The Stars Are Fire



As soon as they arrive at the hotel, Grace highlights her ears with rhinestone earrings and applies red lipstick to match her shoes and handbag.

“Nice,” says Rosie as she emerges from the bathroom.

After the appointment with the manicurist, it seems they shop for hours, stopping only to have a tea. Rosie takes her shoes off and sticks them among a half dozen packages under the table. “Most of what I bought was for the children,” she says, sighing.

“It’s too bad that mint satin with that gorgeous waist was already spoken for. The shawl collar was perfect on you.”

“But where would I have worn it?” Rosie asks, slipping a cigarette from its pack. “Want one?”

“Rosie, you’re not playing the game. You’re supposed to buy it because it’s beautiful and someday you might have a chance to wear it,” says Grace, who takes a lit cigarette and inhales deeply. “These are your rules, by the way. I didn’t buy one thing for the children, and I’m feeling guilty.”

“There’s tomorrow.”

“Teahouse scones are always better than the ones you can make at home,” muses Grace, taking a good-size bite. The ham sandwiches they had on the bus barely constituted lunch.

“Put the cream and jam on them,” Rosie advises. “They’ll be even better.”

“You’re not eating?”

“Oh, I will, believe me. Just resting my dogs.”

Grace’s feet hurt, too, but it’s a point of pride not to remove her shoes in a public place.

“Now see that man over there at the banquette?” comments Rosie in a low tone. “Don’t look now. I think he’s exceptionally handsome.”

“You shouldn’t be looking,” Grace chastises lightly. “You’re married.”

“I’m not looking for me.”

“You’re looking for me?” Grace asks, surprised.

“You need a man,” her friend says.

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t do that.”

“The statute of limitations has run out.”

“I don’t want a man,” Grace explains, “and that’s the truth. And I really, really don’t want to be married.”

“Look,” says Rosie, taking a bite of her scone, “you had a bad experience. Get over it.”

“I am over it. I just don’t want the complications.”

“You’re afraid because you think you’ll get another raw deal.”

“I’m not afraid. I like being a single mother. I don’t pine for a man or a marriage. I like my own bed. I’m proud of the life I’ve made.”


They walk through a park so green that Grace has difficulty believing in it. Their heels click on the pavement and stick in the gravel. Around them, tulips in provocative colors compete with the dresses of strolling women. They come across a boy in a red cap and bow tie, a dark man in a powder blue linen suit. Grace and Rosie have on dresses with wide full skirts and have to walk a few inches farther apart than they normally would. Grace admires the park—how can she not?—but she’s developed an antipathy to nature in confinement. Banks of perfectly spaced tulips, hedgerows precisely clipped, conical mazes of rosebushes that haven’t yet bloomed fail to delight her in the way they once did. She prefers her garden at home, the one cultivated so close to the sea that the wind whips every bush and flower to its will. She prefers her long and wild forsythia to the neatly pruned balls through which they meander.


The sun sets cold on them, and Grace wishes she’d brought something more substantial than her sweater. She’s both frigid and ravenous when they step into the dining room, where a fire is lit; Halifax is a schizophrenic city this time of year. When seated, they order winter drinks—Manhattans—not yet ready for summer’s gin and fizz.

Grace scans the room. The clothes on the diners are not as fashionably cut or as rich in material as those in Merle Holland’s closet (are they still in her closet?), but they’re a step up from Sunday best. She catches glimpses of yellow chiffon, a gold watch, and earrings so dazzling they might be real diamonds. She notes draped hands with long, painted fingernails. Grace’s, too, are newly red to match her shoes, and sometimes, when her hand crosses her line of sight, she’s startled by the shiny color. The nails make satisfying clicks on the smooth surface of the table.

“Date night,” Rosie asserts as she sips her drink.

“Don’t you think they’re tourists like ourselves?”

“A little soon for tourists. The weather is too unpredictable. People don’t come until mid-June. Tim and I pretend when we come here that we’re on a date, but you can’t really. Most of the time we just end up talking about the kids, or drinking too much to make the evening feel festive.”

“But you and Tim are so good together!”

“Oh, we are. But, you know, a marriage is a marriage.”

“I’m surprised we haven’t talked about the children,” Grace says.

“Not till tomorrow. And maybe not even tomorrow.”

Rosie offers a cigarette to Grace, who shakes her head. “It’ll steal my appetite, and I plan to indulge tonight.” She orders a shrimp cocktail, a bowl of vichyssoise, and a steak, medium-rare, which comes with scalloped potatoes, carrots, and peas. She and Rosie split a baked Alaska for dessert.

“We’d better walk a mile,” groans Rosie. “My dress is about to bust its seams.”

“Then we’d better walk fast,” adds Grace, contemplating the night temperatures.

“We could ask the waiter to order us a taxi.”

“Come on,” says Grace, standing, “we’re tougher than that.”


They walk with heads bent into a cold wind off the water.

“Want to go dancing?” Rosie asks.

“Tomorrow maybe. It’s been a long day. I was up at four. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Too excited?”

The wind picks up. Conversation comes in fits and starts and then is carried away on gusts.

Grace passes a granite building and stops. She puts a hand on a column. She bends, unable to straighten.

Rosie, fifty feet ahead of her, realizes Grace’s absence and returns. “What’s wrong?” she cries, running the last twenty feet.

Grace, unable to speak, not wanting to speak, shakes her head. She knows the moment Rosie understands because she says, “Oh my.”

Grace stands, gathering herself. “I want to see,” she says. “I want to hear.”

Rosie checks her watch and then the poster. “It’s half over. I’ll see if we can get in.”

Grace follows Rosie into an ornate lobby. Though her mind is spinning, she’s aware of massive doors, parquet floors, and a ticket booth where Rosie is talking and gesturing.

“We can go in during intermission,” Rosie says when she reaches Grace. “But,” she adds, sounding hesitant, even wary, “are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.”


Doors open, cigarettes are lit, a crowd rushes for the bar. Rosie leads Grace through an entry and hunts for seats together. The hall is grand with gold leaf carvings, red velvet booths, and a large crystal chandelier. Grace fixes on the impossibly long black piano being rolled onto the stage.

“Breathe,” Rosie says when they are seated.

“I’m fine.”

Rosie raises an eyebrow, removes a compact from her handbag, and reapplies her lipstick. Grace clutches her hands together to stop the shaking.

The lights dim. The conductor threads through the orchestra to great applause. Then the soloist, dressed in a black tuxedo, his hair thick and longer than she remembers, sits in front of the sleek machine and waits.

A hush of anticipation.

“Breathe,” whispers Rosie.

Grace hears the haunting, piercing notes of a French horn and the beautiful reply of the piano. She has listened to the record dozens of times. She can’t see Aidan’s body or his hands, but she can just make out his face and shoulders.

Anita Shreve's books