“I’ve never been very sociable,” Will told her. He didn’t seem to have his mind on what he was saying; he was still gazing around the room. He said, “This house must have quite a—”
The doorbell rang. He looked at her. “Quite a history,” he said. And then, when she didn’t move, “I believe your doorbell rang.”
“Oh,” she said. “Right.”
She rose and went to answer it.
Mr. Quint, from Second Eden, scraped his perfectly dry feet on the mat before he stepped into the foyer. “Just wanted to let you know I’ve set my men to working out back,” he told her. “I did say we’d be — What is that?”
He meant Will’s plant. He drew back as if he thought it might bite.
Rebecca said, “I’m not sure, exactly. Wouldn’t that be your department?”
“Mine? Lord, no. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He kept on staring at it in a perplexed and worried way even as he picked up where he had left off. “I did say we’d be here by noon, but we’ve been running a tad bit late today.”
“That’s okay,” she told him. To be honest, she had forgotten he was coming.
“We can finish up before dark, I’m just about certain. You want to take a peek at them azaleas I was talking about?”
“No, I’m sure they’ll be fine.”
“Not that they’ve got any blossoms this time of year anyhow, but there’s these little hang tags, you know? With color photos on them.”
“It doesn’t matter. Really.”
“Or why don’t I just pull off a tag and bring it in to show you? I’ll go round back right now and fetch it.”
“I don’t care about it!” she said.
“Oh.”
“I have company.”
“Suit yourself,” he said. “As long as you don’t come running to me after you see them in bloom.”
He still had his eyes on the plant as he turned to leave.
In the parlor, she found Will standing at the piano. He pressed one chipped, crackled key until a note plinked out.
“I know it’s a little flat,” she said. (In high school, Will had been famous for having perfect pitch.)
He said, “Oh, well.”
“Our guests seem to like that sort of honky-tonk sound — that dance-hall, tinny, plunky sound. At every party, just about, someone will sit down to play.”
Will closed the piano lid. He said, “You used to be so shy at parties.”
Probably this was just a meaningless remark, but she read it as an accusation. How could she have changed so much when he had remained the same? he might be asking. She said, “I’m no different now! I promise. It’s just, you know, when parties are your livelihood—”
The telephone rang.
She said, “Why don’t we let the machine get that.”
There was a second ring. A third.
Too late, she recollected that the machine was not turned on. The telephone kept ringing, and Will kept looking at her.
“So!” she said. “I should go see to our supper. Would you like to come out to the kitchen?”
“Certainly,” Will said. “Can I help?”
“No, no. Just keep me company,” she said.
The phone shut up, finally. Rebecca led the way through the rear parlor and the dining room, where Will began to lag behind. She turned to find him studying another portrait — the one that hung over the sideboard. “Was this your husband?” he asked her.
“Why, no,” she said. Was he joking? The man in the portrait wore a frock coat and fitted trousers, and he carried a shiny top hat in one gloved hand. “I’ll show you what my husband looked like,” she said. “I’ve got an old snapshot on the fridge.” And they continued down the passageway to the kitchen.
What she hadn’t realized was that the snapshot she had in mind — Joe on some long-ago beach trip, holding up a fresh-caught crab and laughing in the sunlight — had gradually become buried beneath a shingling of later snapshots. Photos tended to live in the imagination, she thought; she hadn’t actually looked at this one for years, although she could still visualize every detail. She had to weasel it out from under the others, and once Will had seen it (“Ah, yes,” was all he said), he went on to peer at the rest. “That’s Dixon in the cap and gown,” she explained. “My grandson, at his high-school graduation party. And this…” She pointed toward a picture partly obscured by a magnet shaped like a bagel. “This is NoNo, my youngest stepdaughter, at her wedding. Doesn’t she look beautiful? Biddy is the oldest; that’s her standing next to LaVon, my former son-in-law. They were celebrating Lateesha’s baby-welcoming, I think. And then Patch, she’s our athlete. A gym teacher; can you imagine? I believe this must have been taken when her girls’ lacrosse team won the — well, listen to me, rattling on! And I bet you must be starving to death.”
She spun away to unwrap the platter of cold chicken on the counter. Will followed at her heels, his hands jammed awkwardly in his rear pockets. He said, “It’s true you always wanted ten children.”
“Who, me?”
“You said that being an only child was so, what did you say, so pitiful. You wanted a big, jolly crew of children.”
“I did?”
She stopped to stare at him, with a serving fork poised over the chicken.
“And you would have all these traditions, you said — all these family rituals, those big Christmases and Thanksgivings that other families had.”
She said, “I don’t remember that.”
“Well, it seems you ended up with it, anyhow.”
“I don’t remember a bit of that,” she told him. “Could you bring in the bread basket, please?”
He picked the basket up and followed her back to the dining room. “Pretty,” he said of the table.
She flushed. She thought now she might have overdone things. “Oh,” she said, setting down the platter, “it’s no big deal. You can sit facing the window. I’ll go get the salad.”
But when she returned, he was still standing. He waited till she had lit the candles, and then he pulled out her chair for her. His hand on her chair was so close that she could feel its warmth through the fabric of her blouse. In a sudden fit of daring, she leaned back imperceptibly until her shoulder was pressing against his fingers. But he drew away as if he hadn’t noticed and went around to his side of the table.
Or maybe he had noticed, and was deliberately rebuffing her.
“What’s happening in your backyard?” he asked as he sat down.
“My…?” She twisted around to look through the open window behind her. “Oh, those are the nurserymen. They’re putting in some azaleas.”
He said, “This is like running a plantation or something. Do you employ a large staff?”
“No, just… well, a woman who helps with the cleanup, sometimes, if it’s a big party.” She passed him the chicken.
“And what is your role at these parties? You provide the entertainment? Magicians for children’s birthdays and such?”
“No, it’s really just the physical space. Although we do offer catering, if the customer wants it.”
She hated how chatty and informative she sounded, like someone delivering an advertising spiel. Was this all they could find to talk about? They seemed to do much better on the telephone than in person.
She forked a drumstick onto her plate. “I was wondering,” she said. (Preplanned topic number two.) “Is your daughter like you were at her age?”
“No,” Will said. “She’s bewildering.”
Rebecca laughed, but he gazed back at her glumly. He said, “I never have understood the first thing about her. I didn’t understand her when she was a baby and I understand her even less now that she’s an adolescent.”
“Oh, well, adolescents,” Rebecca said, waving a hand. “Who does understand them?” She helped herself to a roll.