My Mrs. Brown by William Norwich Page B

interacting so nervously with anyone. It was fun to watch.
    â€œYou could stay at my house,” said Francie. “Praise the Lord, my teenage boy, Tony, would think his old mother was finally good for something—you know how teenagers are—if I brought you home.” She didn’t mention that Tony had a poster-size photo of Florida in a swimsuit on his bedroom wall.
    Florida, her head in Bonnie’s nervous hands, thanked Francie for the kind praise.
    When a host of other ideas were exhausted, Mrs. Brown said: “I have a spare room and you’d be welcome to it.” She couldn’t believe the words had come out of her mouth!
    No one else could either. Bonnie was so stunned by Mrs. Brown’s audacity that she nearly dropped the bottle with Florida’s hair color. Duly noted, reprimand Mrs. Brown later.
    The supermodel sat forward in Bonnie’s chair, her hair still soaking in bottle color, and craned her swan-like neck in Mrs. Brown’s direction. “Do you really have a spare room, Mrs. Brown? Oh, I’d love to see it when we’re done here.”
    â€œIt isn’t really ready to be seen; it needs some sprucing up,” Mrs. Brown said. “I’m done here by seven, and if you give me about an hour I’ll go home and clean up a bit and then please come by around eight?”
    â€œI have to get back to New York tonight; it’s at least a four-hour drive,” Florida said. “Bonnie, would you mind if Mrs. Brown took me round to see the room when you’re done with my color?” Bonnie leaned in to Florida’s ear and whispered: “You don’t have to be so kind, dear. Our old Mrs. Brown is a tough bird. You can say no and not waste your time.”
    Florida whispered back: “I may only be a haphazardly educated college senior, dear, but I, too, am a tough bird who can make her own decisions and rarely wastes her time.”
    Freud said anatomy is destiny? Maybe hair is, too, or hair salons.
    If looks could kill, Mrs. Brown would have been six feet under, dead and buried, when she went off in Florida Noble’s emerald-green Jaguar convertible, leaving her coworkers aghast, their mouths open, but for once in their lives with nothing to say—for now.

T HE FIRST THINGS FLORIDA noticed at Mrs. Brown’s house were the smells of wood polish, strong tea, geraniums in their pots, the cat food, and, as Mrs. Brown went through the place opening windows, the brackish scents from the Fogg River nearby.
    The bright overhead kitchen light made her squint. The kitchen table was so clean it practically sparkled. Instead of precious decorator color in the living room it was instead a wash of grays and browns. The dignity of the unremarkable pieces of furniture and the surprise of one: a light-color wood hutch with handsomely carved details.
    A glass-paneled door opened to a narrow hall, where she saw two doors leading to two small rooms. To the left was Mrs. Brown’s bedroom, to the right was a bathroom. Upstairs was a spare bedroom for Florida, if she liked it. They climbed the narrow stairs, Florida’s high heels F-sharp on the red oak staircase. Mrs. Brown opened the door to the spare room and gestured for Florida to have a look.
    The white blinds were drawn, the walls were papered in a kind of forest green, the bed was covered with a camel-colored corduroy spread, on top of which was an aged teddy bear with a sad, bemused expression that suggested he’d lost his best friend, or his best friend’s balloon, a long time ago. Three small hooked rugs covered a spotted-pattern linoleum floor, and a maple desk with a maple chair and a brass lamp with a yellow-white shade completed the room. On the bookshelf was a football with several signatures, a Webster’s dictionary, and an atlas.
    â€œYou are welcome to stay here while you finish school,” Mrs. Brown said.
    Florida entered. Santo jumped on the bed and raised his