being ill—not seriously ill, just a tiny malaise, but enough so I could stay in bed to be waited on with dainty trays of all the things I liked most, “to tempt my appetite.” I would lie back against a mound of pillows staring out the window at the sea, feeling deliciously pampered and lazy, until someone, Mammie or Pa or friends, would pop their heads around the door and say, “Hello, young lady, and what have you been up to then?” And then my quiet little lair would be alive with laughter and gossip and huggings and kissings because nobody seemed in the least bit worried about catching my germs.
You know, it’s my misfortune—and don’t imagine I haven’t regretted it all these years—that I never had children. God gave me a raw deal on that one because I surely wanted them: I wanted my first love Archie’s child, but I never had the chance; I wanted my husband’s child, but I never seemed lucky; and later I wanted the children of the man I loved and almost married, but it was not to be. I have thought many a time about how different my life would have been with Ardnavarna full of children and then grandchildren, the way most Irish houses are. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not lonely. Oh, no, I never was that. It’s just that sometimes I get wistful about it, especially on long dark winter evenings. And that’s why I was so pleased that night.
Because, you see, I had another houseguest. My “coincidence.” He was away in Galway, but he would be back in time for dinner, and tonight it would be almost like havinggrandchildren around my table. I knew I had better bathe quickly and then check on Brigid in the kitchen. Two girls from the village had come to help, but still, she is an old woman, though she won’t admit it, and I wanted to make sure she was all right.
I decided to wear the pink chiffon with the little shoulder-cape. “Shocking” pink they used to call it, and it’s one of my favorites. I put the diamond arrows Archie once gave me in my hair and clipped diamonds in my ears; the setting is old-fashioned and maybe they are a bit dusty, but they’re “good.” Since my chest is now so scrawny there is no point in being décolleté, so I pinned my little shoulder-cape closed with my favorite enamel fox brooch, bought at a fair years ago. Silk stockings, of course—my biggest extravagance—then my silver high-heeled sandals, and a splash of Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue. I thought that should do it.
Downstairs again, I checked Brigid in the kitchen, then I dashed around lighting candles and lamps and plumping up cushions like a nervous hostess at her first party, because I was on tenterhooks about my little surprise. If it went the way I thought it would we were in for an amusing time. Or shall we say, “the mystery deepens.”
The tall windows were flung open to the night air and I heard the sound of a car arriving, and then hurrying footsteps bolting up the stairs two at a time. I smiled reminiscently as I heard that fateful creak on the second step from the top. I busied myself with the bottles on the sideboard, pouring a little of this and a little of that into a 1920 cocktail shaker, just as the clock in the hall struck eight followed by a tinkling little tune. A few minutes later I heard Shannon on the stairs and then she entered in a cloud of Chanel No. 5.
I inspected her critically, the way I would a granddaughter, head to one side, eyes narrowed. She was wearing a column of black jersey with a deep V-neck and long tight sleeves with a tasseled belt clasped around her slender waist. With the light behind her, her red hair looked like ahalo, and she wore almost no makeup and not a scrap of jewelry.
“Well, now,” I said approvingly, “don’t you look grand. A bit plain for my taste, girl, but then you are young enough, and beautiful enough to get away with it. I’m like my mother, I always had to layer on the flash to get noticed.”
I saw her staring at my frock and my
You know, it’s my misfortune—and don’t imagine I haven’t regretted it all these years—that I never had children. God gave me a raw deal on that one because I surely wanted them: I wanted my first love Archie’s child, but I never had the chance; I wanted my husband’s child, but I never seemed lucky; and later I wanted the children of the man I loved and almost married, but it was not to be. I have thought many a time about how different my life would have been with Ardnavarna full of children and then grandchildren, the way most Irish houses are. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not lonely. Oh, no, I never was that. It’s just that sometimes I get wistful about it, especially on long dark winter evenings. And that’s why I was so pleased that night.
Because, you see, I had another houseguest. My “coincidence.” He was away in Galway, but he would be back in time for dinner, and tonight it would be almost like havinggrandchildren around my table. I knew I had better bathe quickly and then check on Brigid in the kitchen. Two girls from the village had come to help, but still, she is an old woman, though she won’t admit it, and I wanted to make sure she was all right.
I decided to wear the pink chiffon with the little shoulder-cape. “Shocking” pink they used to call it, and it’s one of my favorites. I put the diamond arrows Archie once gave me in my hair and clipped diamonds in my ears; the setting is old-fashioned and maybe they are a bit dusty, but they’re “good.” Since my chest is now so scrawny there is no point in being décolleté, so I pinned my little shoulder-cape closed with my favorite enamel fox brooch, bought at a fair years ago. Silk stockings, of course—my biggest extravagance—then my silver high-heeled sandals, and a splash of Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue. I thought that should do it.
Downstairs again, I checked Brigid in the kitchen, then I dashed around lighting candles and lamps and plumping up cushions like a nervous hostess at her first party, because I was on tenterhooks about my little surprise. If it went the way I thought it would we were in for an amusing time. Or shall we say, “the mystery deepens.”
The tall windows were flung open to the night air and I heard the sound of a car arriving, and then hurrying footsteps bolting up the stairs two at a time. I smiled reminiscently as I heard that fateful creak on the second step from the top. I busied myself with the bottles on the sideboard, pouring a little of this and a little of that into a 1920 cocktail shaker, just as the clock in the hall struck eight followed by a tinkling little tune. A few minutes later I heard Shannon on the stairs and then she entered in a cloud of Chanel No. 5.
I inspected her critically, the way I would a granddaughter, head to one side, eyes narrowed. She was wearing a column of black jersey with a deep V-neck and long tight sleeves with a tasseled belt clasped around her slender waist. With the light behind her, her red hair looked like ahalo, and she wore almost no makeup and not a scrap of jewelry.
“Well, now,” I said approvingly, “don’t you look grand. A bit plain for my taste, girl, but then you are young enough, and beautiful enough to get away with it. I’m like my mother, I always had to layer on the flash to get noticed.”
I saw her staring at my frock and my
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