EVERY TIME RACHEL sees Mary, she is struck by how alike the two of them are—the same strawberry blond hair, the same parade of freckles across their arms and cheeks, even the same old wire-rimmed glasses, round ones that have bent over time and look slightly outdated; people often mistake them for sisters. Chasing Sofia up the steps to Mary’s house, Rachel considers this, the way they seem so alike, so close, but after five years of friendship, Rachel still feels slightly awkward coming here, to Mary’s house.
The house is a large Victorian, perfectly restored. It is a pleasant shade of pink, with a darker pink gingerbread trim. Inside, the rooms are dark and cool, the floors covered with Oriental rugs, the kitchen cupboards filled with the things one accumulates in married life—wedding gift soup tureens and espresso cups and parfait glasses, crystal vases that will be filled on Valentine’s Day and anniversaries, good china.
Perhaps that is what causes the feeling, Rachel thinks. Ever since her divorce three years ago, she and Sofia have lived on the top floor of a three family house in the iffier part of the city. In summer, now, the apartment is too hot and stuffy and Rachel imagines she can smell the remnants of every meal she has ever cooked there. They have no yard. Sofia’s room is too small to contain all the things a five-year-old needs, so that her dollhouse and play stove and drawing easel crowd the living room and kitchen.
Rachel hears Mary approaching; it always takes her a long time to answer the door. She will have been in the basement folding clothes, or upstairs braiding her daughter’s hair, or elbow deep in bread dough.
“Look at me, Sofia,” Rachel whispers.
Sofia looks up at her with red Kool-Aid rimmed lips. Her sweaty round face, dark eyes, tangled curls, break Rachel’s heart. She finds herself still angry at Peter for doing something as foolish and cliché as falling in love with his assistant. She finds herself angry at herself too. Three years later and she still has not found the right job, a better home, a new love.
The door creaks open, and there stands Mary—yes, it was bread she was making; there is flour on her shirt and in her hair—and her Sophia. It was what had brought them together in the first place: their daughters had the same name, though spelled differently, they later discovered. But that day in the supermarket—a day as hot as this one; Rachel had gone simply to cool off—when Mary had cooed to her daughter, Sophia, Sophia, you’re so good today, Rachel had blurted, Why, I have a Sofia too! and she’d pointed at her daughter, who was crushing a pint of strawberries, one by one. That was the summer Peter had moved out, the summer Sofia had meningitis and was in the hospital for two weeks, the summer that Rachel thought of as the time when everything changed.
But Mary is ushering them into the house, and stands in the foyer calling, “Sophia! They’re here!”
There is the smell of burned candles, the hushed air, the stream of light spilling through the stained glass window that presides over the house’s impressive double staircase. Rachel thinks of church.
“Can I go up?” Sofia asks. Her voice is hushed too, awed, as it always is when they enter Mary’s house. She holds on to Rachel’s clammy hand.
Mary smiles down at her. “Yes. Of course. Run right up.”
Upstairs Sophia has her own playroom, with dolls lined up on shelves and a small table always set up for a tea party.
Rachel thinks Mary looks too pink, flushed, perhaps. She is Italian, but fair, and her skin burns too easily in the sun. When she gardens, she wears long sleeves, an oversized straw hat. Rachel has seen her like that, working in her garden. I like to make things grow, Mary has told her. She has given Rachel shoots from her plants, small pots of herbs for her windowsill, but Rachel cannot make anything thrive. Her houseplants refuse to flourish, even with expensive potting soil, careful attention, love.
“Have you been gardening?” Rachel asks, following Mary through her maze of rooms—the formal living room, the family room, the library, the pantry, and then finally, the kitchen.
“Not today,” Mary says. “Too hot.”
The kitchen is overly bright, a sunshine yellow that Mary has told Rachel was common in Victorians. But it reminds Rachel of her own old dorm room. She and her roommate had painted the cinderblock walls a similar yellow with bright orange trim and put Indian bedspreads on their beds. When they got stoned at night, the room seemed to vibrate. It made them think of sunsets.
Mary pours two tall glasses of iced tea, and points to the bread cooling on the counter.
“I thought it would be ready by the time you got here but I’m moving so slowly,” she says.
Rachel laughs. They both know that Mary always gets everything done. She goes to church. She gives dinner parties. She works out every day.
“Right,” Rachel says. “Slow for you is still high speed for the rest of us.”
Mary leans toward Rachel, conspiratorially. “No,” she says, lowering her voice. “I am slow. You’ll never guess.”
Rachel shrugs, smiles. Mary often has announcements. She and Dan are going to India, or she’s heading a clothing drive for children’s winter coats, or Sophia is going to a certain private school. She shares all of this information like it’s top secret, as if Rachel is the only one she’s divulging the information to.