herself down on the edge of the daybed.
“What about him?”
“Why aren’t you sleeping with him?”
Helen snorted with exasperation. “Charlotte, Dad and I have had separate bedrooms for ages. He can’t sleep with me prowling around the room, or reading in bed, or flipping from side to side in one my insomniac fits. You know that.”
“Yes, but that’s at home. Here—” Charlotte scraped a bit of dirt from her wrist.
“Here, what?” She knew what her daughter meant but she was also feeling very cranky with Charlotte, who always assumed Worth could do no wrong and that Nona was nothing less than an angel from heaven.
Charlotte squirmed. “Well, there aren’t as many bedrooms here. What about everyone else?”
“Everyone has a bedroom, Charlotte. Except for Teddy, and he cantake an attic room. And you know Oliver and Owen are staying at a B and B in town.”
Charlotte slumped. “But what will Nona think? If you’re not sharing a room with Dad?”
“Charlotte, Nona is well acquainted with the aggravations of old age. She knows I have trouble sleeping. As for the others, I’m sure Grace and Kellogg have nights when they sleep separately, too. It doesn’t mean anything.” Rising from her chair, she crossed the small room to sit next to her daughter. She put an arm around her. “Sweetie. What’s bothering you?”
Charlotte leaned against her. “Oh, I don’t know, Mom. I just want everyone to be happy.”
“Everyone is happy, Charlotte.” She squeezed her child’s shoulder. “Tell me,” she said briskly. “What are you doing in your garden today? And can I help?”
Charlotte perked up. “Are you serious? About helping? Gosh, if you could do some weeding—”
“I’d love to.”
“But it’s hard work, Mom. It really stresses the back.”
“Why don’t I do what I can, and I’ll stop when I get tired?”
“Great!” Charlotte jumped up. “Okay, I’ve got to get back outside, and you need to put on work clothes and sunblock and a sun hat.”
“Aye-aye.” Helen stood and saluted. How easy it was, just for now, to make her daughter happy. Smiling, she remembered what she and Cecilia, her best friend, had agreed when their children became teenagers: they couldn’t think about what would happen in the future. They had to be grateful for the present moment. They had to take things one day at a time. Even if, sometimes, it was one hard, confusing, maddening day at a time.
Nona’s Party
Eight
N ona spent Saturday in her room, saving her energy for the evening’s festivities. It was a little appalling, how easily she dozed through the hours in her chaise near the window. It wasn’t so much that she slept as that she daydreamed, and not even that, it was more a kind of drifting, as if her chaise of its own accord transformed into a hot-air balloon or Aladdin’s magic carpet, lifting her effortlessly up and away from her present life, out the window, above the clouds, and smoothly through her past.
She could look down on herself as a girl, galloping her enormous old quarter horse across the fields, riding western, not that prissy eastern way, as wild as an Indian, her hair flying straight out behind her and her springer spaniel loping alongside, pink tongue hanging out, smiling, because Pup loved to run. She could spy herself as a young woman, giddy and silly and crazy with love for the dashing officer she’d met, Herbert Wheelwright. She could watch herself keeping her back straight as she endured her mother-in-law’s barbed “compliments,” and wasn’t amused by those memories; the old washof anger flooded through her, as heated and potent as it had been all those years ago. She saw her babies again, and her heart sang with joy, and she heard the knock on the door of their Boston house in 1970, when Captain Bruce Moore came to inform them that their son Bobby had been killed on the battlefield in Vietnam. Such grief. Such darkness. She attended Grace and Kellogg’s
“What about him?”
“Why aren’t you sleeping with him?”
Helen snorted with exasperation. “Charlotte, Dad and I have had separate bedrooms for ages. He can’t sleep with me prowling around the room, or reading in bed, or flipping from side to side in one my insomniac fits. You know that.”
“Yes, but that’s at home. Here—” Charlotte scraped a bit of dirt from her wrist.
“Here, what?” She knew what her daughter meant but she was also feeling very cranky with Charlotte, who always assumed Worth could do no wrong and that Nona was nothing less than an angel from heaven.
Charlotte squirmed. “Well, there aren’t as many bedrooms here. What about everyone else?”
“Everyone has a bedroom, Charlotte. Except for Teddy, and he cantake an attic room. And you know Oliver and Owen are staying at a B and B in town.”
Charlotte slumped. “But what will Nona think? If you’re not sharing a room with Dad?”
“Charlotte, Nona is well acquainted with the aggravations of old age. She knows I have trouble sleeping. As for the others, I’m sure Grace and Kellogg have nights when they sleep separately, too. It doesn’t mean anything.” Rising from her chair, she crossed the small room to sit next to her daughter. She put an arm around her. “Sweetie. What’s bothering you?”
Charlotte leaned against her. “Oh, I don’t know, Mom. I just want everyone to be happy.”
“Everyone is happy, Charlotte.” She squeezed her child’s shoulder. “Tell me,” she said briskly. “What are you doing in your garden today? And can I help?”
Charlotte perked up. “Are you serious? About helping? Gosh, if you could do some weeding—”
“I’d love to.”
“But it’s hard work, Mom. It really stresses the back.”
“Why don’t I do what I can, and I’ll stop when I get tired?”
“Great!” Charlotte jumped up. “Okay, I’ve got to get back outside, and you need to put on work clothes and sunblock and a sun hat.”
“Aye-aye.” Helen stood and saluted. How easy it was, just for now, to make her daughter happy. Smiling, she remembered what she and Cecilia, her best friend, had agreed when their children became teenagers: they couldn’t think about what would happen in the future. They had to be grateful for the present moment. They had to take things one day at a time. Even if, sometimes, it was one hard, confusing, maddening day at a time.
Nona’s Party
Eight
N ona spent Saturday in her room, saving her energy for the evening’s festivities. It was a little appalling, how easily she dozed through the hours in her chaise near the window. It wasn’t so much that she slept as that she daydreamed, and not even that, it was more a kind of drifting, as if her chaise of its own accord transformed into a hot-air balloon or Aladdin’s magic carpet, lifting her effortlessly up and away from her present life, out the window, above the clouds, and smoothly through her past.
She could look down on herself as a girl, galloping her enormous old quarter horse across the fields, riding western, not that prissy eastern way, as wild as an Indian, her hair flying straight out behind her and her springer spaniel loping alongside, pink tongue hanging out, smiling, because Pup loved to run. She could spy herself as a young woman, giddy and silly and crazy with love for the dashing officer she’d met, Herbert Wheelwright. She could watch herself keeping her back straight as she endured her mother-in-law’s barbed “compliments,” and wasn’t amused by those memories; the old washof anger flooded through her, as heated and potent as it had been all those years ago. She saw her babies again, and her heart sang with joy, and she heard the knock on the door of their Boston house in 1970, when Captain Bruce Moore came to inform them that their son Bobby had been killed on the battlefield in Vietnam. Such grief. Such darkness. She attended Grace and Kellogg’s
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