chapter forty-nine.

Rose came home for supper the next day. She dropped her book bag in the middle of the room. She said to Elsie, "That's her car, isn't it? That's Deirdre O'Malley's jeep."

Elsie pointed toward the upstairs room. Rose said, "Come into my room."

Elsie said, "Pick up your bag and take your boots off."

When Rose got Elsie into her room and shut the door, she whispered explosively, "Mo-om! Are you out of your mind?"

"Calm down, Rose."

Rose looked out the window, breathed a deep breath, crossed to her desk, and sat down, a study in rigid calm.

Elsie said, "What is it?" Rose put her fingertips to her temples, and Elsie said, "Quit acting. I've got to get back to making supper."

"Then I'll put it as simply as I can." Rose clasped her hands and stared at them for another second. "Charlie and Deirdre. You've got that? Deirdre in May's house. Deirdre takes out my boat without asking. I'm getting all this from Tom, by the way. Who thinks it's funny, but we all know Tom. May says something, we're not sure what. Deirdre leaves in a noisy huff. Now Charlie and May are in a silent huff."

"When did you see Tom?"

Rose raised her fingers as if to say "Don't interrupt" but allowed the question. "Tom gives me a ride home every so often. The point is this: this afternoon Deirdre left a note in their mailbox telling Charlie she's staying here. Tom says he's not sure how that came out, which I imagine means that Charlie told Tom and Tom let it slip." Rose said this last phrase with the same theatrical head tilt and eyebrow lift as the first time. "The point is, Mom, that you shouldn't get in the middle of it. You shouldn't be in it at all."

Elsie had been distracted by her irritation with Rose, but all that snuffed out in a cold second.

Elsie sat down on Rose's bed. Rose put her elbow on the arm of her chair, pressed her knees together, and swung them to point at Elsie. Rose said, "May has really been good about-" and Elsie said, "All right, all right."

After a moment Elsie said, "I can't just tell Deirdre ... I mean, I've told her she could stay another night. I can't just kick her out. Maybe tomorrow she can ... She seems to know the Wormsleys."

"No," Rose said. "Charlie's jealous of Walt and her."

"Oh?"

"Tom told me. She knows Phoebe, but she can't go there because Phoebe's best friends with May. I mean, face it, Mom-we live in a tiny ecosystem."

Elsie would have laughed at this last bit of Rose's making herself a wise little watch-bird, but on the main point Rose had seriously set her straight. "Wait," Elsie said. "Doesn't Charlie have a room over in Narragansett?"

"He gave it up when he sailed on the Trident. It was supposed to be a long trip. But Deirdre could find something for herself. I mean, it's her problem. Of course, she's used to parking herself on people-at least that's what Tom said."

"How does Tom know so much?"

Rose gave a little sigh. "Mom-he works with Walt Wormsley. They see each other every day. Can you give me a ride back to school after supper?"

"Do you have rehearsal every night?"

"No. I'm signed up for the piano room. I told you I was taking piano. Remember?"

Elsie wasn't sure, but she nodded. She said, "You'll be nice at supper ..."

"I'll be adorable," Rose said. She got up and curtsied. She sang, "On the good ship Lollipop ..."

Elsie was exhausted.

chapter fifty.

May cried when Charlie moved out. She blamed herself. She blamed Deirdre, too, but mainly herself. d.i.c.k didn't catch her crying, but when he was getting ready to take Spartina out, when it wasn't yet first light, when he was standing by the door with his gear, he must have noticed that she'd be alone in the house. He said, "Did you think Charlie was going to move back home for good? There's no cause for you to go on blaming your fussing at Deirdre. It's natural he wants his own place. He'll come to visit soon enough." d.i.c.k was being reasonable, and May tried to be grateful. d.i.c.k said, "You can like or not like Deirdre O'Malley, but she got Charlie back here, and his being here turned out better than I could guess. He's coming out on Spartina." Still reasonable but with less of an eye on May. He tucked his logbook under one arm and picked up his sea bag.

May said, "Charlie didn't want to go on being mad at you. He just didn't see how to come back halfway." d.i.c.k dropped his chin. She let him think for a bit. She hoped he might think of what was wrong with his going off by himself to Boston, but most likely he was already feeling Spartina under his feet.

He surprised her. He said, "I shouldn't ever have been uneasy about you taking such a liking to Rose. I don't think I said anything-"

"You did."

"Then I shouldn't have. It's good how Tom and Rose get along. And Rose coming round to see Charlie as often as she did ... Without you being the way you are with her, she wouldn't be the boys' sister."

She heard the thump of his bag in the bed of the pickup, the cab door slam, the engine catch, the crunch of gravel. He was off to sea, and she was standing on a patch of land. It might as well be an island, a dot on his chart he could put his finger on by tracing the lat.i.tude and longitude, coordinates he'd noted in his logbook.

She should be glad. She should be glad he'd said what he said, but she felt more alone than ever.

chapter fifty-one.

Elsie liked her days at Miss Perry's house-the walk down the driveway surrounded by sunlight and the first pale green shimmer of budding trees, her second cup of coffee in Miss Perry's kitchen, the smell of wood as Eddie and Walt set to work turning a new banister, or planing a piece of window frame. The lathe was outside under a tent that fitted off the back of a van, but the smell blew in the front door. Elsie made sketches of the new floor plans for the upper rooms, lists of the pieces of furniture that would stay or go, happy to be interrupted by Eddie. Yes, the stone garden house needed a new door. The coping of the garden wall-Walt could take care of that.

In the afternoon Elsie put in an hour or so on the garden, uprooting the brambles and maple saplings crowding the rhododendron, boxwood, and old flower beds. Then she'd go round the house, leave her dirty boots by the front door, and pad into the kitchen in her stocking feet for an end-of-the-day talk with Eddie and Walt. Part of her pleasure was that she liked the way the work was going. Another part of her pleasure was spending the day with two men. Nothing electric, just a low-grade amiability. She wore work clothes, jeans and a denim shirt or her old uniform, but each morning, after Rose left for school, she took a look in the mirror.

Jack showed up once, but it didn't spoil her day. He came down from the third floor and said to Eddie that he didn't see why it was necessary to put a dormer window in the attic room that was being made into a single. Why not put in a skylight and save some time and money?

"You could bring that up with Elsie." Eddie tipped his head toward her. "All I know is the boss lady's on budget."

"Fire code," Elsie said. "All the upper rooms have to have a working window and some kind of ladder."

"We got hold of some chain-link ladders," Walt said. "They fold up in a wooden box, makes a nice window seat. Bolt the top rung to a floor joist through the bottom."

"So," Elsie said, "we don't even reach the aesthetic."

"Good," Jack said. "Sensible."

Walt said, "Otherwise we'd have to put up a big, ugly fire escape."

"I think he's got it," Elsie said.

"You're doing good work, Eddie," Jack said. "As always."

Phoebe also showed up once. Eddie beamed. Walt scowled. Elsie took Walt by the elbow and led him into the garden. She said, "I know. But take a deep breath and-"

"Yes ma'am, boss lady."

"You can drop the 'boss lady.' It wasn't all that funny the first time."

"Yes, ma'am."

"That, too." Elsie looked back through the door to make sure Phoebe wasn't coming out. "Just let her float in and float out. Come on. The three of us are doing fine, so don't p.i.s.s your father off."

Walt sighed and sat down on a stone bench. Even sitting down he was almost as tall as Elsie. She said, "Does she always set you off like this? I mean, it's been years."

"No. Just sometimes. It's when she gets this extra-high note in her twitter. People think I'm worried about money. I don't give a s.h.i.t about the money. I wouldn't mind if she married him. I'd like her better if she married him. It's her having everything just how she wants it and giving off her twitters like she's all wide-eyed and helpless. h.e.l.l, I don't know. Sometimes I feel sorry for her. When I said she has everything how she wants it, that's not right. She has Dad all lined up, she's making plenty of money, but she wants to be a d.u.c.h.ess of South County. Like your sister, like Miss Perry. Ain't going to happen. Phoebe can play tennis at Sawtooth, she can get on committees to save the bay, she can do needlepoint for the Episcopal church. But she's stuck with Dad. She can't let him go 'cause he's the bread and b.u.t.ter, but then she can't let go hoping she'll get asked to the ball. Can't be much fun."

Elsie didn't say anything. Walt looked at his hand and ran his thumb over the calluses. She wondered if it was up to her to end the session, but Walt got up and said, "What do you think? Should we get the ivy off the wall? There's a couple of places it's pulling stones loose."

"Yeah. I'll put it on my list. You ready to go back in?"

"Yeah. You got me thinking, and that always slows me down."

Elsie laughed, then wasn't sure he'd made a joke. He didn't appear to mind. He said, "When Deirdre was staying with you, did you get to read any of that science fiction she's writing?" Elsie shook her head. "Maybe Phoebe's like a slave of the gla.s.s city."

Before Elsie could ask anything, she saw Eddie and Phoebe in the window of the kitchen door. Eddie held the door open and Phoebe stepped out, saying, "So there you two are! I won't stay a minute, I just had to check with Eddie-nothing to do with this, this is all gorgeous-though, of course, that's for you to say, Elsie. More to the point, I just saw your brother-in-law, I was taking a peek at the new dock Tom's putting in-Jack's completely happy about that-I mean, he tried to be grumpy, but that's just Jack. More to the point is that he's thinking of backing another production of Rose's operetta. For when the summer people show up at Sawtooth. Keep Rose but otherwise a professional cast. It's part of his plan to give Sawtooth a cultural dimension. I think it's a splendid idea, and I told him I'd help him any way I can."

Walt tried to catch Elsie's eye, but she wasn't amused by Phoebe; she was feeling the weight of another Jack incursion. She was already worried about Rose being spoiled by starring in her little play at school. She'd had in mind that Rose get a summer job-pick crabmeat at the processing plant, bag groceries, bus tables. Get her hands dirty. Let her see what her mother's life had been for twenty years. And what was Jack thinking, anyway? Throwing a barely sixteen-year-old girl in with a troupe of actors ...

Elsie sat down on the stone bench. It wasn't Jack. She could take Jack on any day of the week. It was the thought of herself at fifteen and sixteen-not so much what she'd got up to but how desperately sure she'd been that everyone was wrong about everything-that made her dizzily uncertain about taking on Rose. Rose was like her, Rose wasn't like her; she knew Rose, she didn't know Rose; Rose was a little girl, Rose was as fully armed as a grown-up; Rose was part of her, Rose was already out the door.

chapter fifty-two.

Elsie turned down offers to drive her to the school auditorium for the opening. Sally and Jack, Mary Scanlon. Walt Wormsley offered her a ride on his motorcycle. She walked, taking a slight detour through Miss Perry's walled garden. The daffodils were over, but the peonies were in full bloom. She hoped that the sight of these extravagant flowers swooning on their absurdly long stems would put her in the mood for a play. She didn't like plays, especially plays with music. She'd read the original She Stoops to Conquer without cracking a smile. Mary Scanlon had told her there was a knack to reading a play and that Elsie didn't have it. But then Mary told her that the playwright was Irish, so she discounted Mary's enthusiasm. Mary said, "But don't worry, it'll come to life when you see it. And Rose'll be fine-she's putting her sa.s.siness to good use for once."

"You've heard her?"

"She's come over to Sawtooth once or twice."

Of course she had.

Elsie got a smudge of rust on her hand tugging at the back gate. The gate popped open and hit her hip. She went back into the garden and kicked the head off a peony.

The auditorium was packed. Mary Scanlon waved to her and pointed to the seat she'd saved. Elsie saw d.i.c.k and May and Tom. A few rows back, Charlie and Deidre O'Malley. Eddie and Phoebe and Walt. All of them in their Sunday best, some of them doubtless a bit uncomfortable to be packed into a room with at least one other person who'd caused them pain or shame.

The house lights dimmed. Mary said, "You cut it pretty fine. Never mind, here you are."

The overture began. There was something like old-fashioned jazz, then something like a Charleston. Elsie couldn't see the musicians, but she thought she heard a banjo. Then there was a slower part with just a piano and either a clarinet or a soprano saxophone-Elsie couldn't tell them apart. Rose had played a recording of Sidney Bechet's "Shine" over and over until Elsie said, "Turn that d.a.m.n clarinet off!" Rose had corrected her. Later Rose had asked her how she'd ever managed to learn birdcalls with her tin ear.

Elsie told herself she would have one more grumpy thought and then she'd be a good sport.

The curtain went up on a bright room with white wicker furniture. A genuinely middle-aged man with a full head of white hair-a faculty member?-and a girl made up to be his middle-aged wife were quarreling. It was nothing like what Elsie had read. No "prithee," "fie," or "I protest, sir." All right-it was 1923, not 1773.

A boy in plus fours breezed through to say he was off to a roadhouse. His mother held on to his jacket and was dragged to her knees. The audience laughed. Elsie was reminded of another thing she didn't like about theater. Not just what if they forgot their lines, but what if they hurt themselves taking a pratfall? It was an annoying anxiety.

Elsie's mood changed when the father said, "And here comes my darling daughter." As Rose made her entrance, Elsie went cold with fear. Rose wasn't tucked away out of sight at the back of a church, she was under a giant eye. And then the audience was laughing at her. Rose trotted onstage with tiny steps. She came to a stop with a little hop and a shimmy that made her short beaded dress sparkle under the lights.

Elsie recovered when she saw that Rose wasn't undone. She thought, She's meant to be a dizzy flapper-headache band, her mouth lipsticked into a Betty Boop cupid's bow. And the father was getting a laugh-his eyes goggled, he put his hands to his head and sank into his chair.

"Oh, Daddy," Rose said. "It's what all the girls are wearing." She twirled her yard-long strand of pearls and caught it neatly.

The father sang a bit about girls these days. Rose knelt at his knee, looking sweetly submissive to this fict.i.tious father.

At first Elsie didn't know what this new sound was. Rose joined in the father's song so softly it sounded like a single voice. As they went on singing, Elsie heard Rose's voice more clearly. She seemed to be singing more notes than the man, but they ended together. The audience clapped, and there were a few cheers. Elsie looked at Mary. She was sitting completely still. Mary closed her eyes for a second, then made a note on her program.

Then came the setup: the gentleman caller and his pal were sent to the father's house but were told that it's an inn, and then a female cousin told Rose about the gentleman caller-he was so bashful that he stuttered. "With girls like you and me," the cousin said. "With other girls, it's a different story."

"You mean ... floozies?" Rose said.

"I mean anything in skirts to whom he has not been properly introduced."

And indeed when the cousin introduced him-properly-to Rose, the boy stuttered and stared at his feet. They sang a duet, the boy doing scales with his "Wha-wha-wha what was I trying to say?" while Rose trilled a tune. The boy left, and Rose did one of the other things that Elsie found unbelievable about theater-she made a speech to herself, the upshot of which was that she thought the boy handsome and she'd find some way to get him to behave like the roguish charmer he was said to be.

After another scene of folderol among the father, the mother, the cousin, and her beau, there was a blackout. The lights came up on a bedroom and the gentleman caller complaining about the inn's service-his bed wasn't even made. Rose came in carrying a load of bedclothes. She set about making the bed, more tidily and quickly than at home. But Elsie was struck by how good she looked in her maid's uniform-black dress and white bib ap.r.o.n belted tight around her small waist. She sang another duet with the boy. Elsie c.o.c.ked her head, pleased that she recognized that it was the same song as before, but this time the boy tenor sang the melody and Rose chirped the in-between bits: "Oh, no, no, no, you stay on your side." Elsie wondered just where and how Rose had come by this nimble coyness, the not knowing that their hands touched as they tucked in the sheet, the exact length of time to let his hand linger on her shoulder before it became a yes but not slipping away so quickly that it was a cold no. Rose's hair was tucked up into a maid's cap. Two broad ribbons hung down her back, bobbing and swirling as she flitted around the bed, apparently breathless but still singing.

They stopped singing. There was applause, which unsettled the boy in the middle of a spoken line. He stood openmouthed, looking panic-stricken. Rose curtsied to him and said, "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. Something about my palm."

"Oh, yeah," he said. Rose held up her hand. The boy clutched it and said, "I'm a palm reader. Your left hand shows what gifts you're born with. Any fool can see you're beautiful and charming, but the right hand shows how generous you'll be with your gifts in the future."

Rose tucked her hands behind her back and said, "I'm smaht enough to know the fu-cha you have in mind." The audience laughed. Elsie jerked back in her seat. It was broad swamp-Yankee. It was May's accent. It was May's. .h.i.tched vowels, May's deliberate rhythm. How could she do that to May? And to d.i.c.k. To her whole other family. Elsie burned. She was afraid of what May must be thinking. She was ashamed. And then she was angry again.

She had to sit through the rest of the d.a.m.n play, her anger congealing during the subplots, reheating when Rose did it again: "An inn? Whatevah gave you that idea? It's Mr. Hahdcastle's house." The audience brayed their laughs. Elsie wanted to slap them silly.

And then all was revealed. Rose was really the daughter of the house, the boy tenor was cured of his stutter, the cousin got her beau, everyone onstage for the finale, all singing how happy they were. The audience applauded, the curtains closed, more applause. The curtain opened, the singers took a bow all in a row, then two by two, then the white-haired father led Rose forward and stepped back to let her curtsy by herself. He took her hand again, and together they leaned forward and pointed, palms open, to the little orchestra. The curtains closed.

Over at last. Elsie wasn't furious anymore. She was pressed into a cold gloom so thick she couldn't move.