The Rose Garden by Maeve Brennan

stuff, Leona, and must be strictly disciplined. Always remember that, my dear. No, don’t remember it. Forget it. Forget velvet altogether. Tweed, yes, but only in its thinnest, most gossamer interpretations. That thing you’re wearing looks like tree-trunk bark. Thin, soft tweeds in divine colors: mauve, of course; periwinkle, of course; olive, apricot, cerise, maybe. And do bear in mind, my love, that a suit or a dress—anything you wear—is meant to illuminate you. You look positively surrounded in that thing you have on. That suit has conquered you, Leona. See the brazen independence of those grisly tweed shoulders. Why, they must be several inches above your own dear little shoulders. Clothes may be impertinent, Leona, and delightfully so, but they must never be domineering. Do run upstairs and take that thing off at once, Leona. It affronts me.”
    When Leona returned, in a dress that Charles also disapproved of, although not so violently, he smiled at her and said, “What an exciting day we’ve spent, Leona. We’ve turned you into a beauty. We’ll spend this weekend deep in plans, and by next Friday you’ll have at least two or three really splendid things. To begin with, a tremendous fireside skirt with a hem that measures at least a mile around. Now, let’s see. For the skirt? Let me think.”
    â€œTaffeta?” Leona said timidly, for in those early days she was still unguarded enough to express her uninvited opinion.
    Charles covered his face with his hands for a moment, andwhen he spoke, it was with mighty patience. “Taffeta,” he whispered. “Taffeta. Taffeta? The first refuge of the fat young wallflower, who hopes vainly that the crisp rustle of the electric-blue skirt—it’s always electric blue at that age, Leona—will drive the bepimpled stag line mad with desire. And the last refuge of the thin and fading wallflower, who depends on the vulgar shimmer of this execrable fabric—baby blue in the later stages, Leona—to avert the attention of prospective partners from her worried and disappointed countenance and to encourage them to perambulate her at least once around the badly waxed surface of the country-club floor. Tafetta? Leona, how could you?”
    â€œI’m very sorry, Charles,” Leona said breathlessly. “I just didn’t know. You see, I just don’t know anything. I won’t make a single other suggestion. You’ll see.”
    â€œLeona,” Charles said seriously, “I’m beginning to think I came into your life just in time to save it. Do you realize the sort of woman you were about to turn into? Taffeta! And that sinister tweed. Two years—no, a year—from now, it would have been too late. I could have done nothing for you. I’ll unswaddle your personality, Leona, and I’ll dress you as it deserves to be dressed. Oh, you may not always like what I do, my dear, but I can promise you one thing. We’ll have an awful lot of fun.”
    â€œOh, I’ll love it, Charles. I’ll love it!” Leona said fervently.
    â€œYou are a creature of flame and smoke, Leona. I see it all now. I won’t have to think anymore. Flame red, flame yellow, flame orange, and all the magical blues and grays you see in smoke. Oh, Leona, my mind is brimming with ideas. Do fetch some paper, lots of paper, and boxes and boxes of pencils. We must start our list, beginning with the fireside skirt, which will, I think, be made of awning canvas, striped in mauve and the very clearest yellow, and quilted, and lined with thin black cotton. You’re going to look divine, darling. Do you know that?”
    Two weeks later, when Leona, wearing the fireside skirt for the first time, confronted Charles as he arrived from the city, he was already an indispensable part of her life.
    So long ago all that was, Leona thought affectionately now, gazing at Charles’s bent, musing head. Eight