the way she would stop to see a neighbor who raised merino sheep. He sold hand-dyed, hand-spun wool, and Sarah wanted to take some to Josie Koval, still confined to bed. Sarah knew from Rose that Josie was a knitter, and she remembered eyeing a lovely tweedy yarn, spruce green flecked with cream and brown. If any was left, it would be just the thing. Sarah hadwanted it for herself, but she could no longer knit without pain streaking through the base of her right thumb.
In town Sarah bought a box of clementines, which prompted thoughts of gingerbread to serve with them. She decided to invite someone to dinner. She thought Molly Chalmers, with Adelaide Jones and Leila Briggs. Sarah was in the mood for female company after her long confinement with Charles. Old females, she thought, smiling. Addie and Leila were her own age. Molly was thought to be nearing ninety, a benevolent crone schooled in forestry, herbs, and gardens, a lifelong environmentalist, stooped and white-haired, with pink scalp showing at the crown of her large head. Her halo of white fluff inevitably brought to mind dandelion seeds, delicately spoked before the breezes carried them off. Molly had been big once, before the decades had shrunk her. Her broad knuckly hands were scarred and gnarled with use, but elsewhere her skin was heavy old silk, fine-lined and softly folded, bearing no spots or stains. She must have prized her rose white skin, the way she always covered it with long gauzy garments and broad hats in hot weather. It was her only outward beauty. She had never married or seemed to regret it. She wandered as she pleased, and Sarah could recall Mollyâs figure trudging roadsides and meadows for as long as she and Charles had lived here. She made ink drawings of local trees and flora and used them on labels for the infusions and decoctions she sold from her home. The income from that couldnât possibly be enough to live on. No one knew for sure how Molly supported herselfâprobably with an old, well-managed trust.
Adelaide had been Sarahâs best friend through high school. Long after their giddy flight from college to careers, long after Sarah had returned to Vermont with Charles, Addie had stayedin the city, climbing the marketing ladder at a prestigious publishing house. What no one in Vermont knew was that Adelaide stayed for the sake of Leila, her lover, a book designer in the same publishing firm. Later Addie would wonder aloud to Sarah which of her sins would have shocked Vermonters more, lesbianism or miscegenationâassuming it was still miscegenation when no progeny could result. Leila was black, and in those days some Vermonters went their whole lives without ever meeting a black person, let alone contemplating the scandal of a lifelong, interracial, homosexual liaison.
Sarah settled on her guest list, adding Vivi and Peter so that Charles would not be the only man amid sharp-tongued old women. She set the date for Saturday, a few nights away, then made her calls and got a yes from everyone.
S ATURDAY AFTERNOON , S ARAH WAS taking gingerbread from the oven when she heard a loud
whump!
and nearly dropped the pan. She went to the window and looked out. A heavy icicle had hit the railing on the small kitchen deck, punctuating the deep note of impact with the crack of splintering wood. Impatiently she pulled on a down vest and slid her sock feet into loose boots. She grabbed a snow shovel and traversed the perimeter of the house and barn, knocking icicles down over every entrance. Just what theyâd need, a friend speared through the scalp while bearing food indoors.
That done, Sarah calmed herself. Charles had gone to the village for lemons with which to sauce the gingerbread. Sarahâs other contribution to the eveningâs potluck was an Italian pie made with layers of polenta, cheese, and roasted vegetables. Sarah had no idea what the others would bring or whether theflavors would blend or clash. She didnât
In town Sarah bought a box of clementines, which prompted thoughts of gingerbread to serve with them. She decided to invite someone to dinner. She thought Molly Chalmers, with Adelaide Jones and Leila Briggs. Sarah was in the mood for female company after her long confinement with Charles. Old females, she thought, smiling. Addie and Leila were her own age. Molly was thought to be nearing ninety, a benevolent crone schooled in forestry, herbs, and gardens, a lifelong environmentalist, stooped and white-haired, with pink scalp showing at the crown of her large head. Her halo of white fluff inevitably brought to mind dandelion seeds, delicately spoked before the breezes carried them off. Molly had been big once, before the decades had shrunk her. Her broad knuckly hands were scarred and gnarled with use, but elsewhere her skin was heavy old silk, fine-lined and softly folded, bearing no spots or stains. She must have prized her rose white skin, the way she always covered it with long gauzy garments and broad hats in hot weather. It was her only outward beauty. She had never married or seemed to regret it. She wandered as she pleased, and Sarah could recall Mollyâs figure trudging roadsides and meadows for as long as she and Charles had lived here. She made ink drawings of local trees and flora and used them on labels for the infusions and decoctions she sold from her home. The income from that couldnât possibly be enough to live on. No one knew for sure how Molly supported herselfâprobably with an old, well-managed trust.
Adelaide had been Sarahâs best friend through high school. Long after their giddy flight from college to careers, long after Sarah had returned to Vermont with Charles, Addie had stayedin the city, climbing the marketing ladder at a prestigious publishing house. What no one in Vermont knew was that Adelaide stayed for the sake of Leila, her lover, a book designer in the same publishing firm. Later Addie would wonder aloud to Sarah which of her sins would have shocked Vermonters more, lesbianism or miscegenationâassuming it was still miscegenation when no progeny could result. Leila was black, and in those days some Vermonters went their whole lives without ever meeting a black person, let alone contemplating the scandal of a lifelong, interracial, homosexual liaison.
Sarah settled on her guest list, adding Vivi and Peter so that Charles would not be the only man amid sharp-tongued old women. She set the date for Saturday, a few nights away, then made her calls and got a yes from everyone.
S ATURDAY AFTERNOON , S ARAH WAS taking gingerbread from the oven when she heard a loud
whump!
and nearly dropped the pan. She went to the window and looked out. A heavy icicle had hit the railing on the small kitchen deck, punctuating the deep note of impact with the crack of splintering wood. Impatiently she pulled on a down vest and slid her sock feet into loose boots. She grabbed a snow shovel and traversed the perimeter of the house and barn, knocking icicles down over every entrance. Just what theyâd need, a friend speared through the scalp while bearing food indoors.
That done, Sarah calmed herself. Charles had gone to the village for lemons with which to sauce the gingerbread. Sarahâs other contribution to the eveningâs potluck was an Italian pie made with layers of polenta, cheese, and roasted vegetables. Sarah had no idea what the others would bring or whether theflavors would blend or clash. She didnât
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