Sea Glass_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [58]
“That will be my plane,” Vivian says.
“Where do you want me to put the car?” Honora asks.
“Right out in front of the house,” Vivian says as she reapplies her lipstick. “I’ve a man who’ll take care of it.”
Vivian’s hair is ridged like sands after a storm. Honora studies the woman’s fur-trimmed afternoon coat and the tweed sport suit she has on underneath. The suit is beautifully cut and fits her too well not to have been made especially for her. Honora envies the woman’s fur-lined ankle boots as well — much smarter than her own shower boots, which she neglected to put on in their haste to leave the house. Her brown pumps are wet and cold and will have to be dried out by the stove when she gets home.
“You needn’t wait for me,” Vivian says, snapping the compact shut. “You have a bit of a drive.”
“I’d like to see you take off. If something happens and your plane doesn’t go, you’ll be stranded here.”
“I’d find a ride back somehow. It’s almost dark already. You should get a start.”
“When will you be back?” Honora asks.
“Not till May, I think.”
“Oh,” Honora says, suddenly minding that her newfound friend is leaving her. “Such a long time.”
Vivian nudges Honora and tilts her head in the direction of a man in a smart fedora and a Harris Tweed overcoat. He is carrying a flat rectangular package wrapped in red paper with a gold bow.
“Mint green silk charmeuse nightgown, cut on the bias,” Vivian says, and the two women laugh.
Despite the gathering darkness, Honora cannot bring herself to leave the waiting room. She watches the passengers climb up the steep steps of the plane and duck under the low door. When Honora glances around, she sees that only she and the small boy remain inside, and she wonders where the father has gone. “It’s pretty exciting, isn’t it?” Honora says to the boy.
The boy turns, leaving a nose-and-lip print on the glass. The plane outside starts its engine. Honora puts her hands up around her face to shade her eyes so that she can see into the lighted windows of the plane. If she spots Vivian, she will wave. But though she can make out figures in the small circles, she can’t identify anyone who might be her new friend. The plane makes a turn and rolls away.
“If we hurry,” says a voice behind Honora, “we can catch the last trolley. I just asked the maintenance fellow outside.”
Honora turns, drawing on her gloves. She has a brief impression of dark curly hair and vivid blue eyes. And seeing the man close to, she realizes that of course he can’t be the father of the boy — he’s too young. Perhaps he’s the boy’s brother, though the two don’t look much alike.
When Honora pushes the door open, the wind fills the spaces of her coat. She prays the beach wagon will start. Will there be a trolley to Ely at this late hour? Beside her, the boy and the man hunch their shoulders against the weather and start out on the long road to the trolley stop. The boy must be terribly cold, Honora thinks.
“Excuse me,” she calls. “Can I give you a lift?”
The man and the boy stop. Honora moves closer to the figures so that she can see their faces. “Where are you headed?” she asks.
“Back to town,” the man says after a brief hesitation.
“I have to go through town to get to my house, so why don’t I give you a ride? It’s too cold to have to wait for a trolley.”
The man puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he says simply.
McDermott
McDermott and the boy follow the woman to her car. He wouldn’t have accepted the ride for his own sake. The woman’s hat tilts in the wind, and she has to hold it with her hand. Her shoes make precise imprints on the snow as she lifts each foot up and places it down.
McDermott hasn’t ridden in a vehicle, discounting the trolley, since Mahon took them all to a speak in Rye in his bread truck in November. McDermott and Ross and Tom Magill sat on the floor in the back, the smell of