Sarah knocked at the door carrying a tray and put it down on the footstool. Hot chocolate and sugar cookies in the shape of maple leaves.
“Thank you, Sarah,” said Sophie. As Sarah shut the door, she grinned at me conspiratorially. “It’s so nice to come home and get spoiled.” Her face fell. “Oh, Bridge—I’m so sorry, it must be dreadful for you at home. How is Rhona? Is she home yet?”
“She came home a few days ago,” I said. “She’s much better now.”
Sophie gave me a sympathetic smile. “What a shame,” she sighed.
I didn’t reply. People often said that in reference to Rhona. As if she were milk that had spoiled and been wasted unnecessarily. I fought the urge to conjure a prickly response about Rhona’s future potential.
“You must’ve been worrying yourself sick,” she said. “Such a shame you can’t have a break from it, even in Europe! You deserve a breather.”
“Oh,” I said, walking back my antipathy—she had been feeling sorry for me, not Rhona. “It has been refreshing to have a change of scene,” I said. It sounded cool, worldly; I applauded myself.
“Well, I hope she feels better soon,” she said.
“Thanks.”
We were silent a moment. The carriage clock on the mantelpiece ticked. I considered saying something more. But when I opened my mouth I couldn’t think of what.
“And how’s Izzy?” she said, smiling. “Has she told her mom about Ralph yet? Or is she getting herself into all kinds of romantic larks?”
I felt shaky. It really was true—I was now Isabella’s best friend. In the beneficence of my new popularity, I decided I could afford to be generous. “Sophie, don’t tell anyone,” I said, dusting the crystals of sugar from my fingers.
She nodded greedily.
“But she had a relapse—the malaria.”
“No! Is she OK?” She laid a half-eaten cookie down on her stomach as if it were a shelf. The gesture was so odd, my eyes kept traveling from her face to the cookie.
“Yes,” I said. “She was almost recovered by the time I left.” I stared into the fire to conceal my expression. Truthfully, I didn’t actually know she was recovered. She could be ill again, for all I knew. Panic swarmed in my gut. What if she was so sick she couldn’t leave her room? She’d had a relapse and she was still in bed. That was why I hadn’t heard from her. But then—someone would have gone looking for her. Donna Maria, or one of the other girls. Elena would have sent someone up to collect her if she missed classes. The panic dispersed. I decided I would ask Dad if I could phone the academy in the morning. Perhaps I could make up some lie about an urgent assignment.
“What are the doctors like in Italy?” Sophie was saying. “I remember when Pop went out to France and he fractured his ankle skiing. They just gave him Valium and didn’t do anything at all. He had to use his ski poles as crutches. Are they as bad as that?” she said.
I looked at her blankly.
“The doctors?” she prompted.
“Actually—” I paused.
“What?”
“She asked me not to call a doctor,” I said, hugging my knees.
She frowned. “Did you take care of her all by yourself?” Crumbs from the cookie fell into the lap of her skirt.
I shrugged. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Oh, Bridge.” Sophie gave me a sad smile. “You have had a time of it, haven’t you? You poor thing.”
I laughed, although my face was tight. “I’m fine,” I said. “I can’t complain.”
“She’s lucky to have you, you know,” she said, motioning for me to pass her another cookie. She took a bite and closed her eyes. “The best thing about being pregnant is, I don’t have to worry about my figure,” she mumbled.
I laughed, but I was waiting for her to keep talking about Isabella. So I said nothing until she returned to her thought.
“No, honestly. I mean it,” she said through her mouthful. “You must know—she’s lucky to have you out there with her. Izzy adores you. And for good reason.”
I pretended to take a sip of the hot chocolate. But it was still too hot to drink, so I let it glance against my top lip. “She does?” I said, as nonchalantly as I could manage.
Sophie frowned. “Of course she does—she worships you! You’re pretty much soul mates.”
“Did she say that?” I said, pretending to study my fingernails.
Sophie laughed. “You know Izzy—she doesn’t like people to know she’s a human. She didn’t need to say it. Anyone could see you two are peas in a pod.”
I took another pretend sip of the hot chocolate as the blood rushed to my cheeks. She adored me. Soul mates. I tried to write everything about that moment onto my memory. The way Sophie’s eyes widened, the inflection in her voice. I would take it home with me and withdraw it later, to savor. She worshiped me. She adored me.
We spent the rest of the afternoon drinking hot chocolate and chatting about the other girls from high school. Eleanor had gone to do mission work in Uganda. Flora was having a ball at Mount Holyoke. After two hours, the telephone in the back of the house began ringing and we both glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.
Sarah put her head round the door. “Mrs. Sophie, it’s Mr. Matthew for you.”
Sophie scrunched up her nose and pulled the arm of her sweater back to look at her slim gold watch. “Already?” she said. “Sarah, could you tell him I’ll reach him at the club in an hour or so?”
“No, it’s quite all right,” I said, hopping as I stood up. My buttocks and thighs were numb. “My grandmom will be coming to collect me soon anyway. Why don’t we say our good-byes now? I’ll walk around your drive until she’s ready to collect me.”
“Are you sure?” But even as she demurred, she held out her arms for a farewell hug. “Send my love to Izzy. And tell her to reply to my letters, the silly cow,” she called as she walked down the corridor.
I collected my coat and hat from Sarah and waved good-bye as I walked out onto the drive. The cold air was refreshing after the hot stupor of the front room. I was invigorated, more buoyant than I had been in weeks. Rhona was home. Isabella adored me. Anyone could see we were soul mates. Everything was going to be OK.
17.
November
It was Dad, in the end, who decided I should go back to the academy. I’d spent all afternoon making a pot roast, and when he came in from work he stood chatting in the kitchen while I pulled it out of the oven to check on it. But the dishcloth was too flimsy and the tray was too hot and I let it slip. The tin caught in a ridge in the oven door, and the roast was saved, but the juice poured out and dripped over the linoleum.