A Wedding in December_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [16]
“I’ve had fun collecting these,” Nora said, making a sweeping gesture to include the dishes. “I go to flea markets and junk shops to find them. Some are very old. They’re all mismatched. Which is to me their charm. Any one table setting in the dining room might contain several different patterns.”
A long bank of cottage windows let in natural light, though overhead, glass globes hung over the stoves and countertop. For a moment, Agnes flashed on the old kitchen, a narrow room with a table under a small window at one end and a fridge at the other. The cabinets had been painted a 1950s aqua; the floor had been a dark linoleum that Nora could never get entirely clean, no matter how hard she scrubbed. Empty wine bottles with candles in them were perched on ledges, and there had been no view from that kitchen window, just the one glimpse of the front porch. Agnes, as was her habit everywhere, had always been first down to make the coffee. She much enjoyed those solitary moments, watching the light come up, the night turning into day. Nora would join her around 8:30, Carl not at all. He worked until noon, after which he would drive his green VW to St. Martin’s for his classes. She remembered dinners that began at nine and lasted until midnight, Agnes begging off in search of her bed with the crazy quilt, leaving the couple downstairs still drinking and smoking and sometimes arguing, a single word occasionally climbing the narrow staircase and making its way down the hall to her ears.
Though it hadn’t registered at the time and was now apparent only by contrast, Nora hadn’t been entirely well then. Agnes remembered a pale face, translucent bluish shadows under the eyes, the body thin but not strong. Nora had worn long skirts and boots and sweaters and large silver hoop earrings. Carl had always treated Agnes decently (she’d had the feeling he’d been asked to do so), though it was his nature to pry and to scrutinize even the most seemingly innocuous reply. One learned to speak carefully around Carl Laski, unless one was very drunk, which sometimes happened, in which case recklessness might lead to heedlessness and then almost certainly to an argument disguised, as they could all do so well, as intellectual debate. Despite being decidedly looped upon occasion, however, Agnes had never been tempted to tell either of them about Jim, not even Nora, whom she genuinely loved.
Agnes briefly closed her eyes. Where would Jim be now? She glanced at the oversize wooden clock set amid the shelves. He would be at an early lunch, in the dining hall, she guessed, or perhaps taking a walk around the vast grounds of the private school at which he now taught. Would he have a thought of her today?
“You kept that,” Agnes said, pointing to the clock.
“Yes, I did. Harrison’s here. Did I say that already? He got here about an hour ago. Let me show you to your room.”
“Oh, Nora,” Agnes said, clearly pleased for her friend, her old roommate from Kidd. “I’m happy to see you looking so well.”
“I am well,” Nora said with a quick smile. “I’m very well.”
Agnes followed Nora up the back stairs—not as grand as the staircase in the front hallway—and along a corridor of polished hardwood floors with small tables set at intervals on which sat bouquets of fresh flowers. Nora stopped at one door and opened it with a key—a real gold-colored key—and held the door so that Agnes could enter first.
It was not the standard-issue country inn room, Agnes thought. No chintz, no patterned curtains, no ruffled bedspreads. Instead, a feeling of simplicity and calm overtook her, and once again she had a strong desire to lie down. The bed and side tables were of a black wood. The bedding was a simple white duvet with a black border, the motif repeated on the pillowcases and shams. Chrome reading lights protruded from the wall, which had been painted a pale taupe. Under the bank of three windows was a white chaise with