“It’s not doing you any good to be moping around the house. Aren’t any of your high school friends in town?”
“Perhaps.” I hesitated. Would it be nice to see girls from school? It might just make me feel worse—flimsy, insubstantial.
“Well, call them and make plans,” Granny said, opening her novel. “There must be some kind of”—she scrunched up her nose—“Halloween event you can attend.”
My mouth fell open. Granny didn’t approve of Halloween one bit. I seized my chance. “OK, I’ll call around. And maybe we should get some candy in case we get trick-or-treaters here as well?”
“Hmm,” Granny said, cracking the spine of her book. I wondered with a pang what the girls would be doing to celebrate, back at the academy. Pumpkin carving probably. And spiderweb decorations in the common room. And pranks: creepy-crawlies made from sugar paper slipped between sheets before bedtime. In all the fun, would they remember to remember me?
I called Flora from the telephone in the hallway, hoping all of a sudden she would be home. I was itching to talk to someone about how rotten everything had been. But Flora’s brother Roddy answered and said she was still at college. As I was about to hang up, he said, “Hey, Bridget?”
“Yes?”
“I’m real sorry to hear about your sister. I hope she gets better soon.”
“Thanks, Roddy.” My ear burned against the receiver. I held my breath, hoping I had summoned sufficient gratitude.
“She was always so good at school,” he said. His voice was loose and nostalgic.
“Yeah.” I deliberately left an awkward pause, searching for a way to change the subject. I had forgotten Rhona and Roddy had been at middle school together. “Well—”
“I mean, we could hardly keep up with her.” He laughed, a strangled sort of laugh. “Honor roll, history club, president of—”
“I’ll be sure to tell her you said hello,” I said primly, twirling the cord around my finger until the skin blanched. “Thank you, Roddy.”
“Sure thing,” he said, then hung up abruptly.
* * *
The next afternoon, Granny’s driver dropped me off at Sophie LeBaron’s house. The drive was littered with leaves and the house appeared even larger than usual now that the banks of roses had died and the full scale of the building was clearer. The length of the porch had been decorated with orange and green squash placed in a pattern of alternate colors.
“Imagine, what a waste. Using vegetables to decorate,” Granny muttered. “I hope they’ll eat them afterward.”
I smiled to myself, since Granny’s idea of what constituted waste was variable. “Maybe when you come to pick me up we’ll take them home and give them a proper burial in a pie,” I said.
Granny laughed—like a firecracker going off. It was a fantastic sound and I congratulated myself for having produced it. “Away with you, child,” she said. “Don’t fall over in there and come back draped in a tiger skin.”
Sarah, Sophie’s maid, opened the door. “Hello, Miss Bridget,” she said, smiling.
“Hello, Sarah!” I said, as if I was fifteen again and it was another Saturday morning trailing into Sophie’s house after Isabella. I handed over my coat and hat, feeling stupid for wrapping up so warm for the short steps up the front porch.
“Mrs. Sophie is in the front room. How nice to have you back. I’ve missed all the noise in this house,” she said, smiling rather wistfully. “It’s just you?”
I licked my lips, suddenly nervous. This would be my first time alone in the LeBaron household—it wasn’t as if I could sit quietly in the corner if there were only two of us. I pressed my fingernails into my palms and then released them. There was nothing to be nervous about. Now I was Isabella’s closest friend, surely Sophie would have to entertain me. And after all, I had just flown back from Europe, and Sophie had been at home the whole time. I didn’t need Isabella as our focus; I was the guest star.
The door to the front room was ajar and a fire was crackling in the grate. I looked behind me for a glimpse of the ballroom. No matter how often I had been a visitor at the LeBaron house, I had never managed to get inside there. Sophie had never offered, and it seemed gauche to ask.
“Bridge,” Sophie squealed, lifting her arms and flapping them at me so her shawl fell back into her elbows.
“How are you? You look fantastic,” I said.
“You mean ginormous!” She gestured to the gentle plumpness in her stomach.
I laughed. “Don’t be silly, you can barely tell.”
“Thanks, you’re a darling,” she said, beaming. “You look fantastic.” Her gaze flitted over my outfit. I had chosen it particularly for her. I was wearing one of Greta’s silk scarves and a sweater with bone inlay buttons. I hoped it conjured European chic and approachable girlishness all at the same time.
“Come sit down and tell me everything.” Sophie motioned to an ottoman near the fireplace, then kicked off her slippers, crossed her knee over her other leg, and rubbed the instep of her naked foot. I watched the skin blanching and springing back to pink under her thumbs.
“Sorry,” she said, following my gaze. The joviality drained out of her expression. “This week has been murder on my feet.” She blushed, then dropped her foot and rested her arm on her belly as if she were covering the ears of her unborn.
“How is Matty?” I said.
“He’s well. He’s fishing with his brothers this week. They’ve driven up to some godforsaken cabin in Maine. Heaven knows what they’re doing up there. They go every year and they never come back with any fish.”
“I bet it’s nice for you to get some time with your mom,” I said, trying to gauge if Mrs. LeBaron was in the house. A tidbit I could take back to Rhona—what she was wearing, her choice of perfume. Suddenly now, as I imagined Rhona and me sitting on her bed, gossiping about Mrs. LeBaron’s bangles and her bleached hair, my heart throbbed. I put my fingers to the top of my breastbone.
“Mom is so happy to have me here. And I think Matty’s glad to get away too; he’s been ever so patient with all the girly business. I swear all I do these days is shop for the nursery.” She wriggled down into the armchair. “So, tell me everything about Italy. Everything.” She waved her hands and the shawl fluttered. “The food, the art.” She smiled at me. “Did I hear you got to travel by plane? I’m dying with jealousy.”
Inspired by Sophie’s relaxedness, I kicked off my shoes and held my stockinged feet toward the fire. Granny had bought me five pairs of new stockings, so I had no need to worry about darns or stitches. “The plane was superb,” I said. “You could see right through the clouds,” I said, and Sophie gasped. I didn’t mention that a spring from the metal seat had cut into my back or that the cabin stank so strongly of oil that it made me light-headed. Or that I chanted Hail Marys for the first half an hour while the cabin thundered and shuddered and tipped to and fro. Or that the man sitting next to me smoked two cigars during the flight and his ash settled in my cream soda. “The art is divine. We have a trip to Rome in the spring.”