The Rose Garden by Maeve Brennan Page A

whole years ago. Poor Tommy—how furious it used to make him, having to drive Charles out every Friday. And George gets just as furious now, although he’s not as quick to show it as poor Tommy was. George is such a fool.
    Tommy Finch, Leona’s first husband, who had brought her as a bride into his family’s pleasant old home at Herbert’s Retreat, was dead, having run his car into a tree one night. George Harkey, to whom Leona was now married, was a stolid young man who spent his days at Clancyhanger’s, one of the less celebrated New York department stores, where he was credit manager. Leona had married George chiefly for the sake of the tiny riverside cottage he owned, which cut her house off from the view, so highly prized by all Retreat dwellers, of the broad waters of the Hudson. Now Leona had her view, the cottage having been demolished without delay after her marriage to George. Unfortunately, she also had George. But a husband—even a dull, embarrassing husband like George—was better for Leona’s purposes than no husband at all. She ignored George as completely as possible, and, so powerful was her pride in her house and in her position at Herbert’s Retreat, she had almost forgotten that George’s cottage ever existed. Her living room was no longer Early American. Charles had seen to that. Now it was a witty, sophisticated, and dashing mélange of bright linens and chintzes, and reflected, as Charles said, the marriage of an informed eye with a wayward and original fancy. A wonderful room for a party, people always said when they saw it for the first time.
    Leona loved to entertain, and her parties, which were alwaysexpertly planned and very successful, owed a good deal not only to Charles’s advice but also to his presence. He was the only celebrated representative of the world of arts and letters who was familiar to the residents of the Retreat, and since most of them commuted daily to the comparatively unexciting circles of business and finance, they respected him immediately for his reputation, and learned to respect even more keenly his talent for withering with a look or drawing blood with a word. Charles treasured Leona’s house for its comfort and for the verve with which he had endowed it. He treasured Leona for her subservience and for her appearance. “I invented you, my darling,” he liked to say.
    â€œI know, Charles. I know you did. Oh, I remember,” Leona always answered, and at such times she would gaze anxiously into his eyes, as though she feared that by closing them he would dismiss her back into the nothingness from which he had rescued her.
    Tired of musing, Charles suddenly sat straight up in the pale-blue armchair and laughed impishly at Leona’s startled face. Leona, whose expression was not entirely spontaneous, was glad to be able to talk again.
    â€œCharles,” she said, “I have wonderful news. I just can’t keep it to myself any longer. The most wonderful surprise. You’ll never guess what it is. All right, Charles, I know you hate to guess. I’ll tell you.” She drew a deep breath and smiled tremulously. This was really too good. “Aunt Amelia is coming next weekend,” she said. “Lady Ailesbury-Rhode, Charles. Can you believe it?”
    â€œ Tommy’s aunt, wasn’t she?”
    â€œAnd my aunt by marriage. I always call her Aunt Amelia.”
    â€œAlways? You only met her once, didn’t you, when you dragged Tommy to visit her in Ottawa during your honeymoon?”
    â€œOh, Charles, you sound so cross. I can’t help showing off just a little. She’s going back to London to live, and she’ll be inNew York for two weeks, staying with friends. She called me this morning and said she’d like to come here next weekend. Well, I feel quite deflated. I thought you’d be pleased. I’m planning a marvelous party, Charles. Don’t you want to