The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [140]
“All that work.” Norah sighed.
“Oh, don’t worry. We won’t lose the account,” Bree said. “I was very, very charming. And Neil’s a family man. He’s also, I suspect, the sort who likes a damsel in distress.”
“You’re setting back the cause,” Norah retorted, remembering Bree in the filtered light of the dining room long ago, waving pamphlets on lactation.
Bree laughed. “Not at all. I’ve just learned to work with what I have. We’ll get the account, don’t worry.”
Norah didn’t reply. White fences flashed and blurred against the lush grass. Horses stood calmly in their fields; tobacco barns, weathered gray, were set against one hillside, then another. Early spring, Derby time soon, the redbuds bursting into bloom. They crossed the Kentucky River, muddy and glinting. In a field just beyond the bridge a single daffodil waved, a bright flash of beauty, gone. How many times had she traveled this road, the wind in her hair, the Ohio River luring her with its promise, its swift and undulating beauty? She had given up the gin, the windswept drives; she had bought this travel business and made it grow; she had changed her life. But a realization came to her now clearly, suddenly, like a harsh new light in the room: she had never stopped running. To San Juan and Bangkok, London and Alaska. Into the arms of Howard and the others, all the way to Sam and to this moment.
“I can’t lose you, Bree.” she said. “I don’t know how you’re being so calm about everything, because I feel like I’ve run into a wall.” She remembered David saying the same thing yesterday, standing in the driveway, trying to explain why he’d brought young Rosemary home. What had happened to him in Pittsburgh, to leave him so changed?
“I’m calm,” Bree said, “because you’re not going to lose me.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re so sure. Because I couldn’t stand it.”
They drove in silence for a few miles.
“Do you remember that ratty old blue sofa I had?” Bree asked at last.
“Vaguely,” Norah said, wiping her eyes. “What about it?”
A tobacco barn, another, and a long stretch of green.
“I always thought it was so beautiful, that sofa. Then one day—it was during a really bleak time in my life—the light was coming in the room differently, snow outside or something, and I realized that old sofa was utterly decrepit, only held together by dust. I knew I had to make some changes.” She glanced across the car, smiling. “So I came to work for you.”
“A bleak time?” Norah repeated. “I always imagined your life was so glamorous. Next to mine, anyway. I didn’t know you went through a bleak time, Bree. What happened?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s ancient history. But I was awake last night too. I have the same kind of feeling: something’s changing. It’s funny how things seem different, suddenly. This morning I found myself staring at the light coming in the kitchen window. It made a long rectangle on the floor, and the shadows of new leaves were moving in it, making all their patterns. Such a simple thing, but it was beautiful.”
Norah studied Bree’s profile, remembering her as she had been, carefree, bold, and assured in her boldness, standing on the steps of the administration building. Where had that young girl gone? How had she become this woman, so lean and determined, so forceful and so solitary?
“Oh, Bree,” Norah managed, at last.
“It’s not a death sentence, Norah.” Bree was speaking crisply now, focused and determined, as if she were giving an overview of accounts receivable. “More like a wake-up call. I did some reading, and my chances really are very good. And I was thinking this morning that if there’s not a support group for women like me, I’m going to start one.”
Norah smiled. “That sounds just like you. That’s the most reassuring thing you’ve said yet.” They drove in silence for a few minutes longer, and then Norah added, “But you didn’t tell me. All those years ago, when you were unhappy. You never told me.”
“Right,” Bree said. “I’m telling you now.”
Norah put her hand on Bree’s knee, feeling her sister’s heat, her thinness.
“What can I do?”
“Just go on, day by day. I