Out the Summerhill Road: A Novel

Daffodils

Part 2: 1980 • The Women of Cold Springs 79 Daffodils Sarah is late for bridge, but Sarah is often late. Betsy has opened the door to Isabel and Mary Martha who arrive at the same time. “Come in, girls,” she says. And how reassuring to Isabel, how comforting to have Betsy thinking of them as girls. “Gaynor’s in the kitchen,” Betsy continues. “She’ll be bringing in the elevenses. I think she’s right, you know. The morning should be simple, and I do love her high teas. It makes the afternoon nicer.” Betsy smiles, and the smile deepens the wrinkles around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes. But the dazed vacancy she had worn on her face after her son’s death is gone. Her gray hair has been cut short, but not as short as Gaynor’s, and “touched-up” so that it is now ash-blond. Today she is wearing black silk pants and a voluminous white silk shirt that billows out like a small parachute when she walks. Her voice is deeply hoarse, but of course it would be. For years she has tried to limit her smoking to one package of cigarettes a day. On this morning, Betsy has the air of a woman who is absolutely sure about her life. “Betsy, you look absolutely wonderful,” Isabel says. “Thank you, Isabel. And Mary Martha, I’m glad you decided to come today. I’m sure you’ll miss your dear Aunt Bossie. I remember when she went to Spain. In those days, hardly anybody traveled there! Now, here’s Gaynor,” she says, smiling brightly at Gaynor, bringing a tray of cookies and cups and saucers. A ray of sunlight, coming from a high window, strikes Gaynor’s red hair and the sparkling diamonds in her ears, the earrings her only jewelry except for a small carved silver ring she wears on her right hand. The white tailored shirt, the somewhat frayed riding pants and knee-high mucking boots 80 Out the Summerhill Road Gaynor is wearing make her look as if she’s just stepped off a horse. Isabel envies Gaynor her lack of interest in clothes. And, too, there’s this to envy: Gaynor looks like an aristocrat, or like Isabel’s idea of one, no matter what she’s wearing. “Good morning, Mary Martha. I see you’re even a little early today. No stops at the country market?” Gaynor asks, grinning wickedly. “I did stop there,” Mary Martha says, “and I brought some flowers for you. For you and Betsy.” Mary Martha has been standing with her hands behind her, holding the yellow flowers behind her flowered chiffon dress, and now she thrusts the bouquet into Gaynor’s hands. “They’re lovely. In Ireland we call them daffodils,” Gaynor says, burying her face in the flowers. “Betsy, aren’t they lovely?” When she lifts her face, astonishingly, her eyes are brimming with tears. “Please, won’t you excuse me?” she asks, hurrying from the room. Turning to Betsy, “What happened?” Mary Martha asks, her calm gray eyes focused on Betsy. “Was it the flowers? Did they upset her?” “It may have been the flowers,” Betsy says. “Gaynor told me that when she and Timothy were on their honeymoon, Timothy brought a picnic lunch and she brought a poem. Imagine. Bringing a poem to a picnic. It was about daffodils. She says daffodils grow wild over there, and they were in full bloom, whole fields of them.” Betsy is a tiny woman, but she stands so marvelously straight that she appears stalwart. Motioning them to sit down, she sits in a wingback chair (and in it she seems her usual tiny self), and crosses her legs. “It’s strange,” she muses. “But when Gaynor began to tell me about their life together, those few weeks they had together, her stories were a marvelous gift for me. Oh, for instance, telling me about their picnic Part 2: 1980 • The Women of Cold Springs 81 made it seem, somehow, as if Timmy had lived longer than he did live. Everything she told me about those last days, stories I hadn’t heard until Gaynor came, made his death a little easier. She made me know that Timothy lived long enough to fall in love and to marry the woman he loved. They had a little time together. Knowing all...