The last person Gwen wanted to be bothered by today was her brother. It was two o’clock, and she expected Sam soon. Dinner reservations weren’t until six, but Sam wanted time with Bertha.
Gwen had already showered, dried her hair, and fixed her face, but decided not to dress. In shorts and a tank top, she’d grabbed her clippers and wandered out to the gardens behind the house to check on the vegetables, cut flowers for a vase, and pick mint for the sweet tea she’d just brewed. She let her thoughts wander while she worked, entertaining fine and private fantasies of Samantha Weller, until the sound of tires on gravel interrupted her daydreams.
She peeked around, expecting Sam to have arrived, but here came Bill’s silver BMW, pulling up alongside Eugene’s red pickup that had been parked there all night. Rosa had met him in church two years ago, and ever since, the two had spent the weekends committing ungodly acts.
No doubt Gwen’s brother was passing by on business and wouldn’t stay long, but today his visit seemed an intolerable intrusion. Clippers in one hand, mint and flowers in the other, she started around to the front of the house, coming to a halt when she saw him get out, leave the car door open, and dart for Rosa’s cottage. Gwen ducked behind a fig tree and watched as Rosa opened the door before he even knocked and quickly pulled him inside.
Her birthday. They were probably making secret plans for her sixtieth birthday next weekend—most likely a dinner party at a restaurant with family and a few close friends. And, of course, Gwen would do her best to feign surprise and thank them all for attending.
What she really wanted for her birthday was a time machine, a magical clock to turn back the years—turn back her years, not Sam’s. Gwen sighed. No sense wishing for the impossible, and really, aside from the fact that she had secretly fallen for a woman twelve years her junior, she couldn’t complain. She was healthy, a breast-cancer survivor, and thanks to good genes and moderate exercise, she had a body that many younger women would envy—except for the scar beneath her breast, which was really no worse than scars women had from breast enhancements. All in all, and despite that fact that over time the body had a way of reorganizing, redistributing itself, she was in good shape for almost sixty, good enough that she could still dance for days and whup Isabel’s butt on the tennis court. On a good day at least. Gwen could still hear her father’s optimistic voice: Aging may not be the most delightful of experiences, but always remember, Gwenie, that every day above ground is a good one.
She hurried along the side of the house, creeping past the empty cottage, sneaking past Rosa’s, then ran up the porch steps and into the house. When she heard his car door slam, she pretended to be just coming out with a pitcher of mint-filled tea. “Bill!” She set the pitcher next to a tray of glasses on the table. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Hey, Gwen.” He came up the steps in a navy-blue suit and white shirt with no tie, a briefcase in his hand. He was a tall, burly man with Gwen’s blue eyes and blond hair.
Three years younger than his sister, he was often mistaken for the older sibling, decades of boating and water sports having given him a permanent tan and the weathered good looks of a sea captain. It was funny how sun damage, battle scars, a wooden leg or missing hand like Captain Hook’s could strangely enhance a man’s rugged sex appeal. But not a woman’s. The manmade rules of human aesthetics favored only the gender that made them.
“Sweet tea?” Gwen needed to stop thinking of her birthday and getting older before she depressed herself.
“That’d be great.” He took off and hung his jacket on the back of his chair before he sat. “I’m just getting back from that meeting with Kyle Richards in Boston yesterday.” He retrieved a folder from his briefcase as he updated her in his usual meticulous and verbose manner, but Gwen wasn’t paying attention. “You’ll need to read through all this and sign the last three pages,” he said and handed her the folder. “I would have sent them home with Isabel, but I understand she’s away.”
“She is.” Gwen opened the folder, took one look, and closed it. “Bill, I can’t do this today. I’m pressed for time. I have a dinner date and tickets for the Pillow.”
“A date? With the writer?”
“Ah, so Isabel told you. Funny how the little snitch never mentions a word about her personal life but likes to advertise mine.”
“She only mentioned that a popular mystery writer had come to the house for a piece of Rookwood, and that the two of you had become fast friends, and,” he stopped and looked around the porch, “and that the writer’s pet crow was staying here with you.”
“Well, then, she’s told you everything there is to tell.”
He drank from his glass, gagging as he swallowed and coughing up a mint leaf. He picked it off his tongue. “For Christ’s sake, Gwen. Why do you put plants in your tea?”
Gwen frowned and didn’t bother to answer. She patted the folder. “I’ll read through all this tomorrow and send it back with Isabel on Tuesday.”
He nodded. “She never mentioned where she was going. The secretaries said she’d be away and that I should run her Monday morning meeting.” He looked at Gwen sideways. “What’s Isabel up to? It’s not like her to go off alone like that.”
“She’s not alone. And I’d advise you to prepare yourself for a possible romance brewing.”
Bill’s eyes bulged. “What?” He leaned back in his chair, his expression a mixture of joy and shocked disbelief. “You’re kidding me. Who is it?”
“A worthy suitor, in my estimation. I don’t have time to go into detail right now, but it’s someone I approve of, and so should you…if and when the time comes.”
Bill gave a husky laugh. “At this point I think we’d approve of just about anyone who is stable and loves her, wouldn’t we?”
“Can I have that in writing?”
“Why?” He looked at her askance. “Who is this fellow, anyway?”
“The fellow’s a lady, the sister in-law of the writer. Her name is Liz Bowes. She’s an interior designer and antique dealer with a business in Manhattan. She’s bright, charming, and miraculously—I stress miraculously—she’s managed to pull Isabel out of her shell.”
Bill didn’t look so happy anymore. “Oh, come on. Isabel isn’t gay!” He waved a hand, dismissing the thought. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think I do, Bill.”
“Nonsense. She’s just…you know, slow to mature.”
“Slow to mature? She’s twenty-eight.” Bill was in denial. The more Gwen pushed him on the subject, the more agitated he became. She kept her naturally authoritative voice gentle but firm. “Bill…how often do you tell me about young and eligible businessmen approaching Isabel after meetings, trying to strike up a conversation and ask her out?”
“All the time. All the young men like Isabel.”
“But she doesn’t like them. Isn’t it you who always says that those men are all but invisible to her?”
Bill bent forward, his arms braced against the table like a bulldog. He balled one hand in a fist, the fingers of the other drumming to a beat only he could hear. “I just want her to have a happy, normal life.”
Gwen flushed. “What’s not normal is the fact that your twenty-eight-year-old daughter has never had a romantic relationship, not a single date her whole adult life! That’s not normal. And it’s not because young men don’t ask her out. It’s because she declines.” Gwen paused, pacing her words, keeping her tone even. “And since when does my brother speak of being gay as not being normal?”
“Jesus, Gwen. That’s not want I meant.” He raked a hand through his hair, tried to drink his tea again, but the pointy stem of a mint sprig poked him in the nose, causing both his nostrils and temper to flare. He reached in the glass, pulled out the whole clump, and tossed it over the porch railing like he was throwing a baseball. “You gotta stop with these damn weeds before you choke someone.”
“It’s only mint, Bill. Calm down. You look like you’re about to have a stroke.”
“Do I? Would you like me to? Because I feel like I just might.” He wiped his hand on a napkin and then folded it and dabbed the sweat beginning to bead on his forehead.
Gwen rolled her eyes, an exaggerated roll that probably made her look as silly as she had when they had bickered as children. Something about her expression made him catch himself, and he finally acquiesced. He leaned back and took a deep breath, his cheeks puffing as he exhaled through tight lips. “All I meant by normal is that I…I just want her to have an easy life, you know? I want her to be accepted.”
“Accepted?” Gwen raised her brow. “We’re white Anglo-Saxon Protestants, Bill. We grew up in a high-status social group of other stuffy, nosy, and dreadfully boring white Anglo-Saxon Protestants. And what did you do? Straight out of college you went on a business trip to Brazil with our father and fell in love with a brown-skinned, Spanish-speaking Latina woman. The first time she flew here to visit, you took her to the yacht club, oblivious to the disapproving stares. And do you remember what you said when Mom told you people were whispering behind your back?”
Bill frowned. “I told her I didn’t give a rat’s ass.”
Gwen gave a soft chuckle that made his face soften. “That’s exactly what you said. And you married her. You were so in love, so proud to be her husband, so proud when she gave you Isabel. And if I’m not mistaken, your second marriage five years ago was to a biracial woman,” she said, referring to her brother’s current wife, Sheila, who was a shade darker than Isabel’s mother. “So don’t tell me that social acceptance has ever been high on your list of importance.” She looked at him with stern tenderness. “You’ve always followed your heart, Bill. It’s one of the things I admire about you. It’s why you were the first person I came out to. You supported me and convinced Mom and Dad to do the same.”
“Yeah, but…” He looked out into the lawn where two black crows were chasing a terrified cat. “I was hoping for a grandchild, you know. We need an heir.”
“Well, thanks to modern science and the gradual social evolution of our species, gay people are marrying and having children. So don’t give up on an heir yet.”
Bill ran a hand over his face, scratched the back of his head, then finally held up his hands. They fell to his thighs with a slap. “All right…so when do I get to meet this woman who’s interested my daughter the way no man has?”
The frantic caw of a crow sounded just then, and before Bill knew what was happening, Bertha swooped down and landed on the railing beside them. “Geez!” He put a hand to his chest and looked at the noisy bird.
Gwen laughed. “This is Bertha…the writer’s crow.”
“She almost gave me a heart attack. She looks more like a raven. She’s huge, bigger than the ones you raised that time,” he said, marveling over the excited crow.
Bertha looked at Bill, then turned to Gwen and shouted her caws as if trying to communicate some important news the way she did in Sam’s stories. “Bertha, honey! What is it?”
Bertha didn’t have time to play charades. She turned around, looked back as if to say follow me, then swooped and took off at top speed toward the driveway.
“Wow,” said Bill. “Look at her go.”
They watched her fly until she rounded the bend of white birch trees and disappeared from sight. Bill’s cell phone rang just then, and he reached into his jacket pocket. “It’s probably Sheila expecting me home by now. I should have called from the car.” Home was in the Hudson Valley, just a few miles over the New York line.
Curious to know where Bertha was going, Gwen left Bill to talk and went down the steps. She heard Bertha in the distance, then silence, and then the sound of gravel. A moment later Sam appeared in her black Range Rover, her window down and Bertha perched on the door. Gwen watched, amazed, as Sam pulled up alongside the silver BMW.
“I guess she still loves me.” Sam smiled. “She was standing on your mailbox and flew out to meet me as I turned in from the road.”
“She tried to tell me you were coming.”
Bertha made garbled happy sounds as she tugged on Samantha’s earrings, pecked at her shirt collar, her lips, tapped her teeth with her beak as Sam laughed and turned her head away. She got out with the crow perched on her wrist and hugged Gwen with her free arm.
Gwen inhaled her intoxicating scent. God, Sam looked so good in tight white jeans, a black shirt, and pointy gray booties. Still aroused from her garden fantasies, Gwen had a vision of taking her by the hand and leading her up to the bedroom. “You look nice,” she said and was just complimenting her outfit when Bill approached from behind.
“You must be the writer,” he said.
“Bill, this is Samantha Weller.”
“A pleasure meeting you—and your crow.” He extended a hand, and the two exchanged pleasantries until he glanced at his watch. “I better run. Sheila made dinner reservations.”
Gwen winked at Sam. “I’ll be right with you. There’s tea on the porch. And if you want Bertha in the house with you tonight, take her in now. You won’t see her later, otherwise. I haven’t wanted to worry you about her whereabouts, but the last two nights she refused to come in.” Gwen pointed to the other crow in the tree. “We tried to talk what’s-his-name into coming inside for the night with her, but when he wouldn’t, Bertha insisted on sleeping out here with him.”
“It’s okay if she wants to be with him,” Samantha said. “I know she’s falling for that rogue crow…and it’s killing me, but,” Samantha kissed Bertha on her cheek, “whatever makes her happy.”
Samantha got her bag from the car while Gwen walked Bill around to his. Bertha was clearly thrilled to have her back. She hopped off Samantha’s arm and flew to the porch railing, coaxing the other bird in her native tongue until he flew from the tree and came to land next to her. Gwen and Bill turned to watch as Bertha cawed at Samantha, as if to say, look what I found, Sam—a crow like me! Samantha had seen Bertha’s gentleman caller at a distance the other day, but he’d been too wary to get this close.
Gwen turned back to the open arms of her brother and gave him a hug. “I love you, you know,” she said.
“Yeah, me, too.” He let go of her and got in his car. “She’s pretty, by the way.”
“Who?”
“The writer.” He started the engine. “She reminds me of someone, but I can’t think of who right now. She’s a little younger than you, no?”
“Yes, but not as young as your wife.”
He chuckled as he shut the car door and rolled down the window. “Good for you, big sister. It’s about time someone turned your crank.”
“No one’s turning anyone’s crank, Bill. We’re just friends.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. I saw the way you looked at each other.” He put the car in reverse and shot her a teasing grin as he backed up. “You better take Janis Joplin’s advice and get it while you can, honey!” And before she could respond he rolled up the window.
Gwen shook her head as he drove away, then went to the porch to find Sam sitting and Bertha standing on the table facing her. Bertha’s eyes were closed in ecstasy, her head drooping as Sam kissed and rubbed her lips back and forth against the soft feathers.
“Hold still,” Gwen whispered and picked up her phone. “I want to get a picture.” Sam froze for the camera, her lips on the crow’s head, her hand resting along its back, and Gwen was instantly reminded of a painting. She took the picture, smiled at it, and turned her phone so Sam could see the screen. “Woman with a crow. Have you ever seen Picasso’s painting by the same name?”
“Really?” Bertha nibbled at Sam’s chin, and she resumed her petting and kissing. “Picasso painted a crow? Would that be a cubistic crow?”
“It was done shortly before he invented cubism,” Gwen said, thinking she ought to have a framed print made for Sam, something large that she might hang on a wall over the desk where she wrote. “It was toward the end of his blue period. I believe the model was the daughter of the owner of a café that Picasso frequented, and she often sat there, having her morning coffee with her crow.”
Gwen searched the internet as she spoke, bringing up an image of Woman with a Crow, and handed the phone to Sam.
“Oh, wow, this is wonderful! How did I not know about this painting?”
“I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me to mention it earlier. It just dawned on me when I saw you sitting here…looking like her.”
Sam studied the woman for a long while. “I love how her long fingers on the crow’s back are symmetrical with the wing. It’s as if they’re somehow biologically connected…related by nature, you know? It’s so strange that she’s beautiful, yet crow-like, and the crow almost human-like. They have the same profile.”
Gwen had never examined the painting from that perspective. The oneness of woman and crow was astonishing, really, and watching the rich exchange of emotion between a crow and the woman here with her today was astonishingly beautiful.