Chapter 7 Iris
Iris
Up ahead, a low-slung building sat nestled in among rosebushes and neatly trimmed rows of privet hedge.
On the side of the building announcing it to be the laundry, flower boxes were mounted at each of the windows and filled with vibrant plants heavy with lush blooms. It was as though Miss Arden did not wish for any part of the estate to appear utilitarian regardless of its purpose.
It was all carefully cultivated to court the notion of a rural paradise.
From the deftly pruned fruit orchard to the overflowing containers of blossoming plants, evidence of Miss Arden’s standards was everywhere to be seen.
In addition to her housekeeping expectations that all bed and table linens be perfectly pressed, only the freshest flowers appear in the rooms, all crystal—from the glassware to the chandeliers—ceaselessly sparkle, and the floors remain polished to a satiny gleam, the grounds were required to be impeccably kept as well.
The lawns were rolled and clipped just so.
The fruit trees’ limbs had been pruned to create pleasing symmetry in the orchard.
Flowers in the garden beds were deadheaded as soon as blossoms began to show the least sign of fading.
Outbuildings were repainted every three years, a fact that baffled the locals since no one could ever justify the exorbitant outlay of hard-earned cash on something that could be put off for a decade.
In fact, many folks left the back of their house alone until the harsh winters took a toll on the clapboards, since no one saw the rear of the home except for family and their intimates.
Iris admired how much effort had gone into creating the illusion of perfection, but she could not shake the feeling that it was somehow disingenuous.
She knew from long experience that rural was not synonymous with anything close to Eden.
She could think of more long stretches of derelict barns and dispirited dairy cows than fancy houses, even in the lakes region.
As she reached for the laundry-house door handle, the sound of shouting floated across the warm summer breeze.
It was so out of place at the tranquil resort that, for a second, she froze.
She dropped the wicker basket and sprinted around the side of the building.
Across the field, near the tree line, she noticed a pair of women.
Iris recognized one of the women as Marjorie Billings, a resort guest. To her horror, she also recognized the other.
Her mother, Orla, stood beside Mrs. Billings, shouting and flapping her hands back and forth as if to ward her off.
Orla, in her sensible house dress, was bareheaded, without a handbag. Nor did she wear gloves. Mrs. Billings took a step back, but Orla grabbed her by the arm and held fast.
“I don’t know who you think you are, wandering around on private property, but you’d best get yourself gone before I call the police,” Orla said, her voice raising to a thunderous shout.
“I know your type, missy. You’re all trying to sneak in to steal from my strawberry patch, but I’m not having it. ”
“I assure you, I had no intention of stealing strawberries or anything else from you. I had no idea I had left the Maine Chance Farm,” Iris heard Mrs. Billings say. “I do apologize for invading your privacy.”
The woman scowled at her and shook her finger harder. Iris broke into a run.
“There’s no such thing as a Maine Chance Farm.
I don’t know what kind of nonsense you want me to believe, but we don’t hold with that kind of uppity talk here,” Orla said as Iris reached her side.
Seeing her daughter, she released her grip on Mrs. Billings and crossed her arms over her ample bosom.
“Iris, tell this woman she’s trespassing. ”
“I’ll take care of it,” Iris said, placing herself between her mother and the paying guest. “Mrs. Billings, will you please come with me?”
Mrs. Billings looked at Iris, then nodded and followed her to a distance far enough away to not be overheard.
“Who is that poor dear?” Mrs. Billings asked as they stopped next to an apple tree covered in small green fruit.
Iris hesitated. In her experience, guests at the Maine Chance rarely wanted to hear unpleasant truths.
If they did, they would not spend so much money on starvation diets or skin creams. Besides, Iris had never subscribed to the notion that a burden shared was a burden halved.
She was more inclined to believe that the least said, the soonest mended. A carefully edited story would be best.
“I’m so sorry that she bothered you. She’s a local woman who lived on the estate twenty years ago. She’s become a bit forgetful of late and has trouble remembering that she sold her farm to Miss Arden long ago.”
“How sad. Doesn’t she have family who could see about getting her some help before she ends up hurting herself or someone else?” Mrs. Billings rubbed a red patch on her arm where Orla had squeezed it.
“She has a daughter who is doing the best that she can,” Iris said.
Marjorie glanced over her shoulder at the older woman standing near the tree line.
“I hate to say it, but her best might not be good enough.”
Iris breathed in slowly and bit back a reply unworthy of her position as housekeeper.
“From what I understand, she’s clearheaded more often than not,” she said, wishing that were entirely true.
Mrs. Billings shook her head. “I volunteered at a VA hospital during the war, and I can promise that problems of the mind rarely sort themselves out without help. If she were my mother, I wouldn’t leave her on her own.”
Mrs. Billings turned and walked back towards the beach. As soon as she was out of sight, Iris returned to her mother’s side. With everything else she needed to do, she had no time to take Orla home, but she couldn’t let her stay at the resort, threatening the guests, either.
If they took the path through the woods, she’d be back in less than an hour.
If Iris was very lucky, her neighbor Frances would be able to stay with her until she took a break at suppertime.
But even if she was, Mrs. Billings’s warning rang in her ears.
No matter how much she hated to admit it, there was something very wrong with her mother.