in tune with me and I am enjoying this rapport. “What is lurking in the background that will erupt later on?”
“Homophobia,” says Alice. “You just had a taste of that when we came in.”
“Oh well,” I shrug, “who cares?”
They exchange a look and then Patience says, “Maybe you are not involved, immune as it were.”
“Involved? Immune?” I am taken by surprise. Why not be frank? “I lived for thirty years with a woman you may have heard of, the publisher Victoria Chilton.”
“Yes, of course. A distinguished imprint,” Alice reacts at once.
“She died last year and I inherited a small fortune. So here I am!”
“I suppose money does give one a kind of immunity,” Alice muses.
“We simply lived our lives in Chestnut Hill and took ourselves for granted.” I am now on the defensive but do not understand why. “It was our life and we did not feel connected to other women couples or even know many.”
“Didn’t you ever meet slurs or raised eyebrows or something like that?” Patience asks.
“I’m not aware that we did,” I answer. “Tell me something about you. Did you live in Paris long?” They have to be older than they look—at least seventy to have been in Paris before 1940.
“Patience was studying at the Sorbonne and I was working at the Bibliothèque Nationale and the Cluny on my doctorate. That is where we met.”
“In front of the lady and the unicorn tapestries,” Patience says, smiling with the happy memory of it.
“We ended up living in a small town in Ohio where I was teaching medieval history,” Alice says.
“But you live here in New England now …” I am sewing it all together like a tapestry in my mind.
“Yes, I’m retired and Patience teaches at the Winsor School in the French department.”
“Oh.” I sense that we are on the border of some revelation, but once more a
“She doesn’t know what she’s getting into,” I hear Sue Bagley whispering loudly.
“She knows,” says Chris. “And now I’m afraid we have to be off. Nice to meet you.”
Do I dare? After the two women congratulate me on the choice of books and introduce themselves as Alice and Patience, I suggest they come over and sit down and have a cup of tea. Sue Bagley, observing this, has evidently decided to follow the nuns out and waves a goodbye to me at the door.
“Just about enough for two cups.” I empty the teapot.
“Thirty years ago,” says Patience, the younger of the two, her red hair not yet tinged with gray, “we used to hang out at Sylvia Beach’s Shakespeare and Company in Paris. There has been nothing like it, around here anyway, but you do create an atmosphere …”
“In spite of that insulting woman who just left,” says Alice. “I heard her warn you.”
“Oh well, she’s lonely and eccentric. I pay no attention.” But I want to answer Patience’s kind remark. “What do you mean about ‘an atmosphere’?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How does one define an atmosphere?” Patience looks over at Alice, inviting her to define it, I suppose.
“Intelligent, welcoming, and not commercial.” Alice is clear-cut. “You won’t make money, I’m afraid, but you’ll make friends.”
“Good. That is what I hope. Already in this first week so many strangers have dropped in and stayed to talk, I am amazed.”
“But what do you do when someone drops in and stays and stays?” Patience asks.
It makes me laugh because I have been asking myself that very question. “God knows. I suppose one can pretend to be very busy filling out nonexistent orders.”
“It must be fun,” Alice says. “You look as though it is.”
“I’m almost afraid of everything going too well,” I answer. I feel these two are in tune with me and I am enjoying this rapport. “What is lurking in the background that will erupt later on?”
“Homophobia,” says Alice. “You just had a taste of that when we came in.”
“Oh well,” I shrug, “who cares?”
They exchange a look and then Patience says, “Maybe you are not involved, immune as it were.”
“Involved? Immune?” I am taken by surprise. Why not be frank? “I lived for thirty years with a woman you may have heard of, the publisher Victoria Chilton.”
“Yes, of course. A distinguished imprint,” Alice reacts at once.
“She died last year and I inherited a small fortune. So here I am!”
“I suppose money does give one a kind of immunity,” Alice muses.
“We simply lived our lives in Chestnut Hill and took ourselves for granted.” I am now on the defensive but do not understand why. “It was our life and we did not feel connected to other women couples or even know many.”
“Didn’t you ever meet slurs or raised eyebrows or something like that?” Patience asks.
“I’m not aware that we did,” I answer. “Tell me something about you. Did you live in Paris long?” They have to be older than they look—at least seventy to have been in Paris before 1940.
“Patience was studying at the Sorbonne and I was working at the Bibliothèque Nationale and the Cluny on my doctorate. That is where we met.”
“In front of the lady and the unicorn tapestries,” Patience says, smiling with the happy memory of it.
“We ended up living in a small town in Ohio where I was teaching medieval history,” Alice says.
“But you live here in New England now …” I am sewing it all together like a tapestry in my mind.
“Yes, I’m retired and Patience teaches at the Winsor School in the French department.”
“Oh.” I sense that we are on the border of some revelation, but once more a
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