dining room's tiled hearth-apron behind which glowed a fire of cedar logs, at the red candles nested in balsam in the table's center piece, at the old brocade curtains gleaming richly before the windows. Mistletoe hung on the door to the butler's pantry, and she smiled a little at that.
“Everything's lovely. I just adore boiled dinner and nobody makes it, anymore. Baked apples, too. And real cream, wasn’t it? You whipped it for us from scratch?”
By then I’d have told her that the moon was made of green cheese, if she’d wanted me to. Because the thing about Joy, I was starting to think, was that she was real. Not faking anything; genuinely herself. It was that more than anything else that made her so beautiful, I thought.
Willetta got up as if linked to Joy by an invisible cord. “Thank you,” she said colorlessly, and followed her sister.
Accompanying them to the hall, I glanced into the front parlor where Monday was circling the best chair nervously, her ears flat and the hairs on her neck-ruff prickling defensively. Seeing me emboldened her to put a paw up onto it-Monday is allowed on any furniture that will hold her,except for the guest beds—but at the last minute she lost courage again and turned tail, whining.
“Oh, Monday,” I said sadly, and she skulked out to the kitchen as if embarrassed by her own cowardice.
Meanwhile George had retreated to the back parlor for football on TV, carrying a cup of ice to soak his sore thumb in. Tomorrow he would get plenty of cold on it; scalloping season had opened and with the church pipes thawed, the generator repaired, and the materials for his own house repairs undelivered, he was going out on one of the boats.
George worked, Ellie said, the way other people breathed; now the rest of the men got up to join him, hungry for scores.
“Joy,” I began slowly while Victor was in the hall retrieving their coats; it was none of my business. But I already liked her a great deal.
“Don’t,” I heard Victor say distinctly to Willetta from down the hall, “be such a baby.”
“Victor has a way of making you feel…” I hesitated.
“Special,” she finished my sentence accurately. Her cologne was L’Air du Temps. “Like you’re the one, after all the others, that he's been looking for.”
“Exactly,” I said. “And I don’t want to be the one who…”
“Puts a hitch in his git-along?” Her laugh made me like her more.
“Yes,” I admitted, “exactly that.”
She patted my arm. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ve been paddling my own canoe for a good while, now.”
I’d been right about her age, I saw; much younger than her hair and elaborate makeup made her appear. But her eyes were intelligent and there was a kind of seasoned hardness in them, so I believed her when she went on:
“It's going to take lots more than Victor Tiptree to capsizeme.” She glanced down the hall. “Listen, about those state guys—”
“What about them?”
Joy looked uncomfortable. “A friend of mine was having a few drinks in Duddy's Bar out on Route 214 last night. You know the place halfway to Meddybemps?”
I knew. Duddy's was a dive; thick smoke, loud music, a pool table full of cigarette burns in the back room. A place for people who were banned from other bars; bikers, hookers, and drug dealers: oxycontin, methamphetamines.
Thinking of it reminded me that my view of downeast Maine was a privileged one: that of a person safe inside a warm house after a good dinner. But not everyone around here was so lucky and the unluckiest salved their wounds with booze or pills.
I also knew that Victor had been tied up in surgery the night before, working on a logger who’d been hit with a whole tree over at the lumber mill's debarking machine, on the mainland.
So Joy had been on her own. “Your, um, friend,” I prodded gently. “What's she got to do with those state guys?”
“She saw them there. Both of them. Stuck out like sore thumbs, even though they
“Everything's lovely. I just adore boiled dinner and nobody makes it, anymore. Baked apples, too. And real cream, wasn’t it? You whipped it for us from scratch?”
By then I’d have told her that the moon was made of green cheese, if she’d wanted me to. Because the thing about Joy, I was starting to think, was that she was real. Not faking anything; genuinely herself. It was that more than anything else that made her so beautiful, I thought.
Willetta got up as if linked to Joy by an invisible cord. “Thank you,” she said colorlessly, and followed her sister.
Accompanying them to the hall, I glanced into the front parlor where Monday was circling the best chair nervously, her ears flat and the hairs on her neck-ruff prickling defensively. Seeing me emboldened her to put a paw up onto it-Monday is allowed on any furniture that will hold her,except for the guest beds—but at the last minute she lost courage again and turned tail, whining.
“Oh, Monday,” I said sadly, and she skulked out to the kitchen as if embarrassed by her own cowardice.
Meanwhile George had retreated to the back parlor for football on TV, carrying a cup of ice to soak his sore thumb in. Tomorrow he would get plenty of cold on it; scalloping season had opened and with the church pipes thawed, the generator repaired, and the materials for his own house repairs undelivered, he was going out on one of the boats.
George worked, Ellie said, the way other people breathed; now the rest of the men got up to join him, hungry for scores.
“Joy,” I began slowly while Victor was in the hall retrieving their coats; it was none of my business. But I already liked her a great deal.
“Don’t,” I heard Victor say distinctly to Willetta from down the hall, “be such a baby.”
“Victor has a way of making you feel…” I hesitated.
“Special,” she finished my sentence accurately. Her cologne was L’Air du Temps. “Like you’re the one, after all the others, that he's been looking for.”
“Exactly,” I said. “And I don’t want to be the one who…”
“Puts a hitch in his git-along?” Her laugh made me like her more.
“Yes,” I admitted, “exactly that.”
She patted my arm. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ve been paddling my own canoe for a good while, now.”
I’d been right about her age, I saw; much younger than her hair and elaborate makeup made her appear. But her eyes were intelligent and there was a kind of seasoned hardness in them, so I believed her when she went on:
“It's going to take lots more than Victor Tiptree to capsizeme.” She glanced down the hall. “Listen, about those state guys—”
“What about them?”
Joy looked uncomfortable. “A friend of mine was having a few drinks in Duddy's Bar out on Route 214 last night. You know the place halfway to Meddybemps?”
I knew. Duddy's was a dive; thick smoke, loud music, a pool table full of cigarette burns in the back room. A place for people who were banned from other bars; bikers, hookers, and drug dealers: oxycontin, methamphetamines.
Thinking of it reminded me that my view of downeast Maine was a privileged one: that of a person safe inside a warm house after a good dinner. But not everyone around here was so lucky and the unluckiest salved their wounds with booze or pills.
I also knew that Victor had been tied up in surgery the night before, working on a logger who’d been hit with a whole tree over at the lumber mill's debarking machine, on the mainland.
So Joy had been on her own. “Your, um, friend,” I prodded gently. “What's she got to do with those state guys?”
“She saw them there. Both of them. Stuck out like sore thumbs, even though they
Similar Books
