Fortune's rocks_ a novel - Anita Shreve [110]
She is surprised as well to see that Philbrick is considerably stouter than he was when she knew him, and she is at once reminded that he is, in addition to being a dandy, an epicure. Indeed, she sees that he needs to walk with the help of a cane and that he has on two different shoes, one quite a bit larger than the other. Perhaps he has the gout. He has shaved his whiskers, revealing pink cheeks and heavy jowls. His eyes are slightly pinkened at the rims. As she bids him enter the cottage, she looks once again at the faded calico she has on and thinks: He must see me differently as well.
He follows her into the kitchen, which, though spartan, is not unwelcoming. A vase of beach roses sits at the center of the worktable, and a pot of hydrangeas is on the sill. Still slightly rattled, she cannot at first think what to do with Philbrick. Apart from Ezra and the deliverymen, she has not had a single visitor to the cottage (and they can scarcely be called visitors). But then she recovers herself and tells Philbrick that she has lemonade and scones if he would join her for an impromptu tea. And though he begs her not to go to any trouble, she can see that he regards the prospect of fresh-baked pastries as a pleasant one.
“You are looking well,” he says when they are seated in the front parlor. Philbrick has taken the Windsor chair, Olympia a lady’s rocker that she brought down from her mother’s room. The windows are open to the fine day, and there is the steady sound of the surf, only occasionally interrupted by the far-off screeches of small children on the beach.
“Thank you,” she says, offering him a glass of lemonade.
“How long have you been here?” he asks, looking around at the room. She can tell that he is mildly nonplussed by the lack of furniture.
“I was at school at the Hastings Seminary for Females in western Massachusetts last year,” she says, “but I have decided not to return. I have been here since mid-July.”
“Your mother and father are well?”
“Yes, they are. Thank you for asking. Will you have some herring-paste sandwiches?”
“Yes, I think I might.”
She sets down the plate before him. “Mr. Philbrick, how did you know that I was here?”
“Oh, my dear,” he says not unkindly. “I am afraid I have had this news from any number of people. Did you mean to keep it a secret? If so, I fear you have greatly misjudged the nature of a small community.”
She notes for the first time the remarkable costume he is wearing — a yellow and black silk vest over a pale yellow shirt, and over that a rather splendid suit of fine linen. Where does he find such clothes in New Hampshire? she wonders idly.
“No, I did not mean to keep my presence here a secret,” she says, “but neither did I intend ever to announce my residency. But I am very glad of your visit, Mr. Philbrick. I have not yet had anyone come to call.”
“Good Lord, Olympia. You have turned into a recluse. I merely wished to see if there was anything you needed. There was a time when I regarded your father as my greatest friend.”
“Thank you,” she says warmly, “but there is nothing that I need at the moment.” She looks around. “Apart from a steam-heating system.”
He seems taken aback. “You intend to remain here for the winter?”
“I may,” she says, offering him another sandwich. Philbrick, she knows, is a man of appetite.
“Whatever for?” he asks. “Winters here are wretched.”
“I am having the house prepared for winter months. And I shall shut down some rooms, of course.”
“Even so.”
Olympia nods. “I feel the need to live by myself for a time,” she says quietly.
He studies her.
“And I was once very happy here,” she adds honestly.
Philbrick sets down his glass. He folds his hands over his considerable stomach. There is a long silence between them.
“Olympia, I have great sympathy for your plight,” Philbrick says finally. “In general, I am not a judgmental person. I daresay I have some understanding of difficult love and its consequences.” He pauses for a moment, and in the pause, Olympia wonders fleetingly exactly what his understanding of difficult love is.