He pushes her feet aside and sits right down on the end of her chaise longue,
where she has escaped to bury her agitation in a book
.
How well they know each other!
“I’m fine. And you’re always the company I hope for, Walter. Always.” She looks at his long, sensitive face, his graying hair. She in fact wishes he could stay forever, take up residence in the guest room, filling it with his law books and ledger-shaped diaries.
“I’m worried about you,” he says. “At first I thought I’d caused some offense. Or you weren’t glad to see me.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not you.”
He waits for her to continue, raises his eyebrows to coax her to go on.
“I’m restless,” she says finally.
He smiles. “Chérie, you’ve always been restless.” It’s true. Edith has always had a restless mind and body. She learned long ago that in order to listen well, she needs to distract part of her too-active brain. So she’s learned to knit or smoke or tat, just to focus. Her desire for travel is another sort of restlessness. Her interest in new books, new authors, new thoughts: all a manifestation of her restlessness. But restlessness without bravery means dissatisfaction. She wants something, but is she willing to take the risk to find it? All summer, longing has haunted her. She is surprised at its ferocity.
“Cigarette?” She lifts the crystal and silver box from the table beside the chaise and offers it to him. Walter selects one, finds a match in his jacket pocket and lights her cigarette, then his own.
“Would you mind, dear, if I turned off the electric light?” he asks. “It’s so harsh and my eyes are tired.”
“Of course not.” She switches off the lamp for him. For a while they smoke in silence. How intimate it is to be so close to him in the dark. As her eyes adjust, she enjoys the platinum shadows lit only by the intake of their breaths reawakening the ash. She remembers how once Walter seemed so challenging, so intimidating. Now there is no one whose company soothes her more. He takes her free hand suddenly and enfolds it in his. How small her hand becomes in his large one. Through the open French doors the moon is huge, the color of a white-fleshed peach. A breeze blows the voile undercurtains, spilling ivory light onto the patterned rug.
“Come,” he says and draws her to her feet.
She has been sitting with outstretched legs too long, and her body aches as she rises, a reminder that she is no longer young. He leads her to the window, from where they can see over the terrace to the allée of lime trees, crisp and neat in the moonlight, and far away, the wispy glimmer of Laurel Lake.
“It’s a perfect late-summer moon,” he says. “The moon is never so pristine in Washington. It always looks like it’s got a scratched lens over it. Here in the mountains, it’s clean as a dinner plate.”
“You should stay longer.”
“No. I’m needed in Washington. I shouldn’t have left at all, but I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
She shakes her head at the word. “Needed. I think I don’t know what it’s like to be needed,” she says.
“You? There are many people who find you indispensable, my love,” he says. “Henry James would fall into a heap if you should disappear. As would Teddy. And I most certainly would.”
“Walter,” she begins. “Do you think there will be any more . . . surprises in my life?”
“Surprises?”
“I’ve come to believe I’ve used up my store of surprises.”
“Ha.” He chuckles softly. “As though we’re all allotted a certain precious set. But, Edith, you hate surprises.”
“I used to.”
“Dearest,” he scolds, “you’re like your gardens.” He gestures out toward the perfectly trimmed moonlit hedges. “You like things just so. Surprise-free. It’s what drives us mad about you. And mad for you. It’s the Edith we love. And the devil incarnate.”
“Maybe so. But now, I feel like I would like my life to grab
where she has escaped to bury her agitation in a book
.
How well they know each other!
“I’m fine. And you’re always the company I hope for, Walter. Always.” She looks at his long, sensitive face, his graying hair. She in fact wishes he could stay forever, take up residence in the guest room, filling it with his law books and ledger-shaped diaries.
“I’m worried about you,” he says. “At first I thought I’d caused some offense. Or you weren’t glad to see me.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not you.”
He waits for her to continue, raises his eyebrows to coax her to go on.
“I’m restless,” she says finally.
He smiles. “Chérie, you’ve always been restless.” It’s true. Edith has always had a restless mind and body. She learned long ago that in order to listen well, she needs to distract part of her too-active brain. So she’s learned to knit or smoke or tat, just to focus. Her desire for travel is another sort of restlessness. Her interest in new books, new authors, new thoughts: all a manifestation of her restlessness. But restlessness without bravery means dissatisfaction. She wants something, but is she willing to take the risk to find it? All summer, longing has haunted her. She is surprised at its ferocity.
“Cigarette?” She lifts the crystal and silver box from the table beside the chaise and offers it to him. Walter selects one, finds a match in his jacket pocket and lights her cigarette, then his own.
“Would you mind, dear, if I turned off the electric light?” he asks. “It’s so harsh and my eyes are tired.”
“Of course not.” She switches off the lamp for him. For a while they smoke in silence. How intimate it is to be so close to him in the dark. As her eyes adjust, she enjoys the platinum shadows lit only by the intake of their breaths reawakening the ash. She remembers how once Walter seemed so challenging, so intimidating. Now there is no one whose company soothes her more. He takes her free hand suddenly and enfolds it in his. How small her hand becomes in his large one. Through the open French doors the moon is huge, the color of a white-fleshed peach. A breeze blows the voile undercurtains, spilling ivory light onto the patterned rug.
“Come,” he says and draws her to her feet.
She has been sitting with outstretched legs too long, and her body aches as she rises, a reminder that she is no longer young. He leads her to the window, from where they can see over the terrace to the allée of lime trees, crisp and neat in the moonlight, and far away, the wispy glimmer of Laurel Lake.
“It’s a perfect late-summer moon,” he says. “The moon is never so pristine in Washington. It always looks like it’s got a scratched lens over it. Here in the mountains, it’s clean as a dinner plate.”
“You should stay longer.”
“No. I’m needed in Washington. I shouldn’t have left at all, but I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
She shakes her head at the word. “Needed. I think I don’t know what it’s like to be needed,” she says.
“You? There are many people who find you indispensable, my love,” he says. “Henry James would fall into a heap if you should disappear. As would Teddy. And I most certainly would.”
“Walter,” she begins. “Do you think there will be any more . . . surprises in my life?”
“Surprises?”
“I’ve come to believe I’ve used up my store of surprises.”
“Ha.” He chuckles softly. “As though we’re all allotted a certain precious set. But, Edith, you hate surprises.”
“I used to.”
“Dearest,” he scolds, “you’re like your gardens.” He gestures out toward the perfectly trimmed moonlit hedges. “You like things just so. Surprise-free. It’s what drives us mad about you. And mad for you. It’s the Edith we love. And the devil incarnate.”
“Maybe so. But now, I feel like I would like my life to grab
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