Chapter 39 Iris
Iris
Iris couldn’t shake the feeling that she was crossing the invisible line that existed between staff and guests, but she simply couldn’t let the matter drop. She promised herself she would find Geraldine on her own to thank her for her help with Orla.
Most of the guests were creatures of habit, Iris had found over the years.
There were the ladies who routinely could be found lounging beside the lake every afternoon.
There were others who spent their free time receiving beauty treatments in the spa wing of the resort.
Still others spent the majority of their time engaged in one of the recreational activities like badminton or boating.
Only a very few kept to themselves more often than not.
According to Cynthia, when she wasn’t busy painting, Geraldine could be seen wandering the property, a book in hand, looking for a place to sit and read.
It was the only thing Iris envied about the other woman.
She couldn’t remember the last time she had spent a fair summer day leaning against the sun-warmed trunk of a shade tree, absorbed in a novel.
The very notion of it produced an almost physical pain in her chest.
The winters provided more opportunity to borrow books from the lending library and to justify whiling away a stolen hour here or there indulging in stories that took her far from home—places like Arizona.
But every summer, like a dutiful little ant, she busied herself gathering up what income she could before the cool evenings and shortened days drove the summer people back to wherever it was they came from and the taps snapped off on a steady stream of income.
But envy couldn’t be on her mind as she offered words of appreciation to a guest. It was a mortifyingly awkward position to find herself in, and when she had heard from Calvin that Geraldine had been in her home, keeping an eye on Orla, she was aghast. She prided herself on her professionalism and knowing her place in the grand scheme of things at the resort.
“No fraternizing with the guests” had always been Alice Morrow’s policy, one she had adhered to for all the years she had served as housekeeper.
Iris had seen no reason to change it when Alice was no longer there to remind her.
Truthfully, there had never been any temptation to do so.
But here she was all those years later, needing to find the words to cross that divide.
She stepped out of the back door of the staff house and looked towards the wide-open field leading to the orchard and the apple shed, where Geraldine was likely to be found.
That was a thing they had in common, Iris supposed. She herself couldn’t see the point of spending a beautiful summer’s day being scrubbed down with muddy muck or having yet another thing done to one’s hair.
She paused at a large spreading maple tree right near the footpath that led off into the woods.
It was one that turned the most gorgeous shade of pumpkin in the autumn, and Iris herself liked to sit beneath it before the guests arrived in the spring and after they’d gone in the fall.
The spot provided a glimpse of the lake, and Iris had spent stolen moments there as often as she could, enjoying the view.
The apple shed sat within a stone’s throw of the maple. She could see that the door to Geraldine’s temporary studio was open, and she rapped her knuckles against the crisp white doorframe. The older woman looked up from where she stood behind a wooden easel and smiled at her.
Her welcome wrong-footed her somehow, and Iris felt her discomfort grow. It only increased as Geraldine raised a hand and waved her in. Iris shook off the worry that Miss Arden would suddenly appear right behind her.
“What brings you all the way out here?” Geraldine asked as she lowered a long-handled paintbrush and stepped out from behind the easel. “Has something happened to Orla?”
Iris stepped into the room and glanced around, surprised at the transformation.
It barely resembled its usual purpose as a storage shed.
Someone—likely Cynthia—had polished the windows until they gleamed.
Tubes of paint, a coffee can stuffed with more brushes, and piles of rags sat on a card table close at hand.
Sketches of hands, trees, and models from the fashion show papered two walls.
With a jolt, Iris recognized that several of the sketches were of her mother.
“Orla is why I’m here, but nothing has happened since you last saw her,” Iris said.
She stood before Geraldine, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from the front of her dark-blue uniform skirt, gathering her courage to speak.
“I wanted to thank you for keeping an eye on my mother. It was more than kind of you, and a terrible imposition,” she said.
“It was no trouble at all,” Geraldine said. “There’s no need to thank me.”
“I think there’s rather more to it than that. I know how trying she can be. Besides, it was extremely generous of you to take time away from the resort.”
“Do you know what is difficult about being wealthy?” Geraldine asked.
Iris shook her head. From where she stood, it seemed unlikely there was anything difficult. “I have no idea.”
“You discover that it’s surprisingly difficult to know if someone is eager to spend time with you because they want something from you or because they genuinely like you. It was a refreshing change to be with someone who didn’t recognize me,” Geraldine said. “I enjoyed every minute of it,”
Iris felt her jaw start to go slack in surprise before clenching it tightly. She wouldn’t have expected any such thing. It was hard for her to imagine someone with as many leisure options as Geraldine must have purposely seeking out time with her mother.
“I’m glad to hear you weren’t insulted that she didn’t recognize you,” Iris said. “And it doesn’t make your help any less appreciated that you didn’t find her company too taxing.”
“The pleasure really was all mine. But I do wonder how you all will fare. It must be very difficult for you to be away from her all day.”
“It’s never been a problem until this summer. But she’s getting worse, and now my new job requires more hours, including staying here overnight instead of going home. To be honest, I’m not quite sure what we’re going to do.”
“Have you considered finding a facility to place her in?”
Iris paused. On the one hand, it could be seen as unprofessional to divulge details of her personal life to a guest. On the other, Mrs. Putnam was no ordinary guest. They had known each other for years, although not at all well.
It would be worse to make up an untruth that would likely be revealed for what it was.
“Her doctor suggested it may come to that, but rest homes cost a great deal, and we simply don’t have the funds. Miss Arden mentioned that if all goes well with me as the housekeeper this season, she’s prepared to have me take over the same position in Arizona too.”
Mrs. Putnam arched an eyebrow. “That sounds like a tremendous opportunity. Travel would suit you, I expect.”
Iris couldn’t agree more, but the chance might just slip through her fingers.
“I’d love the chance to go, but I can’t if I need to keep an eye on my mother full-time.
And if I can’t take the Arizona position, I might lose this one too.
If I don’t work, I can’t pay our bills,” Iris said.
“So far we’ve only managed because my mother’s friend Frances has offered to stay with her overnight and pop in to check on her throughout the day, but I can’t impose on her permanently. ”
Mrs. Putnam couldn’t possibly understand where she was coming from.
She probably could have afforded to buy an entire old-folks’ home if she wanted to, let alone pay the fees for just one resident.
Or she could hire a fleet of in-home help to watch an old lady, which of course would be better than warehousing her somewhere away from home.
No, it was hard to imagine a woman like Mrs. Putnam being forced to make difficult choices like the ones that seemed to crop up in Iris’s life with discouraging regularity.
“It sounds like you feel stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea.”
Iris tried to keep any tone of bitterness from her voice. “Lately I do.”
“You may not believe it, but I rather envy you your situation. I haven’t any family of my own left to worry about.”
Iris felt put in her place. There were lots of ways of being wealthy, and she had always considered herself to be rich when it came to the people she cared about.
Orla wasn’t easy, but she had proven again and again how much she cared for her family, and Iris wasn’t about to do less than her best for her.
“I’m sorry to hear you’re so on your own.”
Geraldine shrugged and pointed at the canvas on the easel. “What do you think?”
Iris stepped forward to view Mrs. Putnam’s work in progress.
To her surprise, rather than the typical landscape Mrs. Putnam was known for, the painting depicted Orla sitting on a deck chair in the middle of Loon Island, a mere speck of land visible from the resort’s private beach.
Her mother’s face appeared serene as she sat with a crochet hook in her gnarled hand and a brightly colored blanket growing in her lap.
Two other figures flanked her: one plucking balls of yarn from a tree arching above them, the other waving a Jolly Roger at a passing boat.
It was as whimsical as it was beautiful.
She leaned closer to the canvas and breathed in the strong scent of linseed oil.
“It’s lovely but a bit unexpected. I thought your paintings never included people.”