Chapter 30 Geraldine
Geraldine
Despite her best efforts, Geraldine’s stomach’s loud complaints could no longer be ignored.
Worse still, she suddenly felt lightheaded.
How irksome. She glanced at her paint-spattered wristwatch and realized she had worked straight through lunch.
Although she had scant interest in food, even she was shocked at how little of it was served to the guests, especially considering how much they paid for the privilege of not eating.
Her breakfast tray—consisting of a wafer of cantaloupe and two pieces of melba toast, augmented only by a surprisingly fortifying cup of coffee—had been nowhere near enough sustenance to allow her to skip lunch.
She certainly could not manage to keep working away on her painting with her stomach making such a nuisance of itself.
She couldn’t be bothered to change her clothes before scouting out something to eat, so she made do by wiping her hands on a clean rag before swishing her brush around in a jar of mineral spirts.
She peeled off her smock and hoped her painting clothes would not disgrace her too much.
Not that she cared what the other guests thought, but she would not wish to lower her standing to any great extent with the staff.
It took far less effort to be formidable when respectably attired, and she wished to save her energy for her painting.
Geraldine gave her work in progress one last look before quitting the apple shed and crossing an expanse of lawn that separated her makeshift studio from the Arden House.
A side door led straight into an area of the building the guests were not supposed to notice.
There was no possibility that the staff could function on slivers of dry toast and vegetable juices.
In a place as self-sufficient as the Maine Chance was rumored to be, she felt certain a staff kitchen had to be somewhere nearby, no matter how determined Miss Arden might be to keep it well hidden.
It had to be said that all the functional underbelly of the resort was nearly invisible.
From the light-footed staff to the discreet closets for cleaning supplies and laundry chutes, all the work that went into the running of the place took place behind the scenes.
She pushed open the door and smelled the faintest whiff of boiled potatoes.
Slipping into the service corridor, she moved swiftly towards what she guessed must be the staff kitchen.
Surely nothing so lowly, nor so nourishing, as a potato could possibly sully the guest kitchen.
Sure enough, as she moved along, the scent grew stronger.
Her stomach growled once more as a puff of warm, fragrant air drifted from an open doorway at the far end of the hall.
She stepped into the bright room, flooded with light from long windows facing a field that swept towards a neatly tended apple orchard.
A young woman, somewhere in her late teens or early twenties, sat at a long wooden table centered in the room, a fork in one hand and a copy of the American Economic Review in the other.
Geraldine paused, not quite sure what to make of the figure before her.
With her honey-colored hair and smooth skin, the girl was pretty—or she would have been if not for the scowl on her face.
She wore the starched blue-and-white uniform of the Maine Chance maids, which surprised Geraldine, considering her choice of reading material.
In her experience, since the recent advent of television, fewer young people seemed to have the patience for reading at all, let alone something as dry as an academic journal. Something about her seemed familiar.
The girl glanced up and laid her fork down quickly. She snapped the magazine shut and sprang to her feet.
“May I help you, ma’am?” she asked, a bit of color appearing—charmingly, it had to be said—on each of her cheeks.
Geraldine moved to the table and pulled out a chair. She dropped into it and leaned forward. “What’s that you’re eating?”
The girl looked down. “Meat loaf, green beans fresh from the garden, mashed potatoes, and bread-and-butter pickles. I was told to help myself to a slice of chocolate cake for dessert, if I liked. May I offer you a plate of your own, Mrs. Putnam?”
So, the staff was trained to know the names of the guests even if they had not been introduced. How like Iris to be so thorough.
“I wouldn’t say no to any of it.”
The young woman moved from the table to a nearby cupboard. As she reached for a plate, Geraldine realized where she had seen her before. She snapped her fingers at the memory.
“Weren’t you the girl who was wearing the pale-blue robe, amongst other things, at the fashion show?”
“That was me.” The girl bobbed her head as she scooped a generous helping of mashed potatoes onto a thick china plate.
She added meat loaf and green beans but left off the pickles, choosing to carry the jar to the table.
After fetching cutlery from a drawer near the table, she placed it all in front of Geraldine and stood to the side as if awaiting further instructions.
Geraldine waved a paint-spattered hand at her, signaling the girl should return to her meal.
Geraldine skewered a forkful of green beans and closed her eyes as she chewed.
The bright burst of vegetal green in her mouth transported her back to her childhood, when she had often snuck into the kitchen to take meals with the family cook, a jolly woman named Nancy, whose sturdy arms were always dusted with flour and available for a motherly embrace.
She swallowed, noticing a lump that had nothing to do with the food as it swelled in her throat.
How long had it been since she had thought of Nancy’s kindness?
Best not to dwell on such things. She sliced off a bite of meat loaf with the side of her fork and nodded towards the magazine still lying closed on the table.
“I’ll wager that you don’t have to fend off many requests to borrow your reading material,” she said.
The young maid smiled. “It hasn’t happened so far.”
“I would have imagined that a fashion magazine or one about Hollywood stars would be more popular with most people.”
The girl smiled. “There’s no accounting for taste, I suppose.”
Geraldine leaned back in her chair. The girl intrigued her.
Her voice was less deferential than she was used to when it came to servants, but there was nothing in it to reprimand her.
It was more like a well-raised young person speaking to an elder without the reservation that frequently shaded interactions with staff.
But it was the magazine that piqued her curiosity the most.
“You don’t find it a dull subject?”
“Not in the least. Economics touches almost every part of everyday life, whether people realize it or not. I prefer to be informed.”
If there was one thing Geraldine admired and respected, it was a person who spoke their minds, especially if that person was a woman. She liked it even more if the opinions were unexpected or controversial.
“And do you do that by reading articles in scholarly journals?”
“I do.” The girl reached for the magazine and flipped through the pages, coming to one that, even from across the table, appeared well thumbed.
“But I find it even more useful to research the material and contribute an article myself.” She tapped a slim finger over the name of the man who was credited in the byline.
Geraldine noticed a blister forming on the webbing between the girl’s thumb and forefinger.
“You wrote an article for the American Economic Review?” She tried to keep the note of incredulity from her voice.
“You wouldn’t think it from the byline, but yes, I wrote this article.”
Geraldine extended her arm and pulled the magazine towards herself. “Who is Professor Arthur Avery?”
“He’s the head of the economics department at Barlow College.”
Like everyone else in her social set, Geraldine had heard of Barlow, with its reputation of understated exclusivity.
If its crest was on one’s degree, doors effortlessly opened in business, medicine, and politics.
If the girl in front of her spoke the truth, she was well positioned for a bright future.
So what on earth was she doing wearing a maid’s uniform at the Maine Chance?
“I don’t see a second name listed here.” Geraldine gestured towards the professor’s name.
“Sadly, neither do I.”
“If there was one, what would it be?”
“Cynthia Proctor.”
The Proctor family hadn’t arrived on the Mayflower, but they weren’t too far in its wake.
Geraldine approved, on general principle, of New Englanders with deep roots.
It was undeserved, of course, but she couldn’t seem to shake the assumption that they had things in common that mattered to her.
It wasn’t the sort of thing she would say aloud, but she added it to the positive column in her head.
“I assume you’re a student at Barlow.”
“That remains to be seen,” Cynthia said, glancing at the magazine once more. This was not a response Geraldine expected. The girl continued to surprise her.
Geraldine popped the meat loaf into her mouth as she looked the girl over with an artist’s eye.
Even in a maid’s uniform, instead of the designer gowns she had worn the night before, she was still a charming creature.
Pale skin with a warm undertone. A pointed chin and high cheekbones contrasted with the full cheeks of youth.
Thick lashes fringing eyes the color of strongly brewed tea.
Hair scraped mercilessly into a ponytail.
A neck too short to be elegant, but serviceable nonetheless.
A strong nose perched above full lips. Dimples, freckles, and dainty earlobes.
Geraldine itched to sketch her once more, but her sketchbook and charcoal lay too far off in the apple shed.
She swallowed. The meat loaf was delicious. She ought to ask for the staff cook to send the recipe to her housekeeper.
“You don’t look like the sort to be on academic probation.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “I most certainly am not.”
“Why the uncertainty, then?” Geraldine realized she was prying, but she felt it her due. After all, she was a paying guest, and she was old. Who better to indulge in overt nosiness?
Cynthia met her gaze with surprising frankness, given her age and position.
“My family isn’t wealthy. The school didn’t renew my scholarship, and the paid position I hoped to win by writing this article was given to a boy with better connections than my own. If I earn enough tuition money this summer, I will return. If not, I won’t.”
It felt like ages since Geraldine had encountered someone so forthright.
The country was awash with postwar optimism, and most people she met tended to look for the bright side of everything since the boys who could had come home.
She didn’t think of herself as a pessimist, but to her, it often felt forced.
Cynthia’s frank assessment of her situation was refreshing.
“So you found a job here as a maid? Wasn’t there something that could have made more use of your skills?”
“I was very lucky to find this job. By the time the semester ended, most of the summer opportunities had already been filled. I tried at more than two dozen places before I heard about a maid leaving here.”
Geraldine didn’t think she needed to mention that she had been instrumental in the position becoming available. However, an idea was forming, and she preferred for Cynthia to continue to speak openly and personably with her.
“And what exactly is it that you do here?”
“So far, my duties have been to do whatever Iris asks of me.”
“Iris hasn’t assigned you to any particular guest rooms as yet?”
“Not so far. To tell the truth, I’m still in training,” Cynthia said.
Geraldine glanced around the room and spotted a writing tablet on the counter near a wall-mounted telephone and a cup filled with pens.
“Fetch me that pad of paper and a pen,” she said.
Cynthia did as she was asked without hesitation or question. Geraldine quickly dashed off a note and folded the sheet of paper in half, creasing it firmly. She polished off the contents of her plate before sliding the note across the table.
“As soon as you’ve finished up here, take this note to Iris.
Mind you, it’s for her eyes only.” With that, she pushed back her chair and got to her feet.
Her knees protested ever so slightly, but there was a spring in her step nonetheless as she turned from the table and headed back towards her makeshift studio.
Maybe her time at the Maine Chance would be even more interesting than she had imagined it could be.