part one

 

chapter one

 

 

 

The Lindell Retirement Home was lovely. Wide lawns could be reached through automatic glass doors at the end of every hall. Secluded patios with benches and flowering plants made for pleasant sitting in the warm months. The common areas were full of natural light and good quality art, often by a resident’s own hand. Some wings had an aquarium or well-populated birdcage, and one, Skilled Nursing, offered a very large stuffed dog that on occasion brought a smile to the faces of the dementia patients. The overall impression was one of calm, poise, and comfort.

Within the rooms themselves, there was less comfort. Aging wasn’t easy. Memory was unsure, especially with the help of certain frequently prescribed drugs. Physical discomfort was quite prevalent, for which, ironically, fewer drugs were prescribed.

Constance Maynard, age ninety-two, knew this well and would have shared her complaints, had she cared to. At the moment, she just wished Eunice and Sam would ease up a little. They were attempting to wash her feet by putting them in a plastic tub full of warm, soapy water. Constance thought the task should be simple enough. She didn’t see why it required four hands to manage it. They always teamed up when any sort of bathing or dressing was needed. Weren’t they the oddest pair? Fifty-something Eunice and twenty-something Sam. One, slight and wiry, the other, a linebacker. Big and Small. Short and Tall. Who’s the fairest of them all?

That was her sleep aid talking. The young doctor who came around told her rest was essential. Who was he kidding? Any moment now she would enter the realm of eternal rest. She should have the luxury of lying awake all night if she wanted to. Night was the traveling time. The time of seeing.

Eunice, the little one, knelt and lifted one gnarled foot out of the water, ran a scratchy washcloth between the toes, and lowered the foot back into the tub. The same was done to the other foot. Constance observed her feet with dismay. They certainly weren’t anything to brag about.

 

.   .   .

 

They had been once, small and shapely, so pretty in heels, worn out by years of walking back and forth before a blackboard, teaching morons the lessons history had to offer. Years of dull faces; years of dull minds. Engineering students needing to fulfill their liberal arts credits; fools who had no idea what to study and who got assigned to her lecture by that toad, Harriet, in Registration.

“Miss Maynard’s class is too hard for me,” whispered more than one curly-haired girl. Just there to get a husband and start cranking out imbecile children. The so-called research papers they wrote were scandalous. No matter how many times she went over proper footnoting procedure, their sources (if they were actual sources) went uncited. Her remarks were harsh and often caused tears. The Dean scolded her. She could be hard on the men, that was fine; they were serious, hoping for a bright future. The women, well, what could you expect? Constance fumed. And then, she was blessed when Angela Lowry signed up for her class. Angela had a first-rate mind and was eager to learn. She’d read everything on the War of the Roses. Her final paper was good enough to be published. When Constance checked one of her beautifully cited reference materials, she discovered that Angela had plagiarized a man writing two decades earlier, Dr. Harold Moss, at Harvard. She invited her to come to her office.

“I think you know why you’re here,” Constance said. She had brewed a cup of tea, hoping it would soothe.

“You caught me.” Just like that. Angela didn’t even blink. What color was her hair? Like the inside of a yam, a pale orange. Her blouse was white with small red buttons, and embroidered roses on the collar. She had big hands that looked raw, as if she washed them a lot in harsh soap.

Angela had wanted to test her professor, to see how good she really was. Hence the intentional plagiarism. Constance knew that was nonsense. The girl got stuck for time and panicked. Then she tried to talk her way out of it. Constance admired her moxie.

Was that a word anyone used anymore, moxie?

 

.   .   .

 

They were still fussing with her feet. Sam trimmed her nails. Eunice was talking.

“He says I’m kind,” she said. Her hair was bushy, copper streaked with gray.

“Aren’t you?” Sam asked. She had a pleasant voice for such a big girl.

“Never thought of myself that way before. Gullible, yes.”

And then to Constance, “You’re all done, dear.”

“Can’t you see I’ve still got the other one to do?” Sam asked.

“Right.”

Snip, snip, snip. Constance jerked her foot back.

“You need to hold still,” Sam said.

Sam clipped the last nail, on the little toe of Constance’s right foot, then wheeled her from her bathroom back into her bedroom. Eunice spread a blanket across her lap. The blanket didn’t quite cover her feet, which were now slippered, yet distinctly cold. She could never be comfortable when her feet were cold.

 

.   .   .

 

“You are, I can tell.”

“I am what?”

“Getting cold feet.”

Constance held her cocktail and looked down. A smell of lilac came in on the breeze lifting the gauze curtains in the study. Lilac was her favorite flower. They might have made a pretty wedding bouquet.

She could feel William watching her. She smoothed one sleeve of her dress with her free hand. She brought the glass to her lips, then lowered it.

“William—”

What had she told him on that long-ago afternoon? What reason did she give?

There were too many to count. They rolled through her mind, as her gin and tonic warmed in her hand. The breeze was a comfort, then it died, the curtains stilled, and she found her voice.

“I can’t.”

Nothing more was ever said between them. Not even when she returned the ring. She thought he might remark on that, at least. Choosing it was probably their most intimate moment. What he had first presented her with was a thin band that had belonged to his mother. The look on her face—shock that he would take such a step at all—was misinterpreted. He chided himself for not understanding how badly she would want her own ring, not one someone else had worn, however happily, for over forty years.

At the jeweler’s he talked her into a larger diamond than she thought appropriate, or which looked good on her hand.

“Isn’t it rather … ?”

“Tasteful and grand?” he’d asked.

“Vulgar,” she wanted to say, but didn’t.

Of course, it was beautiful. Diamonds always are, and this was quite a good one. E color, very, very small inclusions, round cut. Two point three carats.

“It suits you, darling,” he whispered, under the jeweler’s approving gaze.

They met at Brown. Her field was history, his, philosophy. He was impressed by her academic ambitions, that she’d attended Smith College, that she was petite and self-possessed. He was no doubt used to women who swooned over his attention and the prospect of marrying his money. William was rich in that quiet, understated way people tend to find so attractive. He never called attention to his wealth. He dressed modestly. It was the family home that gave it all away. Abundant opulence. The silent, invisible servants. His aunt’s cool assessment of Constance, and then her grudging acceptance. Since his mother’s death, his Aunt Helen had run the show. William’s father made himself scarce. Like Constance, William was an only child.

He didn’t seem entirely surprised by her refusal. Her letters to him the summer before, written from London, had been cool and objective, unlike his, which were warm and intimate. In one, he’d even begged her to return early so they could be together. She said she couldn’t just yet because she still hadn’t found a good topic for her doctoral thesis. In truth, she’d already settled on the fifteenth century English queen, Anne Neville.

That era’s military campaigns and shifting factions were interesting enough, she supposed, but they were the stuff of men. She wanted to study the women. Marriages were political and strategic. Love, if it came, was after the fact. Anne Neville was a perfect example. She was married off at fourteen to a French prince who was killed trying to invade England. Then the widow of a dead traitor, she threw herself on the English king’s mercy. For her trouble, she was placed under the king’s guardianship, shut away, and urged to join a convent so the king could retain control of her fortune. Her only recourse was to marry the king’s brother. Such a rotten deal, Constance always thought. Trading one prison for another.

 

.   .   .

 

Eunice straightened the sheets on Constance’s bed while Sam removed dirty clothes from the basket in the closet. She put the clothes in a bag marked with Constance’s name and pulled the drawstring tight.

“Plans for the weekend?” Eunice asked her.

“Going through old stuff in the attic with my mother.”

Sam’s tone said it was really the last thing she wanted to do.

“Hm. You could tell her you’re sick or helping out a friend. Use me as an excuse, if you want to.”

“I can’t do that. She depends on seeing me. She’s—you know, needy.”

Constance nodded. Sam noticed.

“But you’ve never met her, Constance. You must be thinking of someone else,” Sam said.

 

.   .   .

 

Constance’s family fell apart when she was nine. They lived in Los Angeles. Her mother had dreams of stardom that never came true. Her father worked as a bookkeeper for a number of small businesses—a plumbing company, which Constance remembered him praising for paying their bills on time, also a small theater troupe where Constance’s mother had had several auditions, then one modest part, then poor reviews and a gentle invitation to leave the cast. It sat badly with her. She stayed home, a cigarette in her hand, circles below her eyes, stains on her bathrobe.

Constance was in awe of her mother because she had attempted something brave that other mothers didn’t, which made her failure more acute. When her mother made a new career out of disappointment and sloth, she lost interest in Constance. Constance escaped the pain of her rejection through books, into the world of knights and ladies fair. All those lovelorn women left to worry and wait while the men had their fun fighting. What did they do to pass the time? They reveled in the quiet and calm, no doubt, and kept busy with embroidery and weaving. The noble women would have held fine linens and lace; the servants sat at looms crafting tapestries to soften and warm stone walls.

Constance learned the art of needlework from her downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Pauline Lester. Her hands were gnarled terrors, yet quick and precise when wielding a needle. She sewed the most beautiful things! Fields of ornate flowers and birds, a young girl with flowing blond hair that made Constance despise her own raven curls, a small white dog sleeping on the threshold of a charming cottage in the woods. Constance began with a simple patterned canvas, following the outlines faithfully, crying when she erred and had to pull the tender thread from where it didn’t belong. The world of her imagination, populated with dreams and the fabric in her own hands kept her going, far from the sour mood of her mother and the stony silence of her father.

It was decided that Constance’s mother suffered from a nervous condition and needed to be in the company of people better able to help her. Constance waited with Pauline while her father put her mother and her one suitcase into the car and drove away. He was gone a long time. When he returned, he stood visibly straighter. His voice had a lighter tone. Soon, though, the task of caring for his young daughter weighed him down again.

Constance’s father had been raised by his stepmother, then widowed and living in upstate New York. The stepmother was notified of the change in circumstance, and Constance was packed off on a train across country, alone, with her name and destination typed on a piece of paper and attached to the lapel of her coat with a safety pin. Her shock at the upheaval of her world was deep. What occupied a still deeper space within her was the splendor of the passing landscape. The desert seemed a glorious and terrifying place! She’d seen it before, of course, in little excursions with her parents before her mother cracked up. Pauline used those very words to a neighbor in her kitchen when she thought Constance was still embroidering in the living room, out of earshot.

It was as apt a term as any, Constance thought.

The woman who received Constance into her Dunston home on a still spring night was as solid as a rock. Lois Maynard would brook no nonsense, she informed Constance as she led the way up the dim stairway. But she would reward good behavior. Constance could be sure of that.

In the years that followed, Constance was seldom punished and seldom praised. She was surprised to find how little she minded it. She adored school and excelled in all her subjects.

“A natural scholar,” more than one teacher said. When she wasn’t at her books, she embroidered. The owner of the yarn shop in town, Mrs. Lapp, smiled when she came in.

“It’s not the same shade of red,” Constance said. Mrs. Lapp stared at her sympathetically. To her, Constance was an unfortunate case. The grandmother—stepgrandmother—was well known. Her house, a mansion, really, was clearly visible on its high hill, particularly in winter when the trees bared. Not much of a life for a child, living in a cold place like that, Mrs. Lapp thought, though Constance was nearly thirteen at that point. She was small for her age, and had given up hoping she would be taller.

Mrs. Lapp checked the skein Constance had taken from the peg on the wall, then consulted her inventory book and assured Constance that the lot number was the same. Constance gave her what remained of the skein she’d used to embroider a row of roses. Mrs. Lapp took both skeins to the glass-topped door where the sunlight poured through.

“How right you are! The new is slightly more brown, isn’t it?” Mrs. Lapp asked.

Even so, there was nothing to be done. Mrs. Lapp suggested that Constance use the new wool in a corner, somewhere the eye wasn’t instantly drawn. Constance had already thought of that.

 

.   .   .

 

“It’s nice to see you smile,” Eunice said. Constance was not aware that she was smiling. She wanted a skein of that red wool—the proper color. She needed to finish her embroidery. She loved it so. She pointed to the table by her bed. The lower shelf had her rolled-up canvas. Eunice brought it to her, set it in her lap, and then she and Sam went on their way.

 

chapter two

 

 

 

Four days after arriving in London, in the summer of 1946, Constance met Jean-Phillippe at the home of Professor Eric Spalding in Mayfair. Professor Spalding was a colleague and an old friend of Constance’s thesis advisor at Brown, Professor Reynolds. He’d offered her a room in his large home, promising to keep an eye on her during her time there and to assist her with locating some primary sources for her thesis. Professor Spalding poured her a cup of tea from a lovely Limoges teapot he said he’d obtained before the war, and suggested that to really know one’s subject, one should visit where she grew up. In Anne Neville’s case, this was Middleham Castle in North Yorkshire. As the trip took shape in her mind, Jean-Phillippe was introduced as a new houseguest, also a student of history, just arrived that day from France to study the reigns of Henry the Seventh and Henry the Eighth.

She may have fallen in love on the spot. Even years later, she wasn’t entirely sure. All she could recall was that the focus of her scholarship—her academic drive—vanished in the moments they first stood chatting politely in the drawing room about the English countryside. Jean-Phillippe was not a tall man, though easily several inches taller than Constance, who suddenly no longer regretted being short. He was broad in the shoulders. His teeth were bad, which she found endearing. When she spoke, he looked at her closely, his eyes never leaving hers, as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered. In time, she learned this was merely a habit. She saw him do that with other people, especially young ladies, and it galled. He wasn’t a wolf, or a cad, just a man in love with the effect he had on women.

Before she realized any of that, however, he suggested that they go visit Middleham Castle together. Though it didn’t bear directly on any of his own work, he thought such a visit would be most amusing. She must bring a notebook, camera, and sturdy shoes. Despite her fascination with him, she found his suggestion condescending. She knew perfectly well how to prepare for a trip. Yet she responded as if his words contained a rare and remarkable genius. She hated herself for feeding his ego, even as she came to adore him that much more.

The afternoon they arrived, the sky threatened a drenching rain. Constance had no umbrella. She’d been distracted at the last minute back in London, unable to find her purse, which she’d left in her room hanging on the doorknob. They walked through the ruined castle in silence. The place was theirs alone, except for a black and white dog who appeared at the top of a tumbled-down stone wall and barked once at them, then trotted off.

Their conversation stayed on neutral ground. Had he ever visited the States? He had, once to see friends in New York before the war. Could he ever see himself living there?

“New York, certainly. A marvelous city. You are from there?” he asked.

“No, upstate. Then college in Massachusetts. Returning to Rhode Island at the end of the summer.”

“Rhode Island. Is it anything like the Island of Rhodes?”

She didn’t respond. He lit a cigarette and offered her one. She shook her head.

After that he spoke about Professor Spalding, his taste in furniture and art, the questionable skills of his cook who never failed to serve watery potatoes and tough beef. Constance hadn’t found the food distasteful. She was grateful for a free place to stay. Her room was at the top, under the roof, in what had once been maids’ quarters. It faced the garden and was full of light. Jean-Phillippe’s room was below ground, also in the quarter of former servants, and accessible by a set of stairs descending from the street.

Jean-Phillippe continued his assessment of Professor Spalding’s home. The hot water took a long time to come up, there were water stains on the ceiling in the upstairs bath, the window in his room didn’t close all the way, allowing a near-constant draft that he was certain would end up in his chest. Constance had never heard a man complain so much about domestic matters. She wondered if he were a homosexual. When she turned her ankle on a broken bit of stone, he caught her securely, then kissed her hard. She didn’t wonder anymore. He released her and continued walking, as if the moment had never happened.

She behaved as calmly as he, feeling anything but. Their tour of the ruins came to an end. The rain picked up, and they walked briskly down the road to the nearby town of Middleham and a tavern called The Duke of York. The place was empty, except for one table by the windows occupied by two white-haired men bent over a chessboard. Jean-Phillippe suggested a whiskey. Constance accepted. He helped her remove her coat and asked the barmaid if he might drape it over the empty wooden bench in front of the fire. The barmaid did that for him, brought the drinks, and asked if they wanted anything to eat. Jean-Phillippe ordered a sandwich. Constance asked for nothing. She was unable to keep up her end of the conversation.

He talked on, about his childhood, his family, his studies. He became flushed from the whiskey. She hadn’t touched hers, then drank it quickly. The burn it left in her throat was unpleasant. She asked to be excused for a moment. She went to the washroom and stood, gripping the sink, and splashed water on her face. She heard a radio playing in the room on the other side of the wall. The sound led her down the hall to a small private parlor where the same barmaid was pouring tea for an old woman. The old woman sat with a blanket on her lap and something she was sewing in her hands. The barmaid asked Constance if she’d gotten turned around and come there by mistake.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I heard the music. It sounded so lovely,” Constance said. It was a piano piece by Brahms. Classical music had been a favorite of Lois Maynard’s. Constance knew a lot about the major composers, thanks to her. The old woman looked up at Constance with watery eyes. Their color was arresting, a cobalt blue. There was a chalky quality to them, too, as if for her, light had dimmed. She was beautiful, Constance thought. Calm. At peace.

“This is my grandmother,” the barmaid said.

The old woman said something in what Constance recognized as Gaelic. There had been an Irish student at Smith, and she rambled wildly in her native tongue when upset. The old woman lifted her hand, and Constance shook it. Her palm was smooth and soft.

“She wonders if you’d like to sit with her for a bit,” the barmaid said.

“Oh, I can’t right now. I’ve got to get back to my friend.”

The barmaid nodded. “Well, I best get back, myself. Never does to leave them too long on their own. They’ll be wanting something. You’ll come again, I hope?”

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to. We’re just here for the day.”

The old woman’s hand was still in Constance’s. The other rested on her needlework. It was a painted canvas that had been unrolled and sewn carefully. The stitches were even and regular. Some, though, were messy and skipped a space or two. It was proof of the old woman’s failing eyesight, Constance thought.

Constance and Jean-Phillippe took rooms at the local inn because Jean-Phillippe complained of not feeling well. In the morning his head hurt, his muscles ached. He blamed the poor weather. Constance could sense in his voice a condemnation of her for the outing, which he himself had suggested. She poured him a cup of hot tea. He accepted it without a word. He sat before the fire in his room, a shawl around his shoulders, slumped and small.

The moment she was free, she returned to the tavern. Someone else was serving the patrons, a man this time. Constance explained that she’d been invited. He merely nodded at her and went on wiping down the bar.

She found the old woman and the barmaid again in the private parlor. The barmaid explained that serving in the tavern wasn’t her regular job, that her uncle, the man Constance had passed on the way in, had been sick the day before.

“My name’s Tess. Didn’t properly introduce myself before. This is Maeve,” she said. Both women wore wool sweaters and skirts. Maeve had several thin silver bracelets on each arm that jingled as she raised and lowered her cup. Her hearing was keen, Constance observed. The sound of muffled laughter from the dining room next door caused her to turn her head in that direction.

Constance said that she was staying on a few days because her friend was under the weather, and hoped they could direct her to a nice lady’s shop because she’d brought no change of clothes.

Tess recommended a place called Lady Alice, then suggested that the owner of the inn, Mr. Townsend, might be able to lend Constance’s friend something, because the gentleman’s shop carried very substandard merchandise, though as she recalled, the friend was on the short side, while Mr. Townsend was not. Constance said nothing. Tess sensed her unease and continued to talk. How did Constance like England? Was it so very different from America? How had people over there handled the war and the rationing? Did Constance have any brothers who’d enlisted and met with misfortune? Here Tess paused. Her expression said someone close to her had been lost. Maeve put her gnarled hand on Tess’s smooth one. The quiet went on for a few moments more.

“That’s a lovely piece of work you have there,” Constance told Maeve. Maeve nodded and said what must have been “thank you.”

“She has no English?” Constance asked.

“Oh, she speaks it as well as you or I. But in the last few years she’s returned home, as it were. She’s lucky I understand her. No one else seems able to,” Tess said.

Constance picked up the end of the tapestry. It had been years since she’d held needlework. Maeve handed her the entire length of canvas. Constance unfurled it. It measured roughly one foot high and two feet across. Only the first third had been sewn. It depicted the stages of a woman’s life, from left to right, entitled Girlhood, Betrothal and Marriage, Motherhood, and lastly, Widowhood.

“She received it when she was young and put it away. Lately, though, she’s wanted to get at it,” Tess said. She poured Constance a cup of tea.

Maeve said something.

“She’s says you’re welcome to try, if you like,” Tess said.

“Embroider, you mean?”

“Yes.”

Tess handed her a woven wooden basket full of yarn. There was a small package of steel needles.

Constance politely declined, made small talk, finished her tea, and went back to the hotel. Over the next few days Jean-Phillippe lay sick, cranky and needy by turns. He begged Constance to sit in the chair by his bed and read from a volume of Tennyson poems. But he soon grew tired after only one or two and dropped off. Constance had cabled to Professor Spalding about the illness. The local doctor had looked in and confirmed that it was influenza, and that no secondary infections had yet taken hold. Continued rest was called for, but within the week, the doctor said, he should be well.

Mrs. Townsend, whose husband owned the inn, along with her daughter helped see to Jean-Phillippe, freeing Constance to visit Tess and Maeve. She worked on the tapestry. It was lovely to feel her hands push and pull. She delighted in the area she filled in around the bride at the altar.

Then one morning Jean-Phillippe finally sat up in bed and complained about his soft-boiled eggs being cold. He didn’t thank Constance for bringing them. He asked if more wood could be brought for the fireplace. Constance went down and made the request to Mrs. Townsend.

That afternoon, unhappy with the new skirt and blouse she’d bought because they were both too big, she sewed in silence, alone then with Maeve since Tess was needed once more in the pub.

“Your life will contain none of these,” Maeve said in clear, though heavily accented English.

“I’m sorry?”

Maeve waved her hand over the tapestry. Constance sewed for a few minutes more. She considered Maeve’s odd statement. Tess returned, and Constance made her good-byes. She and Jean-Phillippe were returning to London the following day, she said. Maeve asked Constance, once again in Gaelic and translated by Tess, to bend down so she could receive a kiss on her cheek. Constance did so. Maeve said something else.

“She wants you to have it,” Tess said.

“The tapestry? Oh, no, I couldn’t.”

“It’s no use to her anymore.”

Constance accepted the rolled up canvas, which she carried under her arm back to the hotel, glad the day was dry, for a change. Back in her room, she spread it out on her bed and studied the piece as a whole. She could distinguish her stitches from those added by Maeve before her eyesight dimmed. An experienced needle worker could always see a different hand. In one corner were stitches that were different still, which meant that someone else had worked on it, someone other than Maeve.

Constance learned that she was right when she got a letter from Tess, which Maeve had dictated. It began with an explanation that her address had been obtained from the hotel where she had stayed with Jean-Phillippe. Maeve wanted to share the tapestry’s history. It came to her from a woman who had employed her as a chambermaid right after the turn of the century. At the time, Maeve had been in love with the footman (this was a large Irish country estate). The footman wasn’t interested in her, and Maeve had tried everything she knew to change his mind. I thought if I did what I ought not to do, he would be gallant and offer to marry me. She cut to the chase. She offered herself to him, and he turned her down. Naturally, she was devastated. Though she always thought of herself as strong and capable, the footman’s disregard caused her to unravel. She could not contain her misery, and one day her mistress, Lady Norbury, summoned her into her private parlor and demanded to know the cause of her constant tears.

At first, Maeve thought she would keep quiet, not wanting Lady Norbury to think her wanton and unsuitable for her position in the household. But Lady Norbury was an intelligent woman, and rightly suspected that her troubles were romantic in nature. She asked Maeve to sit and compose herself. Then she asked if she knew how to embroider. Maeve did. Lady Norbury gave her the tapestry and told her to sew a few rows to calm herself. Maeve continued where Lady Norbury had left off, with the young girl dressed in white, preparing for her First Communion. Maeve worked row after row. It was effortless, and did in fact bring a sense of peace. She even went so far as to suggest that it was the memory of herself at that age, full of hope and the will to do God’s work, that soothed her soul.

He would have made you very unhappy, Lady Norbury said after a time. Maeve didn’t need to ask to whom she referred. She didn’t believe her words, but soon the footman was discovered to have been involved in the theft of Lady Norbury’s prize silver candlesticks, and went to prison.

Constance put the letter away.

For the rest of the summer she spent her days reading at the library, taking page after page of notes. Soon she felt as if she’d exhausted anything of interest about Anne Neville, who turned out not to be such a compelling figure after all. She wrote of her concerns to her thesis advisor, who responded by saying that perhaps she should focus her efforts on a woman who played a more significant role.

Constance considered. She needed a figure she admired. Elizabeth Cady Stanton came to mind. In high school, Constance had gone on a field trip to Seneca Falls and learned about the early efforts to get women the vote. Another possibility was Carrie Nation, wielding her axe. Then there was Margaret Sanger, though she was still living, which made her less appealing as a research subject, from a strictly historical perspective.

Constance put forward the first two, saying she understood that this would represent a major shift in her area of expertise. Professor Reynolds was firm. Do not discard the point in history that you have already begun to investigate. Changing course now will make you appear flighty and unreliable as a scholar. Constance was taken aback. Would he have said the same to a man? Surely not. Was it that he found it inappropriate to shed light on an attempt to give women political parity? Or, in Nation’s case, to deny men the pleasure of drink? Frustrated, sometimes to the point of tears, Constance returned to the War of the Roses.

It was Jean-Phillipe who suggested Margaret Beaufort. He was familiar with her from his own work, because she was the mother of Henry VII. Constance dug in, and soon discovered that Margaret was driven to secure her son’s place on the throne and devoted her entire life to that one result.

Mothers made sacrifices for their children all the time, didn’t they? So what about this particular story bothered Constance so much? That one of the most powerful women of her day was only as valuable as the man or men she supported? Constance thought that the woman she should write about was Anne Boleyn, for whom Henry VIII established the Church of England so they could marry. But no, she was really just another victim in the end when she couldn’t bear a living son. Her daughter, though, Elizabeth I, bowed to no man. Now there was a fine topic!

But Professor Reynolds again discouraged her. Stick to your chosen time period. Build on what you have.

So, she did.

While she worked diligently, sometimes frantically, over the remaining weeks, Jean-Phillippe spent his time wandering the city rather than on his own research, and returned late, drunk, often with the smell of cheap perfume.

They encountered each other one morning at breakfast. Professor Spalding had gone out, and they were alone. Jean-Phillipe accused Constance of shunning him, and that this was the cause of his bad behavior.

When she didn’t answer, he said, “Here I am, trapped under the same roof with the cruelest of women, one who intends to break my heart. It is unbearable.”

Constance dropped two lumps of sugar into her cup and stirred her coffee. The clock on the wall clicked out the seconds. The silence went on. And as it did, Constance felt as if she were moving away, further and further into herself. Before, such a transit was always toward a greater darkness. Now it was toward light.

She knew he was insincere; she also knew that he was unaware of it. He truly believed he was in love with her. He needed to believe it.

Just as she had needed to believe that she was in love with him. On some previously unknown level within her, she feared she was incapable of love, and so sought it, or invented it.

“I could never make you happy,” she said.

“I do not require happiness. But I do require love.”

“Are they not the same?”

He laughed. “How little you know of the French!”

She smiled. “No doubt.”

His mood had improved in those few moments, yet there was still hunger in his eyes. Constance excused herself and went to her room, where she sewed a few rows of the tapestry, something she did each morning before leaving for the library. She had recently progressed to Betrothal and Marriage. The generic young girl who’d taken her First Communion was now a taller, though unremarkable, young woman looking down at her left hand, where an equally uninspiring kneeling male figure had just slipped an engagement ring on her finger.

Now, nearly seventy years later, she held the canvas in her lap and went on remembering until her head drooped, and she was asleep. Eunice removed the canvas, then she and Sam got her into bed without waking her, courtesy of her sleeping pills, and left her to rest, dreamless.

 

chapter three

 

 

 

The offer from UCLA was not the one she wanted. She’d hoped it would come from an Ivy, but those all went to men. They had to be paid back for their service in the war, didn’t they? She was lucky to receive an offer at all really. Women who held PhDs were strange creatures. No one seemed to know what to do with them.

That’s what Lois Maynard told her, at any rate. She still lived in the big house in Dunston. Constance had visited her there, after leaving Providence on her way west. Lois had grown frailer, though she still moved deliberately and in a way that suggested a larger person. Her hair was completely white now, pinned up and held with lovely silver clips.

Constance asked if she was lonely, living by herself. Lois stared at her probingly. Constance understood. They’d never been much for direct speaking. Day after day of polite and distant interaction. The crises, such as they were, easily met. A hand on her fevered forehead, syrupy elixir dispensed; a quiet voice in response to tears caused by a playground slur, the command to always rise above.

“I’m an old woman, and many think that an old woman shouldn’t live on her own. Your father, for one,” Lois said.

“You’re in touch? I had no idea.”

“Not for quite some time. Then he called just the other day, before you arrived.”

Constance had had very little contact with her father over the years. He’d visited her once, when she was thirteen. He’d praised everything about her in a way that suggested he didn’t—and wouldn’t—worry anymore about her. Constance hadn’t assumed that this would come to mean he’d take no further interest in her. Before the visit, there had been letters and telephone calls, more at first, then dwindling to only on her birthday. Lois always said he was busy, and wasn’t the kind of person who tended to communicate all that well. Even as a child, Constance had understood that her feelings were being spared. From her mother she’d heard nothing, which was easier to accept, given her situation. Sometimes Constance had wondered if she were still crazy, or whatever the precise nature of her illness was, then she stopped thinking about it. She came to love living in Dunston and enjoyed Lois’s slowly increasing generosity. She had nice clothes, went to Smith, then to Brown, then abroad without having to pay for any of it herself.

“What did he have to say?” Constance asked.

“Your mother remarried.”

Constance’s parents had divorced not long after she left Los Angeles. News of it had come in one of her father’s early letters. I’m afraid we split up, were his exact words. Another letter informed her that her mother had left the rest home and was working in a new theater troupe, managing costumes, never on stage herself. His tone was almost kind, as if he felt sorry for her. He’d called her, the poor dear.

Lois suggested that they move to the screened-in sun porch. The summer day was hot and humid. The dining room they’d been in was paneled with dark wood. That, along with the heat, made it particularly oppressive. They sat side by side in dusty rocking chairs. Lois set herself to a slow rhythm of back and forth. Constance sat still.

“Why would he make it a point to tell you? That doesn’t make any sense,” Constance said.

“He called to ask for money. He’s given up the bookkeeping business, apparently. The moment I agreed, his mood improved. He went on and on. Your mother was just one of many things he mentioned.”

“But why are they even in touch? They’ve been divorced for years.”

“I guess they ran into each other. He was a bit vague about that.”

The new husband owned a grocery store, Lois said. Constance’s mother went in to buy a loaf of bread. One thing led to another, as it does with lonely people. The husband was a widower. He had no children. He wanted children.

“Which brings me to the second bit of news. You have a baby sister. As of about two weeks ago,” Lois said.

Constance did the math. She was twenty-six. Her mother had had her before she was even twenty, but she was still pretty old to have another baby.

“It doesn’t seem like it would have been possible,” Constance said.

“She’s not young, it’s true. But the baby’s healthy. It’s really a miracle, when you think about it,” Lois said.

The tone in her voice made Constance see how much she must have wanted a child once. Her late husband—Constance’s grandfather—was said to be a cold person. Yet he required companionship. After his first wife died, Lois was the answer, especially when Edgar, Constance’s father, grew up and went west. Lois was a widow in her forties when they met and married; he was at least fifteen to twenty years older still. A child wouldn’t have been a good idea, even if it could have been possible, physically.

So many solitary people, and now this baby, this sister! Constance didn’t know how she felt about it.

“I got the sense that your father hoped you would see him—all of them—once you get yourself settled in L.A.,” Lois said.

“I can’t imagine why I would.”

Lois closed her eyes for a moment, as if fatigued.

“Just try to remember that family is family,” she said.

“I don’t think of them as family at all.”

“No. I suppose not.”

Constance remembered being very young, holding her mother’s hand, having her hair brushed, her face washed, her feet helped into socks and shoes. Her mother’s touch had been soft. Then it turned rough, and then was absent altogether. She tried to imagine the woman her mother was now. Did she look at her baby’s face and remember Constance at that age? But there was no point in thinking about any of that. No point at all.

A blue jay soared from the top of a pine tree at the edge of Lois’s yard. Its color was startling, and caused a sudden surge of joy in both women. They watched the bird light on one branch, then another, then lift off and disappear into the stand of trees separating Lois’s yard from her neighbors. Neither was thinking any longer about Constance’s mother and father, or of Los Angeles. They were firmly in the present, wishing for the bird to return, then resuming other trains of thought when it was clear that it would not.

“Do you ever think about visiting England again?” Lois asked.

“I’ll be able to, when I get my first sabbatical.”

“You enjoyed your summer there.”

“I did.”

“Your letters were amusing, all about that horrid little Frenchman and Professor Spalding.”

Constance cast her mind back. She’d wondered from time to time how Jean-Phillipe was getting along. He’d promised to write and never did. She never wrote, either.

“I enjoyed the story about getting a fancy piece of needlework from that old woman.”

“It was a nice surprise.”

“Do you still have it?”

“Yes.”

“Here, with you?”

“Yes. Would you like to see it?”

“That would be splendid.”

Constance climbed the stairs to her old room, opened one of her two suitcases, and reached down below all the summer blouses she had carefully folded, thinking how warm it would be in her next home. The canvas was rolled and slightly mashed from being transported. She tucked it under her arm and returned to Lois. She sat and unrolled the canvas across her lap. In that white summer light the gray wool she had used for a baby’s blanket took on a pearl-like luster. She had never noticed that before. The wool was new and not particularly high quality, an ordinary two-ply, but she saw then that one of the wrapped threads had more depth than the other. She couldn’t imagine how such an effect had been achieved. She had learned how wool was spun. She’d observed it years before, on a farm there in Dunston, and again in England when she took herself alone on a day trip to Colchester. A miracle of nature, clearly. It pleased her enormously.

Lois examined the canvas.

“Quaint,” she said.

“More like propaganda.”

“Aren’t you cynical!”

“Well, honestly.”

“If you think it’s silly, why do you work on it?”

“I like to embroider.”

“Might I try a row or two?”

“Of course.”

Lois’s fingers were twisted with arthritis, yet she sewed well. Constance had never seen Lois hold a needle and thread before. She mentioned this.

“Oh, I’m an old hand at this sort of thing. I was responsible for many seat cushions, in my day. All that fine work, just to receive someone’s posterior.”

She worked the baby’s cradle slowly and carefully. She examined her stitches. She seemed satisfied.

“I’m tempted to jump ahead,” she said, pointing to the empty figure of Widowhood.

“I don’t have any black yarn.”

“When you get there, let her wear red. Why not?”

A pleasant breeze brought the smell of freshly mown grass from somewhere, yet did little to ease the heat. Even so, Lois shivered. She ran the needle through a bare patch of canvas to secure it until next time, and looked at Constance.

“You know, I’ve been thinking. I’ve spent an awful lot of time here in this big old house. Drafty in winter, too close in summer. I might just take a trip out to see you when you get settled. Wouldn’t do a bit of harm to shake myself up a bit.”

Lois looked quite pleased with herself. The thought of travel, for the first time in years, certainly since Constance had come to live with her, had brought color to her face. Constance could see the much younger woman she once was, and that she’d been lovely.

 

chapter four

 

 

 

Eunice helped Constance into a clean dress and combed her hair. Then she checked her nails and gave them a little trim. She wiped her nose. She straightened the room, made the bed, and emptied the trash basket, though it contained little.

Eunice worked alone. Sam was somewhere else. Constance was glad. She preferred Eunice. She was quiet and delicate. A deep thinker, that one. Wasted on caring for the elderly certainly. But maybe she saw it as her life’s calling. That was hardly likely though. Only a fool would love touching old bodies.

“Why are you smiling?” Eunice asked.

“Just thinking about old bodies.”

“I see.”

“You think I’m off my rocker.”

“Just full of surprises.”

Constance had refused her prescribed sleeping pills six days before. Her mind had been slow to clear at first. Now, she felt like herself again. Saucy, someone to be taken seriously, or at least not quickly dismissed.

“Give me that mirror, won’t you?” Constance asked.

Eunice gave her the hand mirror from the top of her dresser. Its face was dusty. Constance asked Eunice to clean it for her. Eunice wiped it with a rag she had in her pocket.

“Thanks,” Constance said.

She supposed the wrinkled, blotchy mess in the glass belonged to her. Mirrors were evil things. You had to confront the relentless process of time. Nature was so cruel. Surely, at the end, though, there was mercy? She passed the mirror back to Eunice.

“She’ll be here soon. You just sit there and enjoy all this lovely sunlight until then, okay?” Eunice said.

Constance didn’t want to see her. She had no choice. Meredith had requested a formal evaluation. She wasn’t sure that Constance was still capable of rational thought. The meeting would begin with a social worker. Depending on her recommendation, a doctor might also be consulted. Constance could ask to see her files and the notes from her quarterly care meetings, which she no longer attended though it was still her right to. They might give a hint about what the staff thought of her mental acuity, which was a lot better now since she was off the pills. That decision came upon her suddenly one morning at breakfast as she stared stupidly into her oatmeal, the tapestry in her lap because Eunice had let her take it with her just that once, and was met with concern from the nurse who came around every evening with the medications cart. They’d always been optional and could be discontinued if she wanted. And now, she wanted.

Meredith wasn’t young, though sixty-six wasn’t as old as it used to be. She wore it well, Constance supposed. She was fashionable, in a quiet, understated way. In her career as a financial planner, looking successful was important. She had a number of elegantly cut jackets and slacks. There was often a silk scarf, a broach on the lapel, a heavy bangle bracelet. Makeup was minimal, hair was short, more gray than white. People trusted her. She gave an impression of wisdom coupled with serenity.

She wasn’t wise. She formed attachments with some of her clients, usually men, though sometimes a woman, that were not of a romantic nature so much as a form of psychological dependence. She wanted friends. Most people were confused by being asked over to dinner or to the movies or to go along to the mall to pick out a pair of shoes for an upcoming conference. Nearly everyone begged off, made a polite excuse, or simply didn’t return her call. As far as Constance knew, Meredith had never lost a client after displaying her social neediness, but then she couldn’t be certain.

Nor was she serene. She had a sharp edge. Old disappointments could suddenly surface, and she would talk bitterly about things she’d been denied or missed out on. These included a father, siblings, joining the Girl Scouts, learning to ride a horse, knowing her way around a kitchen, even how to iron. The makeup of the family Constance hadn’t been able to help. Everything else had essentially been up to Meredith to ask for, or show an interest in. Constance didn’t offer things because she assumed if Meredith wanted anything badly enough, she’d have made her desire known.

Constance was dead sure that Meredith wanted this evaluation so she could be put in charge of her money. The current arrangement was that the manager at the bank drew up a small number of monthly checks and brought them by for her to sign. These were to Lindell for her rent, a donation to a homeless shelter, and another to an organization that helped women become small business owners in Africa. There had been no irregularities; the account was never overdrawn. The bank saw to that. It wasn’t, therefore, a question of competence, but of access. Meredith wanted a peek at Constance’s accounts. She wanted to know what was coming to her when Constance died. Why couldn’t she wait? How much longer did she have anyway? She was already vested to make medical decisions for her if things got dire. Now she wanted a power of attorney, to write checks herself.

But then, it was possible that Meredith wasn’t acting out of greed, but a sense of duty, affection, even. She was capable of that. A tender heart had once been hers.

What was that silly little dog’s name? The one that limped, and then had to have the offending limb removed? There had been a series of pets, then little friends from school to whom Meredith clung in a way Constance couldn’t bring herself to discourage, then that piano teacher she was absolutely agog over. Mr. Brian. An older man, but with a youthful attitude. Meredith was a poor student, but she imagined that she would blossom under his kindly gaze. She always described the way he looked at her. With something more than an interest in her musical development.

The poor child. How lonely she had been! Constance had been aware of it, yet wouldn’t let herself be moved. Youth was naturally a lonely time. Hers certainly had been. Later, after graduate school, when Lois opened herself in a way that brought Constance in, she wasn’t lonely. Those had been good years. Lois moving to Los Angeles had been strange, at first, then very welcome. They spoke often of the house back in Dunston. Lois never could bring herself to sell, and so rented it to an endless stream of professors and their children, who left marks on the walls; on the furnishings; and, on the slanted ceiling of one upstairs bedroom, a series of dates written in pencil, a child marking time, as if wishing it to pass more quickly, often with a short statement: Ma says no more baseball until the math grade comes up. Feb 5, 1952; Debbie won’t give me the time of day, Nov 9, 1954. When Lois died, at the age of 92, the house came to Constance. She still owned it, still rented it out. Lately she’d had the idea to turn it into a center for women who needed basic life skills: how to apply for a job, what to wear for an interview, how to balance a checkbook.

 

.   .   .

 

Constance noticed Meredith’s shoes first. They were new. Loafers, probably hand-stitched. And she’d changed her perfume. Today it was floral, very Lily of the Valley. Last time it had been spicy, earthy, not like Meredith at all. Constance allowed her gaze to travel upward. The trousers of Meredith’s linen suit were crisp, unwrinkled—an enviable state, she thought, since linen was so hard to wear. Her necklace was long, genuine pearls, no doubt. And what’s this? Blond highlights? No more iron gray. This was a woman with big plans, clearly. She’d practically given herself a makeover.

Constance felt a little guilty at that. Meredith’s self-esteem had never been good.

“You look well,” Meredith said. She sat in the room’s only chair, a rocker with a bright yellow cushion tied to the seat. Her hands, with painted nails, lay lightly on the arms.

“You, too.”

“Thanks.”

Constance let the silence stretch. It was up to Meredith to take the lead.

“You know why I’m here,” Meredith said.

“To see if I need a padded cell.”

Meredith stared at her hard.

“There’s something different about you,” she said.

“Yes. I’m not all doped up on those sleeping pills.”

“You’re not taking them?”

“That’s what I just said.”

“You can’t just stop something that’s prescribed.”

Constance looked her in the eye.

“I’m going to check with Dr. Morris, if that’s all right with you,” Meredith said.

“Be my guest.”

Constance wheeled herself to the small table by the bed, where the tapestry lay. She put it in her lap and made her way back across the room. The effort tired her. Her breathing slowed, and she unrolled the tapestry to see where she had left off.

She patted her chest to feel for the reading glasses that hung from her neck on a chain decorated with plastic pearls. The chain had been a gift from Meredith on her last visit. Constance put on her glasses, flexed her stiff fingers, and sewed. Her goal was to finish the tapestry before she left this world. She wouldn’t make it. There was an entire section on the right-hand side still empty. She’d have to give it to someone else to work on. Not Meredith, though. Meredith wouldn’t know what to do with it.

“So, you’ve taken it up again,” Meredith said.

“Obviously.”

“You’re in a mood.”

“Liked me better when my head was full of cotton?”

“Let’s change the subject.”

“Very well. Why don’t you tell me about your trip?”

The whole thing had been a disaster, Meredith said. First, the limo driver had been late picking her up, and she’d had to really hustle through the terminal. It didn’t help that the stupid TSA people wanted her to have a full-body scan and then a pat-down, too. Something must have looked odd in the X-ray.

“Did you ask what it was?” Constance asked.

“Of course not. That would only have taken more time.”

Then the man next to her wouldn’t stop talking. He was also flying out to visit family, whom he hadn’t seen for a long time. The thought of it both upset and thrilled him.

“Classic case of ambivalence, I told him,” Meredith said.

“Uh-huh.”

Constance went on sewing. Meredith said nothing further. She was no doubt thinking about the meeting with the social worker. Constance could tell her not to worry. But, why should she? Meredith had made that bed, and she was going to have to lie in it.

“Can I get you anything?” Eunice asked. Constance hadn’t heard her come in.

“We’re fine, dear,” Constance said.

“I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee, if it’s not too much trouble,” Meredith said.

“Sure.” Eunice left.

“They’re not supposed to wait on you. This isn’t a hotel,” Constance said.

“She offered, didn’t she?”

“She was just being polite.”

Constance returned to the tapestry. Her thread was running short. She needed to pick through the sewing basket and find the red she was using for the flowers the widow bent to lay on her husband’s grave. The basket was on top of her dresser. She didn’t ask Meredith to get it. She sat, with idle hands, until Eunice returned with Meredith’s coffee, and then asked her. Eunice brought a small side table and set it next to Constance’s chair. She put the basket on the table within easy reach. Eunice noted that Constance had taken up her embroidery again after a long time of just looking at the tapestry or holding it in her lap. In spite of not being interested much in food these days, she had a greater energy to her that didn’t seem just the result of having a clear head.

“How long?” Constance asked Eunice.

“I’m sorry?”

“Until we get this stupidity underway.”

“Oh, right. Well, the social worker’s probably already down in the conference room. But if you’d rather she come to you, that’s fine, too.”

“Ask her to come here,” Meredith said. She had put the cup of coffee on the floor by her chair.

“No, don’t be ridiculous. I’m perfectly capable of going there. If you don’t mind helping me,” Constance said. The remark was to Eunice, not Meredith, who fell in line behind as Eunice pushed her down the hall. Constance had put her sewing basket on her lap along with the tapestry.

The conference room had a long table with ten or twelve chairs. Constance never understood why the geniuses at Lindell thought so many people would ever gather around it. A display of power was at odds with the soothing mood they tried to create at every turn. For a while, in the beginning, she had been cheerfully enveloped by it.

When she first arrived, Constance had had her own cottage and lived more or less independently. She cooked for herself. She was surrounded by her own things. One day she slipped in the shower and had to use the pull cord in the bathroom to summon help. Nothing had been broken, but at the time she was eighty-seven, and it was decided, with minimal input from her, that she should move into one of the assisted living wings in the main complex.

She resisted. Meredith, as her next of kin, was consulted. At the time, Meredith was still a few years from retirement and working hard in L.A. She told Lindell to do what it thought best. The assisted living wing, despite the cheerful decoration and bland furnishing, forced a firm level of anonymity, a loss of self, as if one were being absorbed by the very walls and olive carpeting that in some rooms had a faint smell of urine. Personal belongings weren’t exactly discouraged, they just proved inconvenient. The maintenance staff was stretched thin; pictures couldn’t, therefore, be hung right away and were left leaning against the wall week after week, month after month, until some cheerful aide suggested that it might be better just to stow them away for now. Constance could have hired a handyman but found she had no interest. She had her car and could use it when she wished, but that didn’t entice her either. Age had gotten the better of her; she was ready to sit and struggle with the crossword, watch television, wander the halls, say hello to her neighbors who were as adrift as she, find a level of peace in all of that, until one day, and much to her surprise, her spirit rebelled.

She packed a bag with clean underwear, pantyhose, her favorite red sweater, a shower cap, toothbrush, reading glasses, three hundred dollars from a large envelope she kept on the top shelf of the closet and which, for some reason, she trusted the staff not to discover and pilfer, and left. She was supposed to check herself out. The rules requested that she let the receptionist at Lindell know where she was going and how long she was likely to be away. She went out a side door, nowhere near the front desk, which meant a long walk around the back of the building to the carport where her late model Mercedes was parked.

It was October. The trees were aflame with brilliant color. Proof of life about to pass, that was already passing, added to her restlessness. She’d had no idea where she intended to go, but once on the highway, she kept to the road on the east side of the lake. Mile after mile, hillside after hillside, she put Lindell behind her. After a while it occurred to her that she had failed to make a plan. All her life she had made plans. She couldn’t recall a single instance of acting wholly on impulse. Except in the matter of Meredith. She hadn’t considered the problems that bringing her home would entail. She’d listened to her heart, and while she never really regretted it, she could cite a great many times when further deliberation would have helped.

Such as when her next-door neighbor stopped her as she wheeled the baby proudly down the street.

“And whom do we have here?” she’d asked. She had a purse with a scarf tied around one of the straps. She wore a straw hat. She had lipstick on her teeth.

“This is my little Meredith,” Constance said. The words sounded so strange! She’d never spoken them before.

“Why, where’s her mother? Are you babysitting?”

“I’m afraid you don’t understand. I just brought Meredith home.” That quick glance to her ringless left hand. The sly smirk. Constance bore that silent, smiling condemnation beautifully.

It happened again, over and over, as Meredith grew up. Constance shed the stigma; Meredith couldn’t. She suffered. Constance told her to rise above it, be her own person, not one defined by anyone else. Money helped. Lois bought them a pleasant ranch-style home in Beverly Hills. The other girls at Meredith’s private school were aware that she had no father and were too well bred to ever mention it. If she’d ever gotten close to any one of them, made a best friend, the subject might have been broached. Sometimes she pretended that her father had been killed in the war or a traffic accident or, once, by carjackers who stopped him late one dark night. No one believed her. Constance was candid about never having been married. It was just one of those things! The jaunty toss of her head didn’t quite work, and even she felt like a failure then.

The truth, when it came, was hard. A crushing scene, played over and over. So, Constance was a liar. Fine. It became its own rhythm. In with the truth, out with the lie. In, out. Mechanical, like breathing in an iron lung.

Constance knew she’d done wrong. But she’d had her reasons. Women were always so badly treated, so harshly judged, so she lived the lie and defied it every day.

And the day she took off in her car, what was she defying then? That she was no longer young? That was as good a fight as any. Better, really, so she kept driving. But then she needed to stop for gas in a little town she didn’t recognize, not that she would have, necessarily. She wasn’t usually one for exploring out-of-the-way places. The trouble was that she was quickly overwhelmed and disoriented. Later, she had to admit that she really didn’t know where she was, though the explanation she made to the folks at Lindell was that she’d gotten tired.

She told the man to put gas in her car, and then she sat down on a wooden bench. The station was attached to some sort of country store with weathered wooden boards and a pair of double hung windows in front. The bench was placed between the windows, a few feet from the entrance. A number of people passed by on their way in and out. Finally, the station attendant approached her and told her how much she owed for the gas. Constance realized that she’d left her purse in the car, and told the attendant so, but didn’t rise to get it. She went on sitting. He offered to bring her the purse, probably thinking how silly he’d look carrying it. Constance didn’t reply. She was looking at her hands, which trembled. After the police arrived and took it upon themselves to look through the bag for someone to contact, Lindell was called and a social worker dispatched. It took over an hour for her to arrive, driven by another staff member so the social worker could take Constance’s car back to town. At first, Constance was asked to ride with the other staff member, a woman she didn’t recognize, who turned out to be one of the housekeepers, but Constance said she wanted to stay in her own car. In the interim, she remembered how she’d gotten there, but not having known for that slippery interval of time was horrible. She submitted to her fate, which was a series of scans to see if she’d suffered a stroke. Nothing could be found. She was allowed to remain in assisted living, but if she wanted to go out again, it was urged that she take someone with her. She never wanted to leave after that. She rode the bus provided by Lindell into town if she needed an outing.

It was a sudden infection in her back—a disk—that required IV antibiotics for four months that made relocating to the nursing wing necessary. There, she was truly trapped, not only by her lack of will, but by her stupid body. She grew combative, hence the dispensing of daily sleeping pills. Rather than making nighttime an oblivion, with a mellow carry-over effect through the daylight hours, they made her jagged within, woeful, bent once more on escape, though to what, where, or whom she had absolutely no idea.

The social worker who joined them in the conference room was the same woman who’d driven Constance’s Mercedes back to Lindell that gorgeous fall afternoon five years before: Angie Dugan. She’d been firm and cheerful, yet didn’t treat Constance like a child, the way so many at Lindell did. She’d tried to draw Constance out in conversation, probably as a way to assess her mental state, but when Constance didn’t care to talk, she let it go. She’d grown plumper. Her manner had matured. She smiled pleasantly at Constance, though not at Meredith.

They sat at the end of the table nearest the door. A chair was removed so that Constance could be wheeled into the space it had occupied. Meredith sat opposite Constance. Angie Dugan was in between. Eunice also took a seat, though she hadn’t been invited to.

“Ms. Maynard, before we get started, I wanted to bring up the matter of your prescription. It says here that you’ve stopped taking your Ambien. Is that right?” Angie asked.

“Yes. They made me groggy and stupid.”

Constance spoke firmly, and with flair.

“And how long ago did you stop taking the medication?” Angie asked.

“Just about a week.”

“A week ago tomorrow,” Eunice said.

“I see.” Angie looked at the forms in front of her for a moment. “Dr. Morris has made a notation here that suspending the medication is acceptable as long as you don’t have difficulty getting enough rest at night.”

“If I’m not sleepy right away, I watch television. Quietly, I might add. So far, no one has complained,” Constance said.

“They’re all pretty hard of hearing in that wing,” Eunice said.

“Exactly.”

“Are you sure he said it’s all right?” Meredith asked.

Angie Dugan regarded Meredith at some length. “I’m positive. Of course, you’re free to ask him yourself, if you’re concerned,” she said.

Meredith removed a tissue from her handbag and wiped her nose. She suffered from seasonal allergies rather badly, Constance now recalled.

“Well, now, Ms. Maynard, do you know why we’re here today?” Angie asked.

“Meredith would like to be given control of my bank accounts.”

“That’s not it at all! I just think I could be useful to you,” Meredith said.

“How are banking matters currently handled?” Angie asked.

“Mr. West comes by once a month with my checkbook. He fills out however many checks I need to write, then I sign them. Though it was someone else last time. I think Mr. West had gone on vacation,” Constance said.

“And who reviews your statements?”

“He does, I suppose.”

“You don’t see them?”

“He told me he’d look them over for me. There are very few transactions.”

“And do you have holdings separate from your bank accounts?”

“Of course.”

“Who manages those?”

Constance gave the name of her investment company. She heard from it quarterly. She wasn’t sure where the statements were. She’d been keeping them in a file. Now that she was more alert, it shouldn’t be too hard to find them, if Ms. Dugan needed them for any specific reason.

“I don’t need to see them, no. As long as you’re satisfied that everything’s being handled properly.”

“So far, so good.”

Angie turned to Meredith. “Can you elaborate on your cause for concern about your mother’s business affairs?”

“I’m not concerned. I’m just trying to help. If she prefers I don’t, that’s fine.”

“Normally when a family member calls for an evaluation of mental faculty, there’s a specific reason. Was there some recent incident, some behavior that worried you?”

Constance could see Meredith remembering an afternoon several months before. She was surprised that she recalled so much of it herself. Meredith had come to tell her that she was retiring at last, and planned to move to Dunston and live in Lois’s old house. Constance couldn’t believe she’d be happy there after living all her life in a city the size of Los Angeles. Meredith was adamant. She needed a change of scene. Her tone alarmed Constance. She was running away from something. It couldn’t be a man; it never had been. A woman was just as unlikely. Had she done something illegal? Embezzled someone’s life savings? Constance asked her point blank.

“Nice to know you still think so highly of me,” Meredith had said. Spring sunlight had poured in the window of Constance’s room. It wasn’t flattering to Meredith in the least. She looked old and worn out. Constance pretended to be confused about the house, saying someone was living in it and couldn’t be put out. At the time, the house was vacant, which she knew full well. So did Meredith. The pretense was possible because she hadn’t taken the Ambien the night before. Some crisis had kept the nurse from completing her rounds before Constance shut off her light for the evening. If she believed in divine intervention, she’d have thanked the higher powers. As it was, she put it down to a random moment of serendipity on the part of the universe.

“It’s about our house, you see,” Meredith told Angie.

“My house,” Constance said.

“The last time I was here, she didn’t remember that the house was unoccupied.”

Angie straightened the papers in the small portfolio she’d brought into the meeting.

“I see. Ms. Maynard, how long has it been since you’ve been in touch with your home’s property manager?” she asked Constance.

“Not since the last tenants left. There’s no reason for her to be in touch with me unless there’s a problem I need to know about. The next morning, I did remember the house was empty, but by then Meredith had gone back to California. We didn’t speak about it after that.”

Angie closed the portfolio.

“I’m satisfied that Ms. Maynard’s affairs are being handled properly. I’m concluding the meeting.”

Meredith put the tissue back in her purse. She didn’t look upset, as far as Constance could tell, but she’d always had a good poker face.

Back in Constance’s room, Meredith read email messages on her cell phone. Constance sewed several rows of the tapestry. The light softened. Eunice came to say she was going off shift. Would they come down to the dining room, or would they prefer something brought to them there?

“You always go out of your way,” Constance said. It had taken a few minutes to replace her thread. It was long enough that she had to extend her arm quite a bit as it moved in and out.

“It’s no trouble.”

“We’ll make our way down.”

“Good night, then.”

Meredith continued to stare at her phone. She stepped out into the hall to make a call. Her voice receded as she strolled further away from Constance’s door. Constance wondered if she’d just keep going, right through the exit and into her rented car. It would make things easier, really. But then Meredith returned, looking a little happier.

“My house sold,” she told Constance.

A house Constance had seldom been invited to, though it was less than a mile from the home Meredith had grown up in. Extravagantly decorated with gilded mirrors and French provincial furniture. Fussy décor, so at odds with Meredith’s severe demeanor.

“Congratulations,” Constance said.

“After I finish everything up, I’ll be back here in a couple of weeks.”

“Looking for a new place?”

“I’d still like to have your old house for a while. Give myself a chance to settle in.”

“I’m turning it into a community center for women.”

“A community center?”

Constance explained. She suggested that Meredith might volunteer her time, teaching the fundamentals of money management. Meredith appeared stricken.

“Is such a suggestion beneath your dignity?” Constance asked.

“Of course not.”

“Then why all the gloom?”

“I just wish you thought I was doing the right thing.”

“By moving here? That’s not for me to say, is it?”

There they were again, Meredith needing approval and Constance maintaining a neutral position. In the last year of her life, Lois had told Constance she needed to give Meredith more guidance.

“Look, I don’t know what you hope to accomplish by living in Dunston. It’s a charming little town, and I’m sure you could make some friends if you tried. It just seems like such an unnecessary upheaval,” Constance said. She ran the needle in and out, in and out. As always, it calmed her. She felt optimistic. She might complete the tapestry, yet!

Meredith stood and closed the door. Constance continued to sew. Meredith sat back down. She removed a silver flask from her purse. Constance stopped sewing. Meredith saw where she was looking and explained that she had learned the value of having a small amount of whiskey on hand for difficult moments. Constance wondered what sort of moments she meant.

“You’re upset that they’re not going to put you in charge of my money,” Constance said.

“No.”

“Isn’t that why you’re moving here? To try again, once you’re closer?”

Meredith unscrewed the lid of the flask but didn’t take a sip. Constance could see her mind wander. She was far away.

“Do you remember that blue dress? The one you bought me for my high school graduation?” Meredith asked.

Constance thought hard for a moment. She recalled pretty little stars around the waist.

“I don’t know why they held it inside. It was stifling. I could see you fanning yourself with the program, way up in the bleachers,” Meredith said.

“Strange thing to remember.”

Meredith took a sip from the flask.

“Everything changed for me that day,” she said.

They’d gone to lunch after the ceremony, in a private dining room at the Beverly Hills Ritz-Carlton. They ordered champagne and lobster, which required tucking the heavy white linen napkins into the necks of their dresses. Meredith had been accepted to Berkeley that spring, and was saying she wasn’t sure any longer that she wanted to leave L.A. She had one friend who was going to defer college for at least one year, though the girl’s mother was against the idea. Meredith had had a manicure the day before, and her fingernails were perfectly round and polished with pale pink that reminded Constance of a hue her own mother had worn years before. The color hadn’t suited Constance’s mother at all, nor did it suit Meredith. It was a frivolous shade.

Meredith went on talking about the friend and the friend’s mother who apparently wanted her out of the house for reasons Meredith didn’t understand. They’d never gotten along, but the friend didn’t make a lot of demands and was no doubt easy to live with. It was the mother who caused problems by insisting on strict behavior and firm routines, which the friend accepted and performed faithfully. Meredith’s conclusion was that the mother was just plain mean, probably frustrated with her own life, as so many women were seeming to be then (this was 1966), and took out her unhappiness on the friend.

“Do you know what I told her? That she should have a mother like mine.”

“I’m not your mother.”

It should have been more gracefully handled. She’d planned to tell her for a while. Why had she been so blunt? Because the moment arose, and she took it.

Meredith seemed suspended, her lifted glass in hand, as the color drained from her face. Constance could see a thought taking shape. She’d just been told a joke, and the punchline was about to come. There was also understanding, her entire life finally making sense, an explanation of why their relationship had been so formal and cold, why it had never felt right.

Constance began at the beginning. Her mother—Meredith’s mother—had a history of mental illness. She’d been away for a huge part of Constance’s own childhood. After remarrying and finding she was pregnant, she thought—hoped—she might be able to take care of a child the second time around. And she tried hard, she really did, but babies are demanding and soon it was clear that she couldn’t take the strain. Constance wanted Meredith to know that it broke her mother’s heart to give her up. The truth was that she was relieved, as she no doubt had been the first time when she went away and Constance got packed off to Lois’s.

The husband—Meredith’s father—didn’t think he could cope on his own. What really happened was that he begged Constance to get involved. He came home from work every day to a wailing baby for whom his wife had done little, if anything. Sometimes she wasn’t there, and the baby was all by herself, her diaper filthy, she hungry and miserable. He didn’t know anything about how to take care of her.

“And I do?” Constance had asked him. He’d assumed, of course, that because she was a woman she possessed solid maternal instincts. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Constance was just as at sea but refused to let the baby suffer any longer. With Lois’s help and assets, a series of competent nurses and nannies came to populate Meredith’s childhood.

Not long after, the legal formalities were seen to and Meredith was formally adopted. Her father called from time to time but offered no help and never asked to visit. The parallel to Constance’s own life was both marked and painful. History was repeating itself. Meredith and Constance were not only connected by blood, but by a sad thread of Fate that determined that they both would be abandoned and overlooked.

The champagne glass was still aloft, the bubbles gently rising. So was Meredith’s color. Constance thought she might cry, but Meredith was too well bred to cause a scene.

After a moment, Meredith said she was grateful for her explanation, and telling her such an important fact on this momentous occasion. The steely cynicism in her voice sounded so natural, as if it came easily, that Constance felt suddenly that she didn’t know Meredith at all. She’d been calm and quiet her entire life. Her few outbursts had been caused by ordinary things: a bee sting, breaking a doll, falling off of her bicycle. One incident, though, when Meredith was ten years old, came unexpectedly to mind.

Lois, then 85, was frail physically, though not mentally. Her words had become sharper than before, her patience, which had grown over time, vanished. Meredith had roller skated over the bare living room floor on her way to the back door, where she planned to go carefully down the short flight of stairs to the concrete path that ran from the back of the house to the front and then met the wider sidewalk where she could sail along freely. Constance didn’t know if she’d done this before—skate in the house. Lois apprehended her, grabbed her by the shoulders, and told her she was a rude, clumsy, stupid girl. Lois and Meredith typically avoided one another. The house was large enough to make that easy. Lois was often in her own room, watching television. Sometimes she joined them for dinner; usually she didn’t. And here she was, shouting at Meredith, holding her in place. Meredith shouted back, called her an “old witch,” and then spat in her face. Lois had been too shocked to do anything further at that moment, though a number of things would have occurred to her. Smacking Meredith across the face with her cane, which she’d left propped against the wall, perhaps. The cane rested. So did Lois.

Meredith, meanwhile, skated for a long time to calm herself down, then snuck silently into the house passed the cook and housekeeper and hid in her room until Constance knocked on her door. She’d come home to a changed atmosphere—something thicker in the air. She looked in first on Lois. The hallway of her private wing was lined with heavy carved pieces, offset with several Van Gogh replicas and their brilliant, racing colors. Constance opened her door after one quick, soft knock. Lois was watching television. She nodded pleasantly, benignly, yet with a deeper light in her eyes that Constance knew meant, You should go see about Meredith. When she turned back to the television abruptly, Constance knew something unpleasant had taken place, which she had seen coming for a long time. A young girl, an old woman, an uneasy warp and woof.

She made her way along the long sunlit hall, and turned the corner to the one containing both her and Meredith’s room. The sorrow and rage in Meredith’s face as she lay on her bed, and pretended to be engrossed in her comic book, were clear. The moment soon forgotten. Until then, over that elegant lunch.

Meredith asked Constance why she’d pretended, why she hadn’t just told the truth. Constance had asked herself the same thing many times. So had Lois. In fact, Lois had cautioned her against playing the part of Meredith’s mother.

“Why put yourself in a bad light? You know how people are. Do you want them thinking you’re a common strumpet?”

In fact, she did. Accepting condemnation was her way of protesting the narrow roles women were allowed to play. She’d dug very deeply into the life of Margaret Beaufort and other noble women of her day. Once married, their use was reproductive. If they were barren, or didn’t produce sons, they were discarded. Here was a chance for Constance to stand against the notion that a woman’s highest and best use was as a wife and mother. Twentieth century mores didn’t emphasize the value of sons over daughters as much, but women were still tightly slotted and controlled.

Some of her colleagues were more understanding than others. A few regarded her with suspicion and contempt, but in time that faded. She was a good scholar, an excellent teacher, thorough and dedicated. She was often excluded, however, from social gatherings. Those she hosted herself were occasionally avoided, but less so. She knew how to give a good party. Lois could always be counted upon to be gracious, even charming. When Meredith was presented, always briefly, right before her bedtime, her shyness was appealing, even winning.

Constance wanted Meredith to be strong and refuse to be defined by anyone else. The trouble, she then saw, was that she had defined her, given her a false identity. The truth she’d clumsily shared now required her to assume a new one. It occurred to her that if Meredith were a stronger person, less frail, she might have walked out of Constance’s life and never returned. Maybe she had considered it for a moment. Maybe she wished she had. Maybe she still did.

“And you’re about to tell me that this change was for the worse,” Constance said.

Meredith shrugged. She capped the flask and put it back in her bag.

“Who knows what life would have been like if I’d never known?”

“No point in speculating on a thing like that.”

“Can’t help it. I remember things at odd moments. A lot more these days. Since I retired, I guess.”

“You need a pastime, a new avocation. Which is why the community center is such a wonderful idea, if you’d only deign to consider it.”

“Stop it, please.”

“All right, all right. But you see my point.”

Meredith looked at the tapestry. Her expression turned sour.

“It’s absurd, isn’t it? This notion of the ideal woman’s life,” she said.

“I think of it as an irony. Especially in my hands.”

“Because none of these roles applies to you, is that it?”

“Only Motherhood. And please don’t say what you’re thinking.”

Constance looked closely at the sewn images. Each face was serene, pleasant, bland. That was the real role history wanted women to assume—the embodiment of peace. Women should be passive, and wait to be asked. Women who asked first were thought to be unfeminine, unnatural, predatory.

“What on earth are you thinking about?” Meredith asked her.

Constance shook her head. She was tired then. It would take too long to explain.

 

chapter five

 

 

 

Darren Stiles was a colleague. He was also a widower. His wife had died years before, when she was still a young woman. Childbirth took her. Within only a few days, the child died, too. He relayed these facts without an ounce of self-pity, and Constance admired him for that. She told him about the difficult lunch she’d had with Meredith the week before. And then, once again on impulse, she told him her true relationship to Meredith. He looked into the glass he’d been sipping from, which held one of Constance’s excellent martinis. Rather than asking why she’d taken on such a burden, he said, “That must have been very hard.”

Constance realized she’d expected praise, not sympathy. She wasn’t used to sympathy. Darren, it turned out, had loads of sympathy, always offered quietly, gently. At the moment, Meredith was up in Berkeley for the summer, in advance of her autumn enrollment. She was staying with a friend. Her departure had been abrupt. Constance wondered if the rift would become permanent. With Lois gone, she had no one to confide in. Despite her popularity in her department, with her students and her colleagues, she had a hard time making and keeping friends. She confided easily in Darren. He never seemed unsettled by it, as she was sure any number of other men might have been.

He didn’t think Meredith would remain silent. She needed time to absorb what she’d learned, that was all. Constance should find a way to occupy herself in the meantime. Darren was sailing to Europe the following week. He took Constance completely aback by inviting her to go with him. He’d reserved a state room. It was expensive, but he couldn’t bear smaller quarters. There need be nothing physical between them, if that were her preference. Sharing the bed might be pleasant enough.

He smiled at her. He had dash. Her opinion of him shifted entirely in his favor. Her affairs with men tended to be short-lived and sordid. She usually sought professors in other departments, the most passionate of whom had been Saul Frank, a physicist. After him, she slept with a number of other scientists, met in the faculty dining hall, the university country club, even the paddock where, on a mad whim, she learned to ride horseback. One of her conquests had been married, and the wife voiced her suspicions loudly enough so that for a brief, difficult time, Constance had feared for her job. Though she wasn’t let go, it was suggested by her own department chairman, a kindly man who wore a three piece suit even in warm weather, that she was doing herself no favors having that kind of liaison, given the circumstances of her daughter’s birth.

Darren stayed for dinner. She served vichyssoise, followed by cold lamb and small roasted potatoes. She apologized for having no dessert. He didn’t usually care for dessert, and said he’d gotten out of the habit of eating it. The way he studied her linen tablecloth at that moment told her that dessert had been something of a tradition, when his wife was alive.

“I don’t know how I feel about traveling with a man possessed by a ghost,” she said. She apologized at once, saying she was seldom so bold.

“I don’t believe that of you for a moment. A woman who martyrs herself must be bold at heart.”

She finished her wine. It was a good Pouilly-Fuissé.

“Rather a strong word, don’t you think?” she asked.

“It suits.”

She supposed it did, though she’d never looked at it that way before. For years she thought her decision was either incredibly brave, or reckless, depending on her mood. What she did know then, and hadn’t really faced, was that the decision had harmed Meredith.

“It’s not right, to ask a child to assume your mandate, is it?” she asked.

Again, Darren studied the tablecloth.

“I think we’re all duty-bound to keep those close to us from harm,” he said.

He wasn’t talking about her, he said, but of himself. His wife had been a frail woman, and the doctors advised her not to have children. He was willing to live without the activity that brought them about. She wanted one, though. She wore him down. He relented.

“It’s a normal thing, to want to sleep with one’s wife,” Constance said. She wondered, suddenly, if her death had ruined him in some fundamental way that would make him a bad companion. She had no reason to think so, but now that she was more attracted to him, his ability to respond was key.

“Yes.”

The evening took on a golden tone. The patio glowed. The smooth stone was a delight under her stockinged feet. She danced before the lavender hedge, her empty glass in hand. He sat in his chair, tie loosened, neither approving nor disapproving, it seemed to her. Just an observer. But then he stood, took her hand, and danced too, humming a familiar tune she couldn’t recall the name of.

 

.   .   .

 

Being again on the open sea reminded Constance of her voyage over twenty years before. Then, she travelled alone. Now, sharing Darren’s stateroom made her feel deliriously grand. They did not have sex until the last day, as if the time up until then was a trial, an experiment in how well they got along. In the morning, Darren studied her across the table. Clearly, her physical passion had surprised him. When she looked up, he had trouble meeting her eye. But when he finally did, the warmth of his expression pleased her.

Their destination was France’s Loire Valley and the resplendent castles therein. Seeing them had been Darren’s lifelong dream. How glad he was to have Constance by his side! Sharing their beauty with her made the experience so much better. He became a different man as they walked slowly through the great rooms, apart from the larger tour group they’d initially joined. He was openly joyous. His field was the reign of Louis XIV. When he was writing his thesis, he’d had no money to travel abroad. He’d had to content himself with books that held crucial information, but had in no way prepared him for the magic of actually standing before the bed in which some French nobleman had slept.

Constance thought of the women. Their part in preserving the peerage was always the same. They rocked the cradle, but seldom ruled, and though they may have advised and guided, it was always in private. They almost never sat in counsel, held office, presented bills. This is what she had tried to make Meredith understand as she grew up. She spoke often of the scant opportunities available to women even then, in the middle of the twentieth century. Constance bought her a copy of The Feminine Mystique, which lay untouched on her dresser. Her secret fear was that Meredith would marry a man who demanded that she play the traditional role of staying home, cooking, cleaning, and raising children. Not that the lesser chores would necessarily fall to her. Meredith would be in an income bracket that made maids, cooks, and nannies possible. If Lois were still alive, and knew of her specific concerns, she’d tell Constance she was being narrow-minded. Lois, herself, had lived a quiet, domestic life. She took care of one husband who sadly had died young, then a second while raising the child from his first marriage. She never seemed to mind. She hadn’t been trapped by anyone’s view of her—a goal Constance had always put in front of Meredith, who was simply too fragile on an emotional level to feel the wisdom of those words.

And would the truth have changed her? If she had known she was a sister, not a daughter, would she have become a bolder spirit? The ceiling of the chamber in which they stood, side by side, was painted navy blue and emblazoned with tiny gold stars. Constance gazed upward and implored them for an answer. None came.

At the end of a narrow corridor, they entered a grand chamber with a magnificent carved fireplace. It was easy to imagine the leap and dance of flames, and servants bearing plates to and from the immense wooden table. The sound of their footfalls echoed as they strolled, held in a state of reverence, the past a palpable, living thing all around them. Beyond the fireplace a large tapestry hung on the wall, behind a velvet rope so visitors would not be tempted to touch it. Constance, though, needed to touch it, if just for a moment. She asked Darren to stand guard.

A woman stood in a bright clearing, with trees all around. She stared quietly at the ground, hands clasped as if in prayer. She was waiting for something, clearly. Her dress had tones of red and gold. The wool was surprisingly coarse. One of the fibers felt particularly sharp, and Constance wondered if someone had left a needle behind. She withdrew her hand and leaned back, certain that she’d taken a very long time to inspect the fabric, and then to brush it with her fingertip. Darren assured her that she’d been quick. He moved off, making for a wide doorway leading to another chamber, then turned when he realized that Constance was still staring at the tapestry. He came back and placed his hand lightly on her elbow. She knew he wanted her to leave then, to go where he wanted to go and see what he wanted to see.

She stood still. He asked if she were well. She said she needed just one more moment, and to go on ahead. He cautioned not to touch the tapestry without him being there to alert her if someone came into the room.

“I’m all through with touching,” she said.

Over dinner, he asked her why the tapestry had fascinated her so. They ate in the back garden of the auberge they would spend the night in. The light faded slowly; a duck quacked in the distance, perhaps on its way to the small lake nearby. Other birds quickened the hedge bordering the garden. The fish course had been eaten, a beef dish was then being presented by a serving girl with scars on the backs of her hands. Constance suspected her attendance at a Catholic school, where liberal punishment with rulers was allowed, even encouraged. After she withdrew, Constance explained.

“It’s what the women did. The weaving, I mean,” she said.

“Ah. You and your women.”

“Men warred, conquered, stole land, plowed it, and so on. Women wove.”

“A very useful skill, given how cold these castles are.”

“The servants wove, I should say. Their mistresses embroidered. Being skilled at needlework was considered a very fine trait.”

Constance was aware that her face had flushed. She hoped Darren would blame it on the wine.

“Are you fond of it, yourself? Embroidery?” he asked.

“Oh, yes.”

She had the Stages tapestry with her in their shared room. She wondered if she’d be in the mood to work on it. She hadn’t for some time. She’d packed it at the last minute. She couldn’t bear to be parted from it, even though it remained rolled up.

“My mother was quite keen on needlework, though I don’t think she used a canvas to embroider. Just a plain piece of fabric. What’s that called?” he asked.

“Cross stitch, maybe. Or crewel work.”

“I think it was crewel.”

“Hm.”

Artisans at their looms. Great ladies at their smaller stands, pushing their needles in and out, in and out. Life’s rhythm.

“You’re a million miles away,” Darren said.

“I’m sorry.”

They ate in silence for a time. Neither felt the need to bring up a new topic, or to continue on the previous one. Dessert consisted of stone fruit in cream. Darren suggested a cognac. Constance agreed and asked if they might take their glasses with them while they wandered around the grounds before turning in.

“That’s a lovely idea,” he said. He signed the check. They hadn’t talked about money. He was clearly spending a lot, and Constance felt bad. Though to offer to share expenses might insult him. It was a matter she’d have to return to later, for further consideration.

The air had cooled. The stone path along the auberge led through a patch of woods, then arrived at a clearing where a stone bench had been installed so visitors could sit and contemplate their good fortune. Or so this was how Constance understood its presence. The remaining sunlight streamed at an angle, and gazing at it, feeling remarkably clearheaded despite the bottle and a half of wine with dinner and now the cognac warming her throat most pleasantly, she realized that before her was the scene from the tapestry. Who was the woman? There’d been no information, nothing tacked to the wall beside the piece to explain what it depicted. She thought of the hands that wove the fabric. She looked then at her own. Age had begun to show. The veins had thickened. She lifted her glass from where she’d set it on the stone at her feet, and drank gratefully. Tonight was the night. She would sew again.

In their room, Darren stood on the balcony, watching the night. He was restless. The calm Constance enjoyed as she worked the stream flowing past the cave was made opposite in him. He smoked a cigarette, and then another. He sat in one of the two chairs placed side by side, then stood once more. He entered the room and sat at the desk. He attempted to write a letter, to whom Constance had no idea. He put the crumpled paper in the fireplace, then lit it. Constance lifted her head and watched the few thin flames rise, then die down.

No sooner had she resumed sewing, there he was, directly in front of her, begging her to listen to what he must say. Reluctantly, she put the tapestry in her lap. He sat.

When he was young, before he met his wife, he’d made a mistake with a woman. She was a college student in Michigan. He was too. That’s where he was from, Michigan. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever told Constance that or not. In any case, he fell in love with her. Even then, he was the kind of man who fell in love easily. Surely, Constance must have noticed that.

She didn’t want to hear about love. It was always a pointless subject to discuss. Love required action, not words.

He continued. He assumed this woman cared for him, too. She gave all the signs. She smiled every time they met. She laughed at most things he said, and he began to wonder, under her warm approval, if he weren’t more interesting than he thought. He came from a large family and was often overlooked in favor of his two older brothers, and three younger sisters. A middle position is always hard, and he hadn’t realized until then just how ordinary he’d always felt. After a few months he was ready to propose marriage. He saved his money, took her to an elegant restaurant. They drank a lot of champagne, and afterward, back at her rooming house, she invited him to her bedroom. He’d never seen the inside of it, and assumed that she was ready for the physical side of things, even though he had failed to get the words out over dinner, the proposal still unspoken.

She wasn’t ready. She refused to sleep with him. If he hadn’t been drunk, he might not have been so demanding. She stopped struggling early on, which at the time he took as her assent. Afterward, he fell asleep. When he woke up, she was gone. She’d returned home. He had a letter from her father saying he was in full possession of the facts of his daughter’s situation and hoped that Darren understood that the right thing must now be done. Since he wanted to marry her anyway, being presented with this mandate was providential. Then he realized that the girl didn’t want to marry him and never had. Darren assumed she was pregnant. She wasn’t pregnant, though in time he learned that she said she was, to further the pressure brought on Darren by the father.

“But you said she didn’t want to marry you. Why would she want her father to say that you must?” Constance asked.

“Because she wanted me to come to her on bended knee, apologize, then beg for her hand, just so she could turn me down.”

“Sounds fair.”

Darren lifted his head. His eyes were unkind.

“You raped her,” Constance said.

“I didn’t know I was raping her. I thought she wanted me to make love to her.”

“You mean ‘with’ her.”

“What’s the difference?”

“If you don’t understand that, then I’ve severely misjudged you.”

He put his head in his hands. She could see he was all in. She told him to get undressed and get into bed. No good would come of his being exhausted the next day. They were due to leave the auberge and visit another castle quite a few kilometers to the south.

He was asleep at once. Constance was wide awake. She was troubled. Why had Darren told that story? As a way of garnering sympathy? To bring them closer together by baring his soul? When he commanded her attention, she’d been afraid that he was going to ask her to marry him, though in retrospect, that would have been too soon, despite the fact that there they were, alone together, traveling as man and wife, despite how supposedly progressive the Europeans were about such things.

On their last day in France, as they prepared to go north into Belgium for their final two days because Darren longed to see Bruges, Constance returned from a damp morning walk to find him bent over her tapestry, which he’d unrolled and laid across the bed.

“Oh,” she said.

“I hope you don’t mind. I was just curious about it since you’d worked on it that other day, and then not again since.”

“I’ve gone years in between.”

She put her purse on the bedside table. She checked herself in the small oval mirror on the wall. The rain hadn’t caused her hair to frizz. She wore it short those days, as was the style.

“The stitching has pulled it out of shape,” Darren said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Look.” He held it up, his hands far apart.

Constance saw at once what he meant. She had never secured it to a frame to keep the canvas taut. It leaned, like an old barn in a field. She took it from his hands, began to roll it up, when he took it back from her, not altogether gently.

“There’s a name on the back,” he said.

“Where?”

He showed her. It said, Gerrard et Fils. In red ink, no less, at the far left corner.

“Must be the manufacturer, or whoever designed the image,” he said.

Constance looked closely. Why had she never noticed it? The back was always of far less interest than the front, but it felt odd, even so.

Darren was clearly delighted. He was younger then, full of energy. His short-sleeved plaid shirt added to the effect.

“Don’t you find it a bit fascinating? I mean, we’re historians, after all, and here’s a little piece of history,” he said.

“It’s not very old. Made in the last century, at the earliest.”

“Where did you get it?”

She sat on the bed and explained about her trip to England, going north, the tavern, Tess, Maeve, the letter about Lady Norbury and Maeve’s time there.

“An Irish manor. Good stuff!” he said.

Constance reclaimed the canvas. She vowed not to work on it again until she was back in her own home, comfortably alone.

“Don’t you want to find out more about it, though?” Darren asked. He sat on the bed next to her.

“It’s a pastime, that’s all.”

“I wish you could see your face when you’re sewing.”

“Why? What does it look like?”

“Beatific.”

“Oh, nonsense. Let’s go eat lunch.”

Darren didn’t bring up the tapestry again. He grew quiet, preoccupied, though not necessarily downcast. Constance didn’t mind. She preferred to think her own thoughts. She wondered how Meredith was getting along. She’d written her several postcards detailing what they’d seen. She assumed Meredith would take in stride that Constance was traveling with a man. She would disapprove, naturally, but her disapproval would be unvoiced.

Their three-week itinerary was then at an end, and Constance was looking forward to the voyage home. Belgium had been disappointing. The hotel there had had narrow stairs and a shared bath down the hall, much lower quality than places they’d occupied in France. Constance understood that Darren was being more careful with money. On the first night out, she asked him to be honest with her about his situation.

“It was a small inheritance, that’s all. My father died last spring,” he said.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I wish I’d known!”

“It’s fine. We didn’t get along. In fact, he hated me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“It’s true.”

They were walking on deck. The wind had quickened. The sea became restless. Its gray was tipped with white caps. Constance felt insignificant in a way only an ocean could make her feel.

They linked arms.

“How can one hate one’s own child?” Constance asked.

“The same way one hates anyone, I suppose. Hate is hate.”

“And love is love.”

She felt his affection in the distance he closed between them. When they were again in Los Angeles, preparing for the fall semester, busy with their own lives, she would miss him, she thought. In a way, she missed him already. They still shared a bed, but nothing more. That had been her choice. She regretted it.

She stopped walking, released Darren’s arm, and gazed down into the troubled sea. The ship rose and fell with the waves beneath it, yet no rain fell.

“It’ll be a rough night. You’re not given to seasickness, are you?” Darren asked.

She looked into his face. It was a good face, displaying kindness and honesty. He’d been particularly honest in telling her about that girl. Might he be an asset? A refuge from herself?

“Marry me,” she said.

His expression didn’t change.

“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” he asked.

“Does it matter?”

“To some people.”

“To you.”

“Yes, a little.”

“Well, then.”

They went in to dinner, watching the wine in their glasses slosh, laughing at the crooked manner in which they and everyone else had to walk in order to avoid falling, then awoke to clear skies and flat seas. They never spoke of marriage again.

 

chapter six

 

 

 

The party was in honor of Constance’s friend, Elaine, who’d been appointed head of the new Women’s Studies Department. They’d met at the grocery store, of all mundane, non-academic places, and recognized one another instantly. Previous encounters were cheerfully recalled. The faculty lounge. The quad. The new students’ orientation. Reaching for the same bag of apples became a touchstone.

Elaine taught in two departments, Sociology and Anthropology, what she called “soft sciences.” She’d been on digs in the Southwest and once in Africa. Her articles on ancient burial rites were highly acclaimed.

Elaine was divorced, with two teenaged boys under her roof. Her ex-husband was in television and developed situation comedies that typically featured a strong male character and a silly female one. Elaine’s blond hair rose from her head in an afro, though she didn’t have a single drop of African blood in her veins. Some lovely fluke of nature, she called it. The hair on her sons’ heads was straight and black, like their father’s. She wore Dashikis to class, which she found at a thrift shop. She doubted they were genuine. The colors, for one thing, were muted, compared to the vibrancy she’d observed in Kenya.

Despite her apparent passion for all things African, the curriculum she was to oversee was centered primarily on Europe and the United States. She was coordinating with a number of faculty members from both English and History, also Political Science and Fine Arts, as well as her own joint fields to develop a course of study that would expose students to the many roles women had played over time. The theme throughout was how consistently their contributions had been overlooked.

Many of those faculty members would be at Constance’s party, including Darren. Ten years had passed since they’d gone abroad. They were cordial when they crossed paths at work. Sometimes he called and they went out for a drink. One rainy weekend he helped her with a leaky dining room window. He remarked that a house of that grandeur—as compared to his much smaller bungalow—should have been better built.

“Well, it’s not,” Constance had said, laughing as they soaked up the water with one clean towel after another. His gaze had lingered. Romance, though, was off the table.

Meredith was also due. Now twenty-eight, she worked for a financial advisor in Hollywood. Her passion for numbers was still surprising to Constance, though she’d majored in math at Berkeley, a field that wasn’t all that welcoming to women. She understood investments quite well, particularly in terms of estate planning. Though Constance admired her perseverance, she couldn’t imagine a more boring way to make a living. She kept that to herself.

Elaine wanted to meet Meredith. She was thrilled that Constance’s daughter was making her way in a man’s field. She loved Constance’s elegant home, and spent as much time there as possible, an arrangement Constance often found inconvenient.

The truth was that Elaine was clingy. The face she gave the world was that of a tough, independent woman, a survivor, unflappable. Constance had been witness to a number of crying jags, usually after a few glasses of wine. Elaine’s husband had left her nearly six years before, yet the event was painfully raw. Her unrelenting sorrow grated on Constance’s nerves. She was brilliant at not showing it.

The other bone of contention between them, also unvoiced, was that Constance was jealous of Elaine’s appointment. She was certain she knew more about women through time than Elaine did. During her almost thirty years teaching history, she had stressed one thing—women had never been given their rightful place. After the publication of her thesis, she’d presented a number of articles about English women during the War of the Roses, all exposing that shameful fact. Then she turned to America’s own past and wrote Silent and Unseen, which began with the settlement at Jamestown and ended with the passage of the Nineteenth Amendment. It detailed the wives and daughters of landowners, merchants, and craftsmen, all living obscurely as befit the unchanging heritage of their sex. It had been poorly reviewed and never taken up as teaching text, which infuriated her.

She suggested the party not only to prove to herself that she could overlook a professional rivalry, but because she was bored. People made a wonderful distraction, in limited doses. She’d been much more aware of this since her tenant, Edna May, had moved out. Edna May was a college student, one of a series of young women who’d occupied Meredith’s vacant bedroom. The rent Constance charged was minimal. The company provided by the students was just enough to fill a void but not enough to overwhelm.

Elaine arrived early. She was nervous about mingling with so many people, she said. She’d tried to get some work done around the house, but was a useless mess. Her boys were off with their father for the week. Constance knew she was feeling the solitude of her empty home.

Elaine sat while Constance worked. The caterers had brought too few devilled eggs, but too many fruit cocktails. Two telephone calls resulted in the vague promise that another tray of eggs was on its way. The shrimp was chilled and paired with red sauce. There were oysters on the half-shell, a platter of crudités and dip, pretzels, potato chips, cheese and crackers, and thinly sliced layer cake for dessert. The bartender had his station at the end of the living room. He’d already provided Elaine with two glasses of white wine. Constance watched her discreetly. She expected a flood of woe at any minute. To her surprise, none came.

Instead, Elaine talked about the program she was to develop. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to contact women artists in the community; women authors; even a few actresses, assuming one could penetrate the veil of their publicity machines?

“Let them tell their own stories about competing in a man’s world,” she said with a slight slur.

“We could tell that tale ourselves, don’t you think?” Constance asked. She’d just rearranged a vase of white flowers—carnations, roses, and daisies—a second time.

“Very true.” Elaine glanced into the living room, which Constance took to mean her wanting another drink.

“I like your dress, by the way,” Elaine said.

“Oh, thanks!”

The dress was pale lavender and sleeveless, which Constance could still carry off at her age. Her arms had always been thin. Elaine had fancied up her daily dashiki with a necklace of heavy wooden beads. Constance asked her if they were African. They were.

Meredith let herself in the back door. She was wearing a beige pantsuit, which Constance thought made her look much older than she was. She supposed it was intentional. To get people to trust you with their money, you had to look solid and serious, two conditions the young usually failed to attain. She kissed Constance on the cheek. Constance was sure her peach lipstick had left a mark, and reminded herself to go to the powder room before the guests arrived and check.

Constance introduced Meredith to Elaine, who stood and gave her a warm hug. Meredith was visibly taken aback, then recovered. Constance could bet hugging wasn’t a known ritual in the staid offices where Meredith worked.

Meredith and Elaine fell into an easy conversation. Constance left them and went through the living room to make sure the ashtrays were clean, the nut bowls full, the bartender at attention and not helping himself to anything. She asked him to pour her two glasses of dry sherry, one for her, one for Meredith.

“You must be so proud of your daughter,” Elaine said, then looked longingly at the servings of sherry Constance had brought in.

“Yes, she’s quite a girl,” Constance said.

“Is that for me?” Meredith asked.

“Of course.”

“What is it?”

“Sherry.”

Meredith, as far as Constance knew, was not fond of alcohol. The sherry was to keep her mood mellow. She tended to fall into herself when she visited home.

“A woman, managing money. Such empowerment,” Elaine said, warmly.

“Well, I’m supervised. I don’t have any authority to make investments, only to recommend them,” Meredith said.

“But that will change, right? In time, when you have more seniority.”

“That’s the idea.”

Meredith sipped her sherry. She seemed to like it. Constance could tell from the slight lift of one cheek, a gesture she’d seen many times over the years that expressed pleasure, which in another would be a smile, or laughter, a little gleam in the eye.

The first guests arrived, professors from the History Department, including Chairman Banks who made straight for the bar and asked quietly for a Scotch on the rocks. He surveyed the bottles on offer and appeared pleased at the presence of Johnny Walker Red. Constance knew that was his preferred poison. He’d always ordered it at the faculty lounge the few times they’d gone in together, at day’s end.

As the crowd grew from small to modest, Elaine left her safe perch in the kitchen and made the rounds. Constance studied her. She was poised, spoke clearly, nodded to show interest, made eye contact unwaveringly. An excellent dissembler, Constance decided. No wonder she’d earned her appointment. The goodwill shown her spilled over to Constance herself. She was complimented on her home, though many people had been there before over the years; the food was enjoyed wholeheartedly; she was thanked for having thought to include them.

Some months before, Constance had installed the tapestry in a corner. She’d had a frame made and mounted on a stand. There was a chair in front of it, purely for show, because sewing had once again fallen by the wayside. Some guests admired it politely; one woman, the wife of a sociology professor, leaned in closely to examine the work, just as Constance had done to the tapestry on the wall of the French chateau. Constance became alarmed. She realized it had been stupid to display the tapestry in a public space. She hoped the woman (Nancy? Nina?) wouldn’t touch it. Constance willed her to walk away from it, which she did easily enough when her name (Nora) was called by her husband, standing at one of the food tables.

Meredith had made a brief appearance and then took herself off somewhere, maybe to her old room. Constance hoped she wasn’t suffering from some aching nostalgia. It had been hard for her to leave the house, though she’d really left it years before, when she began college up north. During those years, she’d returned for vacations, but the summers were always spent away. Even so, when Constance announced that she was renting the room out, Meredith’s eyes had filled with tears.

Constance saw that her guests, maybe a total of twelve or thirteen people, had settled themselves comfortably in her large living room in small groups. Some were talking about an art show they’d been to, and the frenzied, abstract colors of a new Peruvian painter. Others described their summers, the trips they’d taken; one man had gone to Spain to visit a cousin he hadn’t seen in decades.

Constance went down the hall from the kitchen. Her house was shaped like three sides of a square. The first wing held the living room, dining room, and kitchen. Meredith’s room—the rented room—was in the adjacent wing. It was empty. So was Constance’s room, the small den Constance used as an office, and the television room. She turned the corner to Lois’s old wing, which contained a quiet sitting area and a large bedroom that Constance hadn’t had the heart to redecorate or change even a little bit since her death almost thirteen years before. It was wasted space, to be sure, but then so much of the entire house was, with just Constance as the primary resident.

Meredith sat in Lois’s green easy chair, the one she used to watch television from. Her legs were curled up under her, her eyes closed. They opened a moment after Constance entered the room. Maybe she’d been asleep.

“What are you doing in here?” Constance asked.

“Recovering.”

“From?”

“All your guests.”

“They’re hardly a crowd. Come on, be sociable.”

“You know I don’t like talking to people I don’t know.”

“Oh, honestly! How do you handle your clients, then?”

“We only talk about money.”

Constance lowered herself onto the window seat.

“And it’s different when the conversation has a chance to be random, is that it?” she asked.

Meredith said nothing.

“Because you might get asked something you don’t know how to answer?”

“You always said I didn’t think very well on my feet.”

“That’s not true!”

Meredith shrugged.

Constance realized she probably had wanted to avoid the party altogether but felt it her duty to come for a little while, at least.

“Well, stay here then, if you like. I don’t imagine it’ll run on too much longer. Once the food’s gone, people will drift off,” Constance said.

Meredith nodded, and closed her eyes again.

When Constance returned to the kitchen, she was met by Elaine, who looked flushed and agitated. Even her dashiki was askew. She put her hand on Constance’s arm and whispered, “He’s here.”

“Who?”

“Darren.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to greet him. I had to go see what Meredith was up to.”

“Is she all right? I thought she’d left.”

“She’s in hiding. Gets a bit of stage fright around new people.”

Elaine looked like she understood completely.

“Well, let’s not keep Darren waiting,” Constance said.

Why did his presence cause her to feel unmoored? It was a little bit like that day at sea, being tossed and rocked, never quite sure of where her feet would land next.

He had his back to her, talking to someone. Constance arranged her face to look its most pleasant and gracious. She approached steadily, ready to announce her presence with a light touch on his arm.

He was with a woman. Constance recognized her. She was a graduate student. She was tall, blond hair pinned up. She wore a white jumpsuit and high-heeled, gold-toned sandals. Her necklace was long, made of gold beads, and hung well into her cleavage. On campus she dressed much more conservatively: quiet pantsuits, jackets, and skirts. Constance couldn’t recall her name. It was on the tip of her tongue when Darren caught sight of her and took her hand.

“We thought you’d run out on us,” he said. He’d been drinking. She wondered where they’d stopped off. She smiled. Darren released her.

“You remember Gabrielle,” he said.

“Of course! What a pleasure to see you. I’m so glad you could come!”

Gabrielle stared down at Constance. She smiled after a moment, as if she hadn’t recognized her at first.

“We’re just back from Las Vegas,” Darren said.

“How exciting! I love Las Vegas,” Constance said. The one time she’d gone, she’d been in the company of a lover. She’d bet over a thousand dollars playing blackjack and lost it all.

“We just got married,” Darren said. His arm went around Gabrielle’s waist tightly, pulling her off balance.

Words of congratulation flowed from those sitting down. Chairman Banks rose to shake Darren’s hand and give his best wishes to Gabrielle.

“I’ve got a couple bottles of champagne around here somewhere. Let me just go and look,” Constance said.

She was aware of Elaine watching her as she went at a calm, easy pace across the long room and into the kitchen. Then Elaine was next to her saying, “Oh, for God’s sake! Can you believe it? What was he thinking?”

“I don’t think a mental process was involved.” Constance had the refrigerator open. She stared into it without seeing it.

“Men. One day they’re geniuses, the next they’re retards.”

Elaine didn’t usually speak so bluntly. Constance thought she was animated from the alcohol and having been the center of attention, if only briefly, among her colleagues.

“There’s no reason to assume he’s making a mistake,” Constance said and closed the refrigerator. The two bottles of champagne at the back of the first shelf would keep. “I’m sure she’s a lovely person.”

“No, she’s not. Don’t you remember that business with Ned Price?”

“What business?”

“He was her thesis advisor. He ended up leaving his wife.”

“You can’t assume the two things are related.”

“You’re playing devil’s advocate. I know you’re trying to keep an open mind, because that’s the kind of person you are, but I’m telling you, Darren did something really dumb, and he’ll rue the day. You know it, too.”

“Oh, come on. It doesn’t matter what I know or don’t know.”

Some of her guests came into the kitchen to thank Constance and say good-bye. She protested that they were leaving too early, then said she understood and thanked them profusely for coming.

The party was down to the Chairman, his wife, Darren, and Gabrielle. Both couples were sitting easily on the large sectional sofa. Darren smiled when Constance and Elaine entered the room. He didn’t ask about the champagne. He looked woozy. Maybe he was just deliriously happy. Constance had never noticed before how close together his eyes were or the how red his nose got when he drank. Even the sound of his voice as he described the houses they’d been looking at, since his was too small, grated. At the mention of each, Gabrielle gave an approving nod. She was flushed and a little glassy-eyed.

Meredith appeared. She looked composed. Whatever had assailed her was now past. She said hello to everyone and shook Gabrielle’s hand. They were roughly the same age; another insult, Constance thought. Darren was in his fifties, as was Constance. He had a good twenty-five years on his new wife.

Elaine was in a chair across from the sectional, babbling at Gabrielle about home renovation projects. Gabrielle clearly wasn’t listening. She turned to Meredith and said she’d heard that she worked in investments. Might she be interested in pointing her in a good direction?

“Investments?” Constance asked. All conversation ceased.

“Gabrielle’s father left her a little something,” Darren said.

The way Gabrielle patted his hand said she wanted him to change the subject.

“He was in real estate,” Darren added.

“What’s his name?” Meredith asked.

“Frank Hawkins,” Gabrielle said.

“He built half the Sunset Strip!” Meredith said.

“That’s right.”

“Well. I’ll speak to my supervisor. I’m sure he’d be happy to set up an appointment.”

Elaine looked at Constance. One of her eyebrows was raised, as if to say, He married her for her money!

Certainly a possibility, Constance thought, then decided that Darren just wasn’t that sort. Gabrielle was beautiful and elegant. Her talents as a scholar weren’t bad either. Constance had never used her as a teaching assistant, because her field was early American history, but those who had said good things. Why would someone with her assets—both physical and financial—waste her time looking back?

That’s what it meant to study history, didn’t it? To look back? And what did all that looking back do? It never accurately predicted the future. The future always did as it pleased. Knowing the foibles of one’s forebears made one cynical, even jaded. Constance wondered when that had happened to her. She’d begun with great passion for the past and the secrets it held. The dead were more real to her than the living. Her own life had contained ambitions and expectations, which were now played out. She had never felt so bitterly disappointed.

Constance drank a glass of wine, then a second, third, and fourth. The Chairman and his wife had left. They’d filled her ears with warm words, and admiration again for her charming home. Meredith asked her if she were all right. Constance waved her away.

As Constance sank, Gabrielle seemed to rise. She was alert, talking a lot, and paying Constance one compliment after another. Her home was lovely, her daughter was wonderful, her students were full of praise for her insights and compassion. Constance didn’t know what she was talking about. She was a good professor, and a fair one, but hardly compassionate.

“And you have so many interests,” Gabrielle said.

“Do I?”

“Your sewing. I understand you’re very dedicated.”

Constance caught Darren’s eye. She hoped he registered the irritation she was trying to convey. His expression remained bland and pleasant.

“I only do it now and then,” Constance said.

“Let’s go take a closer look.”

Gabrielle got up and walked across the room to the corner where the tapestry sat on its stand. The sound of her sandals was loud and firm, at odds with the mellow jazz Constance had playing on the stereo system. Constance went with her. She turned on the floor lamp next to the tapestry. Gabrielle sat in the chair in front of the stand and ran her finger over the tapestry, tilting the frame a little up, then a little down, to better view the stitched—and still bare—images.

Constance stood by. She felt like a servant, waiting for her mistress to give her an order. Gabrielle remained intent on the canvas.

“Such a sweet piece,” she said.

“Yes.”

“And the whole role of embroidery—generations of women sitting quietly, occupying their hands rather than their minds.”

“I think that’s the idea.”

“It’s only how it looks from the outside, though. When you’re sewing, I’m sure your mind’s not a blank.”

“No.”

Constance turned and looked behind her at her three remaining guests, hoping Gabrielle would take the hint and get up.

“My mother embroidered pillows and seat cushions. She wasn’t very good at it actually. And I’m not even sure she took much pleasure from it. Her expression was always so fierce, as if the whole thing made her angry,” Gabrielle said.

“Maybe it did.”

“My father was the one who made her angry. She was jealous of his success. She was an ambitious person but didn’t pursue what she wanted.”

“And what was that?”

“Anything that didn’t have to do with being a housewife.”

Gabrielle sat back from the canvas. She was concentrating hard.

“It’s aggressive, don’t you think? Piercing something with a needle?” she asked.

“It’s just a craft.”

“While the men were hunting or fighting or engaging in politics or building a real estate empire, the women sewed and sewed, piercing, penetrating, as if they were men too, in that moment. Maybe it made them feel less excluded, or let them take a break from nurturing—which was their only valued role, right? Though I’d be the first to admit that’s a bit of a stretch.”

Constance had no words. Worried that her growing silence might be interpreted as astonishment, she walked quickly into the kitchen where she drank a glass of water.

Through the window over the sink, the backyard was illuminated by the exterior floodlights. It was deep and lush, a luxury of water stolen from the Colorado River, there in Southern California. It invited her to enter, wander, and collect herself. She’d had a stone bench installed, much like the one she and Darren had discovered in France, and it had been there that she’d conceived the outline of Silent and Unseen, and the “unyielding divide between the sexes,” as one sour reviewer had put it.

In all the years she’d spent thinking and re-thinking what it meant to be female, she’d never once imagined the plain, simple, and blinding truth Gabrielle had just pronounced.

How could it be proven, or disproven? And did it need to be?

“What are you doing in here, all by yourself?” Elaine asked. Constance hadn’t heard her come in.

“Just getting a drink of water.”

“Well, they just left. I told them good-bye for you.”

“What? Why didn’t you come and get me? They must have thought me awfully rude!”

“Not really. Gabriella said she had to go, that she wasn’t feeling well.”

“Oh.”

“And naturally Darren jumped up and got her purse for her, and ushered her out like a little girl.”

“Hm.”

“Meredith is still here, though. She and Gabrielle certainly hit it off, didn’t they?”

Constance took in Elaine’s wide, flushed face. Her eyes were full of triumph and confidence. She’d had a good evening, clearly.

Constance excused herself so she could give the bartender his check. The caterers had returned as pre-arranged, and removed the remaining food and dirty dishes and silverware. While they worked, Meredith, Constance, and Elaine sat and recalled moments from the party, commented on how people looked and whether or not they’d enjoyed themselves, what the weather would be like the following day, and over the course of the coming season. The caterers left, saying Constance could expect a bill in about another week, then Meredith and Elaine also said good-night.

When Constance was alone, she went to the tapestry and sewed for at least an hour until her vision blurred and her needle hand ached.

It’s only to pass the time, a way to endure loneliness, she thought. Nothing to do with men and women. Or with men versus women.

In, out, in, out, her needle went. From one painted patch to another. When she needed to, she plucked more yarn from the basket on the floor below the stand.

In, out, in, out.

 

chapter seven

 

 

 

Meredith didn’t bring up the house again. She bought a small place on the other side of the faculty golf course, surrounded by trees and with a creek in back. She admitted that the quiet wasn’t easy to get used to after living in Los Angeles her entire life. Constance understood that Meredith simply wanted to be near her. She forced herself to be pleasant when she stopped by, which she did several times a week.

Meredith sought out Eunice when Constance was sleeping, something she did more and more, even without the pills. At first Eunice said it really wasn’t appropriate to follow her on her rounds through the wing, then relented. Clearly, Meredith needed a friend. Eunice invited her to an upscale coffee bar near Lindell. It sat in a new cluster of high-end stores.

Meredith blew into her coffee without taking a sip.

“Your mother seems comfortable at Lindell,” Eunice said.

“She should be, by now.”

“I mean that she’s well settled. Some people never really adjust to leaving their own home.”

Eunice’s tone had become a little defensive, and she hadn’t meant it to be. She just didn’t know what else to talk about, and Meredith didn’t have much to offer. Until she all of a sudden did.

Her mother was a deeply frustrated woman, she said, and it had taken years for her to realize that. She always acted as though she were satisfied with her career and that she loved teaching, but in fact she really didn’t like it all that well. She said all the time that her students were stupid, with very few exceptions. And she was bitter about her thesis, even now, after all these years. She’d been talked into a subject she didn’t really care for. She yielded under pressure, and had always regretted that decision.

After she retired, she tried writing a book about sex trafficking—could Eunice believe that? She didn’t finish it. She began two others, Meredith didn’t know what about. Then she volunteered at a shelter for abused women. Her mother, with her beautiful clothes, in a place like that. Meredith suggested, more than once, that she tone herself down just a little, and Eunice could imagine how that had been received.

One day, one of the shelter women really let her mother have it. Not physically, though it could very well have come to blows. Her mother had accused her of causing the mess she was in by choosing the wrong man. Well naturally this woman, with all her pent-up sorrow, let fly. Meredith wasn’t sure, but she suspected that her mother was asked not to return.

“And then?” Eunice asked.

Her mother left L.A. and returned to her childhood home, which must have been very odd. She always said it was a relief, a welcome change, but she was a practiced liar, which Eunice would have no way of knowing, of course.

Meredith tasted her coffee. Eunice studied her hands, wrapped around the heavy mug. The nails on one hand were longer than the other, which struck Eunice as odd, given how meticulous the rest of her appearance was. But women could be like that, she’d found. They paid close attention to certain things and let others go. In Eunice’s case, her blind spot always seemed to be her hair, which had retained its thick, springy texture as she’d aged. She washed it once a week and let it dry on its own. If she had to go outside, she pulled on a wool cap that had gotten some choice remarks from some of the residents. One man said she looked a gun moll. Eunice said she’d have to be in a dress for that to be the case, but he disagreed. All the sassiest women wore slacks in the thirties, he said. Eunice told him she was nothing, if not sassy.

Meredith said her mother had always taken the war between the sexes personally. When she was a young girl, her own mother…

She paused. She stared hard into her coffee cup.

“Her own mother what?” Eunice asked.

Got sent away, Meredith said, put away, was more like it. She was emotionally fragile. She’d wanted to be an actress and failed. It was hard on her, and she fell apart.

“That’s harsh,” Eunice said.

Meredith nodded.

“And hard for a little girl to see.”

“Yes.”

“So, what did she figure, your mom, about the whole thing? That a woman who tries to be anything other than a mother and a wife gets punished?”

Here Meredith leaned back in her vinyl chair and regarded Eunice across the wider distance she just put between them.

“I think she’d agree with that,” Meredith said.

“You’re a mom, a wife, or else.”

“Yes.”

“Well, she was a mom, at least.”

Meredith got a queer look. Eunice became uneasy.

“What was your father like? She never said anything about her husband,” she said.

“She never married.”

“Wow. Can’t have been easy, having a child out of wedlock in those days.”

Again the queer, strained look. Not exactly sad, or angry, just stressed as hell, Eunice thought.

“There was a man she wanted to marry. He didn’t want to marry her,” Meredith said.

“Your father?”

“No.”

“So, who was he? Or did she never say?”

“She never said.”

“That’s a hell of a mystery, right?”

“It is, indeed.”

Meredith stood up abruptly and said next time, she’d treat.

Constance weakened. She spent more and more time in bed. She lost interest in food. Meredith grieved. Eunice understood. It was hard watching a relative go downhill. Meredith spent hours with Constance while Constance slept, and Eunice worked around her quietly, leaving her to her private thoughts.