Maggie glanced at Jim, who had suddenly become fascinated by the view out the window, and followed Gussie.
“That,” said Gussie, throwing the door to the guest room open dramatically and pointing, “is the dress Jim’s mother sent for you to wear to the wedding.”
For a moment Maggie said nothing. She stared in horror at the pink-green-and-yellow-flowered, off-the-shoulder, Scarlett O’Hara-style dress, complete with flounces, stays, and a hoop skirt, that was hanging from the wrought iron chandelier in the middle of the empty guest room. The dress occupied a space that might have been filled by a table seating eight.
“You’re my best friend in all the world, Gussie,” she finally said, breaking the silence. “You know I’d do anything for you. But you cannot expect me to wear that.”
Gussie’s knuckles on the hand control of her electric scooter were almost white. “I told you it was an emergency. That is only the beginning.”
Maggie took a deep breath. “I brought you and Jim a case of special champagne as a wedding present. I’d thought maybe tonight, after dinner, you and I could break out a similar bottle, so I also brought a couple of extras. When we get to your old house I’m going to put them in the refrigerator. While we’re eating dinner I want you to tell me what’s really going on with this wedding. And then, after a few more drinks, I want you to tell me everything you won’t have told me over dinner.”
Gussie grinned. “Have I told you how really, really happy I am that you’re here?”
“Just keep saying that, my friend. Because I have a feeling that before the next ten days are over you’re going to owe me. Big time!”
Chapter 4
Picturesque New England Industries: Lobstering Off Scituate. (From Sketches by Joseph Becker.)Full page from Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper, May 21, 1887, including a paragraph on the lobster industry, and sketches of setting the traps (“lobster boats are a species of small lugger, with one large sail and one small one”), measuring the lobster (“none less than 10½ inches long may be kept”), pegging the claws, and arriving at a boiling and canning factory. Black and white. The way life used to be. 10.5 x 16 inches. Price: $65.
“Don’t panic about the dress I showed you,” Gussie said after she and Maggie were settled at her old home and the wine was flowing. “It’s being shipped back to Atlanta tomorrow. I told Lily, Jim’s mother: this is my wedding, and Jim’s. I only kept the dresses this long because I wanted to show you the sort of challenge we’ve been facing.”
“Along with the painters and carpenters and moving your home and store, and basically, changing your entire life,” Maggie added.
“That’s all!” said Gussie. “Now, let’s relax and enjoy the mussels. They should be eaten while they’re still warm.”
“No problem here,” Maggie agreed. “There’s no place to get decent food on the road, and the ‘everything’ bagel I bought at the Bridgewater Diner this morning was gone a long time ago.”
The wine-and-herb-steamed mussels disappeared much too fast, and they dug into their baked lobsters stuffed with crabmeat with gusto.
“Mmmm. Nothing like this in Jersey. Just promise you won’t tell Will I ate a lobster caught outside Maine waters,” Maggie said, leaning back and taking a sip of her wine. “He won’t even consider Massachusetts lobsters.”
“Maine lobsters are pretty darn good,” Gussie acknowledged, savoring a particularly sweet piece of the tail, “but I believe in comparison eating. Especially when you can get lobsters locally.”
“And this restaurant really knows how to prepare seafood,” Maggie agreed. “Fresh, and not overcooked. Too many chefs have a heavy hand with shellfish.”
“Which is why we’re having our reception at the Winslow Inn,” said Gussie. “No baked lobsters, I’m afraid, but we think they’ll do a great job. We’re taking over a room for about seventy-five, which should be the number of guests.”
“You don’t know yet?”
“People are notorious about not returning those RSVP cards. Everyone who warned us was right. We’ve only heard from about half those we invited.”
“That’s incredibly inconsiderate,” said Maggie.
“Indeed,” agreed Gussie. “Another day and we’ll have to start telephoning people. We’ve just had too many other things to do.”
“Well, I’m here to help now. And Jim gets major points for having a scrumptious feast prepared that the two of us could eat in peace this first night.”
Maggie looked around the living room of what had been Gussie’s home for as long as they’d been friends: the second floor above Aunt Augusta’s Attic, the shop where Gussie sold her antique dolls, toys, and children’s books. Several years ago the progression of Gussie’s Post-Polio Syndrome had convinced her to add a chairlift from the downstairs to her apartment. She still used her old wheelchair, and sometimes a walker, to go a few steps when she was at home, but doctors had told her to stress her muscles as little as possible, and at forty-nine, she knew it was time to listen. Two years ago she’d moved to an electric scooter for when she was at the shop or “out in the world,” as she put it.
“It looks as though you’ve packed most of your things,” Maggie commented. “Your bookcases are empty, and except for the furniture we’re using, this room is empty.”
Gussie nodded. “Except for the biggest pieces of furniture, and those in my bedroom, we’ve been moving things to the other house. But the closets are still full. I need your help packing seasonal things, and treasures like the Limoges dinner set my Great-aunt Jane left me that I’ve never used, but never could bear to sell. A lot is stored higher than I can reach.”
“I hear my marching orders,” Maggie said, nodding between bites. “No problem. Just tell me what you want packed, and what you don’t want to take.”
“At this point, pack everything. I’ll make decisions at the other end,” said Gussie. “I’ll finish the packing in the shop so I’ll know exactly what’s in each carton. I have to get the new store up and running as soon as possible.”
“I’m impressed that you have a new location for the store already.”
“I’ll show you tomorrow. The economy was on my side, and I actually had a few choices. Several businesses in Winslow failed recently.”
“Ouch.”
“I know. But it meant I got a good price on a shop that’s closer to the center of town, so traffic should be good. It’s bigger than the one I had, too, with a back-room office that will be a big help.”
“And it’s accessible?”
“Carpenters are working on that. Plumbers have already put the fixtures in a handicapped-accessible bathroom. The new shelving and counters are about done, and the whole space is being painted. I’m hoping you can help me unpack and set up while you’re here. I’m aiming at opening the new and improved Aunt Augusta’s Attic the week after the wedding.”
“In time for the Christmas season.”
“In time for Thanksgiving, if all works out. My busiest time of the year is October through December. I’ve lost most of October this year, but I’m hoping the new space will help me catch up. That’s one reason Jim and I aren’t taking a honeymoon right now. We want to get our house in order, my shop opened, and then, maybe in January or February, when everything’s slowed to a frozen snail’s pace on the Cape, we’ll take a cruise to somewhere warm.”
“I can’t get over how much you’ve done, so fast,” said Maggie. “When I was here in July for the Provincetown show you and Jim were just a—dare I say, comfortable?—couple! And now…everything’s changed.” The shadows of where paintings and prints had once hung were now ghost-like shapes on the muted wallpaper, empty cartons were stacked next to full ones, and the room where she and Gussie had sat and shared dreams and confidences so many times already looked vacant. Maggie felt a little queasy. Maybe it was the mussels. Or maybe it was Gussie’s life, changing so quickly.