A Crossworder's Gift (18 page)

“We're not ‘thinking' anything at all, dear,” Sara soothed. Her quick glance at Weezie sent her back to the fire and a fresh log piled upon the glowing embers; toward Martha, to a chair pulled toward the rekindled blaze, a pillow patted and waiting for Kate to sit; toward DiAnne, to a box of tissues.

Without being aware of her friends' guidance, Kate found herself in the chair, the other women hovering close by. She looked up, her face strained, miserable. “It's my fault he's gone.”

Weezie's expression clouded in indignation. “Your fault? It's not your—” She stopped what might have become a diatribe when she felt Sara's fingers lightly touch her arm.

“Why do you say that, Kate?” Sara asked.

“I've been so … so needy … so, well, whiny and complainy … and work isn't going well for him … and the kids, well, little boys can be so rambunctious … and then Andy can't relax when he comes home … and I can't make the house as nice as he wants it to be …”

Again, Weezie was on the verge of interrupting; again, Sara soundlessly held her in check:

“And where is Andrew now, dear?”

“At his brother's … I think.” Kate's voice had sunk to a near-whisper.

“You ‘think'?”

“That's what he told me, Sara, but …”

“But what?” This time Weezie's ire couldn't be contained.

“Well, what if he's having an affair? What if that's why he's gone off on his own? What if he's like Prudence Pierce's husband?” Kate began to sob.

DiAnne proffered the box of tissues; her own expression had taken on a peculiar combination of stoicism and grief. “He's not having an affair, Kate.”

“You don't know that, DiAnne!”

“Yes, I do. Because if he were, you would have guessed. Unfaithful spouses always give themselves away. Maybe that's because deep down they want to be caught.”

The others now regarded DiAnne, who lifted her chin in a perfectly typical gesture of resourcefulness and reserve.

It was Weezie who gave voice to what all were thinking. “Oh, Dee, I didn't know … I'm so sorry …”

But Weezie's effort at conciliation was interrupted as Kate burst into fresh tears. “See! The same thing happened to DiAnne!”

DiAnne stroked her hair. “Don't cry, sweetheart … It wasn't my husband who cheated—it was me.”

S
UPPER
consisted of serious “comfort foods”: Ritz crackers piled with peanut butter and jelly (who knew Sara could have a stash of peanut butter?); canned tomato soup thickened with real cream; ginger snaps (wasn't ginger a root—like carrots or turnips?); a quart of butterscotch ice cream that almost didn't make it past the five-spoons-in-a-pot category; a block of Vermont cheddar cut in fat chunks; popcorn cooked in an ancient pot on top of the stove and drizzled with an entire stick of melted butter; warmed cider stirred with cinnamon sticks—and all eaten piecemeal. Sara had decreed that rules did not apply, not for the entire snowbound night. To bolster the dictum, she'd produced camphor-scented nightclothes and antique dressing gowns, slippers, and wool socks. Along with this “girls' dorm” attire, the edibles seemed a perfect fit.

Outside, it continued to snow and snow and snow, but once Kate had “beamed in” with her sister and kids, and been assured the two boys were “happy as clams at high tide,” no one at White Caps cared what the weather did.

However, to the group sitting—or rather, lounging—around the zinc-topped kitchen table with the remnants of the feast, it became increasingly obvious that DiAnne's confession, as well as Kate's admission, wouldn't be as easily dispensed with as the blizzard. Conversation about who preferred “crunchy” peanut butter to “smooth” or visa versa was wearing thin; the ice cream was gone; the popcorn had been reduced to a few charred and unpopped kernels. It was time to take the bull by the horns. It was DiAnne who did so.

“I'm afraid I dropped rather a bomb back there.” She hesitated, frowning, her lips a tight and solemn line. For a moment it seemed as though the old DiAnne, the prim-and-proper lady, was about to reassert herself. “My behavior isn't something I'm proud of …” Again, she stopped. No one else stirred except Martha, who oh-so-gently set down a spoon.

“Oh, I could find a lot of excuses … I was young … I didn't feel Frank ‘valued' me … He was working at the bank almost nonstop … I didn't have enough to occupy me—and goodness knows, I need to keep busy, as I'm sure you're all aware.” DiAnne allowed herself a thin, wry smile. “Or maybe I merely wanted excitement … I was raised to value self-denial, to behave politely in all circumstances, to remember I was a ‘lady' first and foremost … Maybe, I was simply trying to rebel …” The words trailed off.

“Which isn't always a bad thing, Dee,” Weezie offered after a moment. “You have to flutter your wings a little if you want to learn how to fly.”

DiAnne turned to her. “True for you perhaps, because you've never hurt anyone. I did, though. I hurt a very decent man.”

“But you're still married to the same guy, Dee. What you did obviously didn't cause irreparable pain or damage.”

“He's a good person, Weez. He forgave me.”

Weezie's eyes narrowed into slits. The notion of begging absolution didn't sit well with her.

It was Martha who addressed the heart of the matter. “Forgiveness from another person is one thing. But perhaps you haven't forgiven yourself?”

DiAnne's sad eyes gazed into Martha's. She shook her head. “I can't.”

“But isn't that the lesson we're supposed to learn?” Kate asked. “Isn't that what we always hear in church: Forgive others … love each other as you do yourself?”

Weezie attempted a teasing chuckle. “I'm not going to address
that
subject.”

“Well, yes, Kate,” Martha added slowly, “that's what we're taught: to love each other as we much as we do ourselves … But … but I'm not really certain I love
myself
all that much.”

“Oh!” Weezie said. “I thought I was the only person who felt that way.”

“Me, too …” Kate admitted in a tiny voice.

DiAnne sighed and lowered her head while Sara offered her own well-seasoned view:

“My grandmother used to talk a lot about courage—not love or forgiveness, which probably speaks volumes about her New England forebears … Courage, she liked to tell me, was the most important of all the emotions, because without it, you could sustain no other: neither love, nor compassion, nor joy … She said that it took courage to live, to overlook unkindnesses, to turn the other cheek—”

A rumbling roar interrupted the speech; the floor beneath the kitchen seemed almost to shake. “The furnace!” Sara exclaimed. “This does not bode well.”

I
N
the dark and oily-smelling basement, the five women stood in a semicircle staring at a furnace that no longer pulsed with heat and ruddy light. The emergency generator “gizmo” had apparently shut down as well; and all dials and gauges now pointed to a discouraging and chilly “zero.” Weezie swung a hurricane lamp nearer for a closer inspection of the controls. “Yep, it's given up the ghost all right … and chose quite a night, too. Lucky it's not one of those subzero cold snaps we get. The water pipes would be in serious trouble.”

“Well, we can bunk together in the sitting room,” Sara decided. “Keep the fire well banked … Carry down twin mattresses and eiderdowns from the guest rooms. One of us can camp out on the sofa.”

As they turned back to the stairs, Kate murmured a pensive: “Given up the ghost … Wouldn't it be amazing if this entire event, the storm and everything, were being arranged by Prudence Pierce's ghost? Because I feel … I feel we were
supposed
to spend this time together … becoming real friends … not just women who like to sew together. And it does seem to me as if someone could be orchestrating the whole thing.”

“Poor Prudence,” Sara said after a moment. “I don't imagine she had any true friendships.”

“Aren't we the lucky ones, then?” Martha offered as they passed through the dark and rapidly cooling house.

K
ATE
awakened during the night, sat up, drew her quilt over her shoulders, and stared at the flickering fire. Around her the others were sleeping peaceably: Sara, snoring ever so softly, an old lady's genteel and guttural wheeze; Martha mumbling something that sounded like a rote recitation of Lawson's breakfast menu.

Kate's eyes began to roam the room and the nestled forms stretched out at the bases of Chippendale tables and tallboys. It was an incongruous sight: snoozing bodies littering White Caps' formal sitting room. Kate smiled to herself, then realized suddenly what made the picture so special. Moonlight raked the floor, spilling across torsos and heads. Moonlight! Which meant that the snow had stopped. Quietly, she extricated herself from sheets and eiderdown, and tiptoed to the cold windows.

Outside, the world glittered. Reflecting the sky, the lawn and gardens spiraled headily past trees and bushes, creating eddies of coal-black shadow against a white so glaring it almost hurt the eyes. It was a magical landscape, and it conjured up for Kate her favorite childhood poem,
The Night Before Christmas
. She smiled, thinking of how her eldest tried to recite it, changing: “gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below” to
“obich deblow.”
Then the happy expression turned downward in worry and confusion. She leaned closer to the icy glass, her breath creating crystals on the pane.

DiAnne stood beside her with an arm firmly around her shoulders before Kate realized anyone from the group was awake. “You love Andrew, don't you, Kate?”

“Oh, yes!”

“And he loves you.” DiAnne's words were half-question, half-statement, but Kate's response was merely to hang her head further.

“Okay, let's step back a bit. Why wouldn't he love you?”

“Well … I'm not a terrific housekeeper … and suppers with the kids can get pretty chaotic—”

“Is Andrew a neatnik?”

Kate smiled. “Not by a long shot.”

“Okay … What makes you think he values tidiness?”

“His mom's house—”

“You're his wife, not his mother.”

Kate thought. DiAnne continued. “And what about those ‘chaotic suppers'? Do you enjoy them?”

“Sure!”

“Really?”

“Well … most of the time … but sometimes … well, there's nothing anyone can do about it. Kids are kids.”

“That's where you're wrong, Kate. Kids
are
kids, but you and Andrew are adults; and adults and children can have very different ways of enjoying themselves … Now, I've got a suggestion. You can take it or leave it, but here goes: Why don't you and Andrew organize a once-a-week outing; call it a date—”

“But we're married, not—”

“A date to see a movie, maybe grab a bite to afterward … a time that will be yours as a
couple
, not solely as parents.”

“But what if Andy doesn't want to? What if he keeps leaving because he truly doesn't want to be bogged down with a family?”

“My hunch is that he doesn't know how to talk about what's bugging him. Maybe he's feeling overwhelmed but doesn't want to burden you. I'm not saying he's right by pulling a disappearing act—not by a long shot. I know how much his behavior troubles you but, well, what can I say? Men aren't as comfortable as women with expressing their emotions—even if they can identify them. And that's a big
if
.”

Kate pondered DiAnne's words while the older woman continued. “You and Andy are both young; you've got a lot on your plates. You're going to have a good deal more soon. If I'm wrong about his motives … well, let's cross that bridge
if
we come to it. And I don't believe we will.” She gave Kate's shoulder a squeeze.

“How did you become so smart, DiAnne?”

“Trial and error, and a
lot
of mistakes—including the biggie I mentioned earlier.”

“But you make everything seem so easy … No, that's not exactly what I mean … You—and Sara—you both appear so self-assured, so capable, so
steady
. No one on the outside would ever guess you were hurting.”

“Generations of Waspy New Englanders … It's how we were raised: demure manners, carefully modulated voices, ready smiles—which is a crock, really, 'cause no one ever realizes you're in need or in pain.”

Kate nodded. “And you and Frank?”

“What I did was a long time ago. Strange to say, but I feel it made me a better wife. It certainly made me appreciate my husband a heck of a lot more … I guess that's the basis of any good marriage: valuing—and honoring—your spouse. Giving one hundred percent on both sides.”

“I'm glad Prudence Pierce brought us together.”

“And I'm glad you love your family, and that you show it, Kate. Because at the end of the day—or of a life—that's what counts. It may be the only thing that does.”

Kate hugged DiAnne, who hugged her back. “I'm sorry our needlework is almost finished, DiAnne. We won't have a reason to be together—”

“We'll just have to find a new excuse.”

M
ORNING
found Sara's sitting room cold, but awash in the ebullient sunlight that follows a snowstorm, that follows any storm.

“Brrr …” Weezie said, rising slowly. Still wrapped in her quilt, she placed another log on the fire's fading embers, then broke up kindling, rolled newspapers, and proceeded to build the blaze.

“Coffee? Coffee, please; someone find coffee …” Martha muttered. Her entire head was under her covers.

“Don't tell me you're not a morning person,” Weezie wisecracked. “What time do you get into Lawson's each morning? Five-thirty—six
A.M.
?”