Sea Glass_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [48]
Speaking of the mill in Waterboro, the workers there started a run on the bank in town. There was a story going around that there was a shortage in the bank’s funds, and so everyone went to the bank to get their money out. They had to call the police force to keep everyone in line. The newspaper said the bank was $1000 short, but Muriel, who used to work there, says the shortage was much bigger. The newspaper also said there was no danger that the bank would go out of business, but no one believes that either. Truthfully, it all comes down to a matter of belief, doesn’t it? If you think the bank is sound, you won’t panic, and then the bank will be sound. I have our savings in the Five Cents Savings here in town, but it isn’t so much that I would keel over if it wasn’t there. We mostly make do from week to week.
I am sending the recipes you asked for. The tomato rarebit is good because you only need Campbell’s tomato soup and a bit of Kraft cheese, and if you are hard up, you can have it on Saltines, like we used to do when you and the boys were at home. The other one, the Spanish rice, only takes the one can of tomato soup as well. And rice is not expensive. You only need one or two slices of bacon to give it flavor. Have you made the tapioca yet?
Look in the mail for a package. Along with your Christmas presents, I am sending some jars that I canned this summer. Harold and I worked one whole afternoon to pack the box so the contents wouldn’t break. Harold is very knowledgeable about packing. We have too much to eat here as you well know and I hate to see it go to waste. I think you will like the blackberry jam the best.
It wasn’t the same not having you here at Thanksgiving. And of course we are all sad about May. I hope I go quick when it’s my time.
Tell Sexton not to get discouraged. Life is full of ups and downs.
Love,
Mother
P.S. If you find that the winter weather is making your skin harsh, you could try the Frostilla Skin Tonic. I have always trusted it.
Vivian
This has to be the house, Vivian decides. It’s three stories tall, painted white with black shutters — not quite as bad as she has remembered. Work has been done on the front door, and a trellis surrounding it has fresh white paint. She steps from the four-year-old beach wagon and draws her coat around her. Snow started falling in the morning, lightly at first, and then more heavily. She is glad that she had her fur-lined boots and coat sent north from Boston, despite her father’s protests.
Her father has nearly given up calling. He refuses to be dissuaded from the notion that Vivian has taken up with a married man (and who started that wicked rumor? Vivian would dearly like to know), when nothing could be farther from the truth. She hasn’t even been out to dinner with a man since Dickie left. Periodically, she hears from Dickie, who is staying with Johnny Merrill on Marlborough Street. Short bulletins that suggest a kind of panic. Holding a finger against one leak while another starts at the other end of the boat.
Vivian knocks against a windowpane inside a Christmas wreath. When the door opens, Vivian watches the woman’s features rearrange themselves — dipping in a flash from expectant to disappointed and then rising immediately to pleased.
“Hello,” Honora says when pleased has been reached.
Vivian notes the shell-pale satin blouse and the brown wool skirt. Marcasite-and-pearl earrings. Ordinary brown pumps.
“Come in,” Honora says. “What a surprise.”
“I don’t want to bother