A Cup of Tea - Amy Ephron [38]
Philip pulled another glass off the shelf for Teddy. “Join me,” he said.
Teddy grabbed the glass that Philip had set out for him. “All right, I’ll have one.” He poured himself a drink. He sat down across from Philip at the desk. “We weren’t better off without you, you know.”
“Weren’t you?” Philip asked him. “The business was fine. Rosemary lives in her own world. She’s always fine. And if she’s not, she rearranges the furniture.” He took another sip of his drink. “You expect it’s all going to wait for you,” he said, “and it’s all gone on without you.” He hesitated. “Maybe it’s me that’s changed.”
Outside the window, one of the men began to play a mouth harp and the melody echoed, the waves breaking behind it almost like a bass-line. An ocean liner anchored out to sea, sat empty except for a three-man crew, as if it were a ghost hotel, swaying slightly on the flat, black waves and creaking on its moorings.
Jane convinced herself it was out of concern for Rosemary that she would finally tell her what she knew, true friendship, as it were, that Rosemary ought to know the facts, so that she could protect herself and do what she had to to hold on to Philip. Jane couldn’t bear the thought that Philip had returned and Rosemary was at risk of losing him again.
She stopped and bought Rose flowers, a small arrangement of irises and bluebells that looked slightly patriotic. She found her in her bedroom, wearing a volunteer nurse’s uniform, just sitting down to tea.
Jane held the bouquet out to her. “I brought you flowers.”
Rosemary grabbed a small purple vase and disappeared for a moment to fill it with water. “They’re beautiful,” she said as she came out of the bathroom. “A little touch of spring.” She set them on a table on the far side of the room, then sat down and poured herself a cup of tea.
“How are you?” asked Jane.
“Excellent,” said Rosemary. “I feel like life has righted itself again.”
“How’s Philip?”
“Distant. God knows what he went through. They say it’s normal. I don’t care.” She jumped up and began to slip off her uniform and button herself into a more stylish but comfortable dress. “He’s home now and nothing else matters.”
“I thought maybe we should have a party,” she said. “Not big. A dinner party. Tomorrow night. Spontaneous.” She sounded a little wistful. “The way we used to. Can you come?”
“Of course I can come,” Jane answered. And then added, with a bit of an edge. “How are you, Jane? Did you have a nice day?” She hadn’t meant to say it. It just slipped out. But Rosemary was so one-sided in the way she saw things, often missed what was going on around her, needed so badly to be shaken up.
Rosemary looked at her startled. “Have been I been self-obsessed lately, Jane. I’m sorry.”
“No, I shouldn’t have said that,” said Jane. “I’m sorry. I have something to tell you, Rose.”
“What?”
“Remember that—girl you picked up?”
“Yes, I remember,” said Rosemary smiling. “Eleanor Smith. She sent me back the money that I gave her. As if it were a loan. Maybe I actually made a difference.”
“I think we might have,” said Jane.
“We?” said Rosemary. “What do you mean, ‘we’?”
And then Jane confessed to her. “I followed her that night,” she said. “I didn’t feel right about sending her into the street. She was such a pretty girl. She looked as though no one had ever taken care of her.”
Rosemary stared at Jane. It was hard to know which startled her more—that Jane had done something altruistic or that she’d kept it from her. Jane continued. “I gave her the address of Dora—Whitley, you know, my friend, the woman who owns the hat shop. I thought that she might work for her.”
“Dora did the hats for my wedding,” Rosemary said in crisp staccato tones, as if she were insisting that it wasn’t true. “I never saw her there.”
“Philip did.”
Rosemary cut her off. “I don’t want to hear this.”
“But you must. You have to hear this.”
“No, I don’t have to hear this, Jane. I don’t want to hear it. It was all so long ago, wasn’t it? Over a year. I mean, since