Thank God for my mother. I can’t imagine what I’d have done without her.
Do you ever think about our former life, how safe it seemed? With the war ended, we thought all danger was behind us. Nothing ahead but prosperity and children growing older. I have never been so afraid in my life as I was the night of the fire. When they came to rescue us, my arms and legs wouldn’t move, and they had to slip Claire and Tom from under my arms. Please tell Tim that I don’t begrudge the fire department rescuing you first. Not one bit!!
If I know you, you are focused on only one sentence in this entire letter, and that if you were here, you’d be asking, Which one? All I can tell you is that the music was sublime.
Love and kisses,
Grace
Dear Grace,
You know me so well. Have you really never heard from the musician again? You will, you will, I am sure of it. But it would be best for you if it happened after Gene was declared dead—what a horrible thing to hope for.
But I’m happy for you. When you come to visit, a fantasy I persist in believing, you will tell me everything. Every tiny detail!
Winters in Nova Scotia are harsh, what can I say. You and I used to complain about the wind off the water in Maine! This winter, you could magnify that by ten. Our hats have to be buttoned under the chin, our coats belted. I dare not take the children out unless they’re tied to me. Tim is now part owner of a Ford dealership, thanks to a gift of money from my parents. We had to decide between the down payment on a house or the business. We chose the business, reasoning that Tim could make enough money so that in a year’s time we could put down our own deposit. But I have to tell you, he entered the business at the wrong time of year. There have been no sales since Christmas, and, truthfully, there aren’t a whole lot of cars in Nova Scotia. Tim is hoping that when spring comes, business will pick up and be strong over the summer. I can’t wait for spring, Grace. I think of last year, how we complained about all the rain. But at least it was better than this terrible moaning and whistling weather. I don’t know how the fishermen do it, but they are out on the water all the time. I hear of men dying more often than I should. Tim takes us for outings on Sundays, his day off, if the skies aren’t spitting sleet. Fortunately Tim’s mother has a washer and dryer, which I could hardly believe when I entered her house. (How we are relying on our mothers now!) Since the kids are a little older, I usually have a couple of hours to myself. I’m reading books and not just magazines, mainly because Tim’s mother doesn’t get magazines and she has a lot of books. Children’s books, too. I enjoy reading them to Ian and Eddie. I can’t wait for spring, for their sakes, too. They need to run! But then I’ll be terrified that one of them will fall into the water. It’s a very rocky shoreline.
I envy you your job. (I think even without the clue at the end of your letter, I would not have guessed the doctor. Too hazardous with a boss.) How I would like to have a new dress and be able to go into a store each day and sell…what?…gloves maybe. But I’d make it into work only half the time, since the snow piles in drifts here and the cars can’t get through. Grace, I have never been so cold in all my life!
I guess now we will always live in Nova Scotia. Tim’s business will tie him here for years. And now that our parents have got us back, I doubt they’ll let us leave without a fight. And truth to tell, there’s something in this way of life that appeals to me. It’s slow and though I sometimes long to go into Halifax, to a movie or to a nightclub, I feel in my bones that we were meant to be here. For one thing, my carrot top doesn’t stand out! I’ll have to join some kind of organization in the spring to meet people.
Some of my best times were when we were out in the yard with the kids.
Love from your Rosie.
Dr. Lighthart
“How was the skiing?” Grace asks, shrugging off her coat at the office. It’s Monday, nearly noon.
“Spectacular. How did you do on your driver’s test?”
“I can drive your car legally,” she answers.
“Good for you. You’d better put your coat back on then. Here are the keys. You’ve made a list? Stupid question. Of course you have.”
“Are you happy here running the clinic?” the doctor asks the next day in the kitchen.
“I don’t run it, you do.”
“Nonsense,” he says. “Amy would agree with me.”
Amy and Dr. Lighthart can’t take their lunch breaks together. Ideally, none of them should, but Grace was already in the kitchen when Dr. Lighthart entered, washed his hands for a long time, and dried them on a clean dish towel. “I don’t want to sound like a parent, but do you wash your hands thoroughly before you eat here and when you leave for the day?”
She smiles. “I, too, have heard of the germ theory.”
“I deserved that.”
“Who makes your lunches?” she asks.
“I’ve hired a woman to provide food for the clinic when needed. She prepares my lunch and dinner, and I put my own breakfast together. Today it’s…drumroll…roast beef!”
Grace would die for a roast beef sandwich. With mustard. “You’re still living here.”
“I haven’t had a minute to look for a place. I think I’ll be stuck here forever.”
She likes the way he crosses his long legs. He has an elegance to his masculine frame that was either learned or inherited. “You must be making money,” she says.
“Well, I appear to be, now that you’ve uncovered a treasure trove in cash and checks in all that mess out front. Most of that will have to go back into the clinic, for supplies and so on. Amy’s salary.”
“Anything left over for you?”
“I hope so.”
“Maybe I could get the newspaper in the morning and look through the classifieds for you, call the landlords and ask them some questions.”
He takes a sip of water. “You’d do that for me?”
“What sort of place are you looking for?”
“A one-bedroom, not too far from here so that I could walk to work if I had to. I like a lot of windows. And all the regular things—heat, good hot water, electricity, some privacy, a bathroom to myself, a kitchen.”
“Furnished or unfurnished?”
“Furnished.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she says as she finishes her sandwich.
“The Soviet Union has begun to jam broadcasts of the Voice of America,” he says, frowning.
Grace is startled by the abrupt change in subject. “Is it serious?”
“The VOA was the hope of freedom for thousands of people. Now there’s only silence.”
“Can the government do anything to override the jamming?”
“I think we’d have heard about it if they could. Do you listen to the radio?” he asks.
“I listened to the radio in your car when I went to get supplies.”
She doesn’t tell him that she was hoping for classical music. Instead, a soap opera was playing, and she became so involved in the plot that she missed the stationery store the first time she passed it. “That picture on your desk,” she says, spreading out the waxed paper to save, “is that your girlfriend?”
“No, she’s my brother’s wife, Elaine. He’s taking the picture. I sometimes go skiing with them and their kids. My nephews. Impossible to get a picture of all of us, since the kids are long gone the moment they hop off the J-bar.”
“Where do you ski?”
“Gunstock or Abenaki. They’re both about two and a half hours away,” he says, balling his waxed paper and trying for the basket, which he makes.
“Five hours driving. That’s a lot.”
“My brother has a place near Gunstock. If I have the time, I stay overnight with them.”
On clear days, Grace can see Mt. Washington in New Hampshire to the west from the top floor of Merle’s house. Majestic when the sun sets, lighting the snow ablaze.
“Someday you’ll go skiing with me,” he declares.
“I highly doubt that.”
“I keep the photo on my desk to discourage patients I see in my office from trying to fix me up. When they ask if it’s my girlfriend, I say yes, and the conversation usually ends there.”