Chapter Eight. Rose
CHAPTER EIGHT
ROSE
By seven thirty, I’ve read Lou several Beatrix Potter stories and tucked her in with her stuffed rabbit, Mopsy.
I carry my record player down to the library and set it up on one of the built-in bookshelves on either side of the fireplace.
I pull the sheets from the new furniture and cast a critical eye over the room.
It isn’t terribly homey; the front rooms haven’t been painted yet; there are no drapes and no rug.
But I suppose it will do. True to my word, I run a feather duster over the bookshelves, the mantel, and Ella’s gleaming baby grand piano.
As I shove the leather davenports and armchairs to one side to make room for dancing, I wonder what Greeley boys will be like.
Parkhurst boys are a privileged class—the wealthy sons of businessmen, lawyers, politicians, and judges.
The world is their oyster. They aren’t accustomed to being told no, and they don’t care for it. Like Cec in the woods on bonfire night.
I only slapped him when he tried to put his hand up my skirt a third time.
My cheeks go hot. I remember turning my head away from his insistent mouth. Putting my hands on his shoulders—not to bring him closer, but to try to create space between us. “Let’s take a breath,” I’d suggested, laughing to take the sting out of it.
Nothing I did said Yes, more, please.
Perhaps he thought I was playing hard to get. That I had to say no, even if I meant yes, to preserve my reputation.
See? Even now I’m making excuses for him. I bet people have made excuses for his ugly behavior all his life. I bet he’s never been held accountable for anything!
The library feels close. I shove open one of the front windows and breathe in the cool night air.
It’s raining cats and dogs out there; the sky is the angry violet of a fresh bruise.
Wind swirls and musses my hair. I peer at my reflection in the other window, patting my curls back into place, wondering if I ought to reapply that berry lipstick before our guests arrive.
I know scarlet is de rigueur, but this is such a pretty, kissable color—
Suddenly, a face is reflected back at me.
Bobbed black hair and big dark eyes and bloodred mouth open wide.
That’s not me!
My hands scrabble over my face: I’m still here, still Rose.
What—who—is that?
Thunder cracks overhead. I start and back into something— someone?
I scream and whirl around.
It’s the armchair. There’s no one else here. I glance back at the reflection, but it’s me again. I dash to the open window and peer out—actually lean out, since there are no screens, bracing myself on the wide windowsill—but there’s no one on the porch, either.
She isn’t real. Isn’t—corporeal.
It’s the third time I’ve seen her in one week. The second time today.
My heart scampers like a frightened rabbit.
Am I losing my mind?
There has to be a rational explanation. Maybe someone slipped belladonna into my cosmetics, the way Admiral Chandler poisoned Hugh’s shaving cream in Mrs. Christie’s short story “The Cretan Bull.”
No. Think sensibly, Rose. Grace might not like me very much, but surely she wouldn’t poison me. Mr. Harrow gives me—and Maggie—the heebies, but he’s out of town. And I haven’t had any symptoms of atropine poisoning.
Footsteps in the hall. I watch the doorway, holding my breath.
It’s only Ella, carrying a bowl of potato chips and a plate of cocktail weenies.
“Scaredy-cat,” she teases. “Since when are you afraid of a little thunder? I hope you didn’t wake Lou, screaming like that.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, busying myself with the feather duster. I’m still trembling, trying to catch my breath.
Ella goes to the kitchen and comes back with a cream cheese and onion dip.
“Aren’t you going to get the champagne?” she prompts.
I want to ask her to come to the cellar with me, but my pride won’t allow it. I can hardly tell her I’ve been seeing a woman who isn’t there—a woman no one else can see—a strange, screaming woman. She’ll think I’ve gone mad, like—
My stomach twists. Like her mother.
I can’t do that to Ella. She was only five when Anna was sent away. The same age Lou is now.
If I weren’t here, who would teach Lou her letters? Who would tuck her in at night?
No. Without Nanny, without mothers, with Father popping in when he feels like it, and then popping right back out again—my sisters need me. I have to get hold of myself.
I creep down the rickety basement stairs, gripping white-knuckle-tight to the railing, and liberate two bottles of champagne. Then I scurry back upstairs like a frightened child.
I am frightened. The last thing I feel like is a party. I wish I could beg off, but it would be unforgivably rude after the twins have gone to so much trouble.
Besides—do I really want to be alone with my thoughts?
Better to try to put it—her—out of my mind.
I’m setting out half a dozen crystal coupe glasses when someone knocks at the front door. I fix a bright smile on my face and open the door. Just be normal, Rose.
“Welcome! Come in,” I say.
Stan is carrying three six-packs of National Bohemian beer.
Grace is wearing a knee-length plaid skirt with a short-sleeved white blouse, her golden hair falling in loose curls around her face.
She looks like a fresh-faced coed. I wasn’t sure what to wear; I didn’t want to be too fancy or too casual.
In the end, I went with a raspberry-colored shirtdress, and I pulled my hair back on both sides with mother-of-pearl combs.
Raspberry is rather nice—flattering—fetching with my complexion.
“You’re here! Hello!” Ella whirls into the lobby in her short, sleeveless red romper.
I catch Stanley staring—leering—at her legs again.
She’s wearing her dark hair down, copying Veronica Lake’s peekaboo style with one curl over her right eye.
She’s awfully pretty. I hope none of the boys get fresh with her.
Unless, I suppose, she wants them to.
“Ma’s at her Ladies’ Aid meeting, so we needn’t worry about her dropping by,” Grace says. “And Dad is in the Poconos till tomorrow.”
“But I bet he’s ever so much fun at parties,” I joke. It’s low-hanging fruit, but Grace laughs. It sets my nerves a little more at ease.
Coop arrives with three other boys in tow.
He met them for a Coke after he swept up at the feed store, he says.
They all wear cuffed blue jeans and button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled to the elbow.
One has dark red hair and freckles; one has enormous ears; and one has eyes as startlingly blue as Frank Sinatra’s.
I forget their names two seconds after we’re introduced.
I gulp down my first glass of bubbly and relax more as the library fills with chatter. Grace’s friends arrive as the boys are cracking open their beers. Grace introduces them to Ella and me.
“Thank you for having us.” Kitty is a brunette in a short plaid skirt, baggy blue sweater, and penny loafers. “The place looks swell.”
“Everybody in Greeley’s real excited about the new hotel.” Barb is a smush-faced blonde in a mint dress.
Grace rolls her eyes. “Thank heavens for the Thorpes. Our saviors.”
“I didn’t mean anything against your family, Grace.
” Barb sighs, and I wonder if Grace is as sharp-tongued and prickly with her friends as she is with me.
“Dad says it’ll be good for business, is all.
He owns the Oyster House. Have you girls been yet?
It’s right on the water; the tourists love it.
You should come for supper sometime. Best crab cakes in town. ”
Grace sniffs. “Can’t hold a candle to Ma’s.”
I hand Kitty a glass of champagne and change the subject to something less contentious. “What does your crowd usually do on Friday nights?”
“I’m head cheerleader,” Kitty says, “so I’m usually cheering on the boys. Then we go to the diner to celebrate our wins. Or drown our losses in chocolate milkshakes.”
Barb bumps her shoulder. “You better lay off the chocolate shakes, or you’re not gonna fit into that uniform come fall.”
“Can it, Barb.” Kitty runs an anxious hand over her hips. “What about you, Rose? Grace said you go to a ritzy boarding school in Pennsylvania.”
“I don’t know about ritzy,” I demur.
Grace takes it upon herself to switch the record from Sinatra to Glenn Miller.
“Let’s dance already,” she says, bossy—presumptuous—imperious. Like this is her party.
I try not to mind. These are her friends, and I suppose the house must still feel like her home. We all watch as she pulls Stan into a Lindy Hop.
“Isn’t Grace the luckiest?” Barb sighs, positively pea green with envy.
I can’t say anything nice, so I don’t say anything at all. I’d rather be a wallflower than put up with Stanley and his wandering eyes.
The boys crowd around the snacks, debating the relative merits of the Philadelphia Athletics versus the Phillies versus the Washington Senators. The girls tap their toes to the music, shooting annoyed glances at the boys. They are clearly waiting to be asked to dance.
Is this party going to be a dud?
“Come on, Ella Jane.” I pull her up from the sofa. She’s wearing heels, so it’s rather like dancing with a wobbly giraffe. But it makes her smile.
Emboldened by our example, Barb and Kitty start dancing next to us.
Halfway through the song, Blue Eyes appears, holding out a gallant hand. “May I cut in?”
I put Ella’s hand in his. “Of course.” I’m happy to retreat to the sofa, flushed and out of breath. Red asks Barb to dance, and Dumbo asks Kitty.
Perhaps the party won’t be a dud after all.
Coop maneuvers around the coffee table. “Nicely done.” He really does notice everything. “Care to dance?”
“I’d love to,” I say. I find that I would. With him, I would.