Sea Glass_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [49]
“When does your plane leave?” the woman asks.
“I have a few minutes. It might not even go at all because of the bad weather.”
“I’ll make us some tea.”
Vivian wipes her feet on a doormat and follows Honora into the kitchen. The woman is as slim as a wand, Vivian sees from behind. She has beautiful shoulders as well — a swimmer’s build.
Honora sets the tissue-wrapped packet on a kitchen table covered with a linen cloth. An apron has clearly just been tossed aside. Vivian removes her chamois gloves and unbuttons her coat.
“May I take those?” Honora asks.
“I can’t stay long enough for a proper visit, though I should have come by ages ago. I’m off to New York — having Christmas with an aunt — and . . . well . . . open the packet.”
Honora sits at the remaining kitchen chair and unties the string. Spread out upon the tissue paper are two dozen pieces of sea glass. “Oh,” Honora says, clearly moved.
“After I met you that time, I started looking for sea glass,” Vivian says. “It gets addictive, doesn’t it?”
“Thank you. They’re very beautiful.”
“I thought you could add them to your collection,” Vivian says. Her own favorite is the meringue disk that seems to have melted and bubbled as if it had been cooked. Honora holds up a shard of white milk glass. “I wasn’t sure if milk glass counted,” Vivian says.
“Oh, yes,” Honora says and then laughs. “Well, how would I know? I just make up the rules as I go along. These are lovely. It’s rare to find these colors. Most sea glass is white or brown.”
“Look at us,” Vivian says. “We’re like two diamond merchants exclaiming over a shipment.”
Honora rises to fill a kettle with water. Vivian notices the mismatched cups hanging from hooks under an oilcloth-covered shelf, the two pies (they smell like mincemeat) on a table next to the stove, the cleanliness of every surface, even the floor. Mrs. Ellis, who comes twice a week to Vivian’s house, doesn’t do half as good a job. A copy of Woman’s Home Companion is on the kitchen table next to the apron.
Honora lays a tea cloth on a tray and sets upon it two mugs and a pink glass sugar and creamer set. She is unapologetic about the mismatched crockery, a trait Vivian immediately admires.
“Can I tempt you with a piece of mincemeat pie?” Honora asks.
“I don’t want you to cut into your pies. You’re obviously expecting someone.”
“I’m expecting my husband,” Honora says. “I’m not sure when he’s coming. He said he’d be here for lunch, but he didn’t make it. He and I can’t eat both pies anyway. I didn’t realize you were still here. I thought just about everybody had gone home.”
“We had an unexpected turn of events,” Vivian says. “My friend Dickie Peets, the fellow who owned the house, had to sell it rather quickly. And so I bought it. I’m not sure why, other than that I’ve loved being here.”
Honora opens her mouth to ask a question, but then closes it. Instead she fetches the kettle from the stove. The water must have been near a boil already, Vivian thinks. Yet another indication of the way in which the woman has prepared for the arrival of her husband. For a moment, Vivian envies that sense of expectancy.
“Dickie and I were living in sin,” Vivian says lightly. “I hope you’re not shocked.”
“Oh,” Honora says, flustered.
“He’s gone now,” Vivian says, taking a sip of tea. “I’ve never been on my own. What do I taste?”
“Cinnamon. And cloves.”
“I’m sure your husband is tied up in a department store. With all the other husbands picking out last-minute gifts for their wives.”
“You don’t want any milk with that?”
“No, no. This is perfectly fine.”
Honora cuts two slices of pie and sets them on the table with forks. Vivian wonders briefly about the snow. She has no idea how a Ford wagon will fare in bad weather. Mrs. Ellis’s husband taught Vivian how to drive shortly after she purchased the beach wagon