Twillyweed by Mary Anne Kelly Page B

the cozy bay-window seat at the far end that looked out at the town square, had ordered tea, and was thinking Jenny Rose was going to take one look at me and her face would fall. That’s basically what happened.
    The glass door sprung open, jingling with a rope of bells, and in she walked. Her eyes took several seconds to adjust to the dark, then swept the room and she caught sight of me. Her face didn’t change, but her hazel eyes went sort of dead. She looked so young. Well, she is so young. I stood up, tripped over my own two feet, and made it across the room to give her a hug. She hugged me back all right. But on her way to my shoulder she let her guard down and I caught a clear glimpse of her disappointment. It didn’t take her long to adjust her face into a pleasant expression. We sat down. I took my time explaining, giving her a chance to get herself together. Jenny Rose chewed her lip and listened as I rambled on. Finally she shrugged. “I didn’t really expect her, you know.”
    You knew the kid was lying and her nonchalance was put on. “Well, she didn’t know,” I defended Carmela.
    â€œYeah, I just thought I’d take a chance.” She lit a cigarette and the owner—an interesting-looking lady with Veronica Lake hair and red lipstick—clicked her tongue and frowned pointedly.
    â€œYou can’t smoke in restaurants,” I hissed.
    â€œYou’re joking. How do you eat?”
    I patted my hefty tummy. “We manage.”
    Jenny Rose stomped out her cigarette and, still pulling herself together, stared out the window. I tried not to focus on the henna bracelet and the chipped blue nail polish, the black eyeliner and mascara. Actually, I was relieved there were no piercings other than the three in each earlobe. “I see you got a new tattoo.” I sighed, regarding the colorful rock star on her arm.
    â€œActually I painted it on, with makeup. Looks real, right?”
    â€œYes, it does,” I marveled. “Listen, Jenny Rose, Carmela’s expected back in a couple of weeks,” I said hopefully. “My sister Zinnie got married to a fancy Italian, I must say. Carmela was having a difficult time finishing a book, and Zinnie invited her there to work on it. Do her good. You know.”
    â€œUh-huh.” She whittled away at a last strand of blue nail polish with her teeth.
    Together our heads turned to the empty piazza across the way. We watched the flags and window-box petunias ripple in the high wind. “Doesn’t feel much like spring yet, but Memorial Day’s coming up,” I encouraged. “Everything changes.”
    We both moved unfamiliarly in our chairs. Outside, the cold sun glared on the empty road. Here in the Moose it was dark and cozy and smelled of butternut soup. A young man brought the tea in a sweet pot with roses. The cups were delicate, thin lipped and roomy.
    â€œOh, at last.” Jenny Rose smiled gratefully. She drank it down scalding hot.
    I sipped my tea. I’d had enough of polite discomfort. “Jenny Rose, I’m not glad this happened, that Carmela wasn’t here, but I’m so incredibly pleased to see you. My children are both away at school and—well, your coming happens at a perfect time for me—”
    Suddenly she took out her pad, knocking half the contents of her bag onto the floor in the process then scrambling to throw them back in untidily, and I thought she was going to write down my number, but instead she began sketching the interior of the restaurant. She did this with one foot up on the rung of a chair but otherwise inconspicuously and with an almost furious intent, reminding me of myself when I was just starting out, always photographing everything, no matter where I went. At last she said, “Wait until you see Twillyweed—the house where I’m working. There are onion-heads on turrets! It’s a trip.”
    â€œMay I come? Are you settled