The Weird Sisters - Eleanor Brown [130]
“I suppose the only nagging question is what you would do while you’re here. I don’t know that you’re cut out to do nothing.”
Rose joined him, sitting across from him in an equally battered armchair. “No, I don’t think I am either. But I’ve never let myself do nothing, either. When I used to look at my mother and wonder how she filled her days, maybe I was being too judgmental. Because if she . . .” Rose caught herself before she said the words that, however unlikely, we had not dared speak aloud for fear of tempting fate. “Because if she doesn’t make it, I don’t think she’ll be wishing she’d spent more days at work. I think she’ll be wishing she’d spent more days in the garden, or reading, or taking walks with our father.”
Jonathan nodded. “Are you still worried about the wedding?”
“Not worried, no. Neither of us really wants anything big anyway, do we?” She tilted her head at him.
“I can’t think of anything that would give me less pleasure,” Jonathan said, smiling. Funny, she thought, that this man who delivered such excellent papers to audiences at conferences, who spoke with such ease in front of his classroom, would be so unwilling to be the center of attention.
“And I wouldn’t have to wear one of those awful dresses,” she laughed, holding the back of her hand to her forehead, mock drama. “We don’t have to do a big thing at Barnwell. At the end of the day, we’ll be married anyway, and that’s all that matters, right?”
“See? Blessings abound,” he said. “Now come over here, little hen, and give us a kiss.”
Rose climbed out of her chair and delicately sat in Jonathan’s lap, but then he threw his arms around her and pulled her close, and her tension dissolved into laughter. Were we wondering what it was that she so loved about him and he about her? Perhaps this: he had the singular ability to knock down her carefully bricked defenses, which was a compliment to them both, and the secret of their love.
That night, as they lay in bed side by side, she contemplated the shadow of the moon as it washed slowly across the duvet. It was, as the poets say, the same moon that shone over us back home.
Well, here she was. And she could continue to exist in the darkness of her fear, or she could tend and coax the seed of hope inside her. And Rose, with all the determined ferocity that had made us so proud as she had axed and hacked her way through the battles of academia, chose hope. She had changed the wide Midwestern sky for the blue and gray of England, but the place did not matter. It mattered only that she took the step from safety and trusted she would soar.
The letter seemed heavy in Bean’s hands. She turned it over, checked the seal on the envelope, turned it back. She had enclosed a check and a note—how she had agonized over the wording of that brief missive.
Too little payment for so great a debt, both literally and figuratively. A check had arrived from the consignment shop, more than she had expected, but less than she needed. And a cheery note from the owner, letting her know that if she had anything else to sell, she should feel free to bring it by! As if. She had taken nearly everything she owned, the pound of flesh for her sins. Looking in the closet now was dispiriting, the way the hangers moved easily out of the way as she flipped through the now-meager possibilities. She had quit smoking, not because she had any fear for her own mortality, but because it saved her money she could send in the next check. But she would not complain.
Bean checked herself in the mirror over the hall table, flipped her hair over her shoulders. We did not know what secret she used to keep it so sweetly straight in the curling humidity. Animal sacrifices, perhaps. She gauged her appearance critically, slipped her bag over her shoulder. She had nearly emptied her bank account with this check. Not that she needed the money; it had been ages since she had spent anything. The secret to a wealthy