Vivien smiled. “That sounds nice,” she admitted.
It did sound nice. More than nice, Vivien thought. It sounded right. She and Lotte had been like family to each other ever since both of their parents had died during the influenza epidemic. By coincidence, they each had a spinster aunt who took them in. By coincidence, those aunts lived next door to each other in Pacific Heights. Although both of those women were loving and kind to the girls, Vivien and Lotte found comfort with each other. At night, Lotte always turned her nightlight on and off three times. And Vivien responded by doing the same. It was their way of saying Good night. I’m here.
Now of course Lotte was leaving San Francisco. Leaving Vivien. Lotte was starting a family of her own, with Robert and her china and silver. What was Vivien supposed to do by herself?
“What’s this friend’s name?” Vivien asked Lotte, a panic rising in her chest. “I’ll pay special attention to him.”
Perhaps that was what she should do. Fall in love with the vintner, move to Napa, manage a vineyard and have babies and keep Lotte close.
Lotte brightened. “Thomas,” she said.
“That’s a good strong name,” Vivien said, carefully unwrapping white tissue paper and lifting a crystal goblet from its nest there. “I always liked the name Thomas.”
“There,” Lotte said, her voice heavy with relief. “You’ll forget all about this other man. You’ll see.”
But it wasn’t infatuation. That’s what Vivien understood almost immediately when she saw David again. That very afternoon, as she and Lotte opened the wedding gifts, the doorbell rang and a letter was delivered for the woman in the blue hat, in care of Lotte.
“I had just two clues. Your friend’s name was Lotte and her bridal shower was at the Fenn Club. I trust this will find you and we can have our dinner together, though by now it has probably grown cold. Tonight? At eight-thirty? Yours, David Gardner, Esq.”
“You can’t go,” Lotte told her.
But of course, Vivien did.
Ah, David, Vivien thought, that too-familiar ache of sadness filling her.
Mechanically, Vivien collected the teacup and saucer, the small plate of cookies, from the table. She would wash them in the kitchen, then climb the stairs to her bedroom and take a long warm bath. She would enjoy a glass of Lotte’s wine, and climb into bed to read until she grew drowsy and could finally sleep. Her nights were often exactly like this one. But rather than causing boredom or loneliness, this solitary routine brought her comfort.
Vivien rinsed first the teacup, watching as the Earl Grey disappeared down the drain, then its saucer, both of them rimmed with a silver stripe. Her wedding china, she and David called it, even though there had never been a proper wedding. Exactly half of it had survived the earthquake. The irony of this was not lost on Vivien, herself a surviving half. Vivien took a cookie, a lacy Florentine, and nibbled it as she rinsed the plate. She realized she had not had any supper and considered making herself a little something. There were good fresh eggs in the icebox, and mushrooms, the dirt still clinging to them, waiting on the counter. Vivien imagined cracking two eggs in the cobalt blue bowl, and stirring them with some salt and pepper. She imagined wiping the mushrooms clean, slicing them, then sautéing them in butter.
In her mind, she could see the result, a golden omelet, earthy with mushrooms and a snip of the chives she grew on her windowsill. But instead, Vivien turned off the light in the kitchen and went upstairs. A book lay open on the night table. Without undressing, she picked it up and settled onto the bed. She could almost hear Lotte reprimanding her. Eat! Take a walk! Let the Italian man who adores you buy you dinner in town. She could hear Lotte telling her, You are wasting your life on a dream, Vivvie.
Vivien placed her finger on the page, and closed the book. If David had died, she thought for the millionth time, she would have felt it. She would have felt his life leaving. By now, he would have come to her somehow—in a dream, as a ghost, somehow. She shook her head, as if she were actually arguing with Lotte. He had to be out there. He had to. If not, then Lotte would be right. She had wasted so many years on the dream of him, on this sliver of hope.
These kinds of thoughts could keep her up all night, Vivien knew. She opened the book again, and forced herself to focus on the words there.
“I used to wish I could have this flattering dream about Antonia,” she read, “but I never did . . .”
And soon, Vivien was back in Willa Cather’s world, safely removed from her own.
TWO
Persons under the shock of genuine affliction are not only upset mentally but are all unbalanced physically. No matter how calm and controlled they seemingly may be, no one can under such circumstances be normal. Their disturbed circulation makes them cold, their distress makes them unstrung, sleepless. Persons they normally like, they often turn from.
—FROM Etiquette, BY EMILY POST, 1922