I didn’t see them again until we were all dressed for dinner, except at a distance. After a long conference in the theater, they went out in the army surplus Jeep Olivia had acquired a decade earlier to use on the farm, Press in shirtsleeves and a Panama hat, and J.C. in a studiously country casual outfit of khaki slacks and a bright orange belted safari jacket. One of her beautifully manicured hands held tight to the window frame of the Jeep as they left the rocky driveway; the other secured her own scarf-tied straw hat. I chanced to be in the butler’s pantry, near the window, as the Jeep bounced onto the rutted farm road and passed the springhouse on the way to the orchards. It had been months since I’d been out onto the farm. Even when I dropped by the orchardkeeper’s house with extra food or to visit with his sister, Shelley, who kept house for him, I preferred to leave the farm by the driveway and go around to the paved road that led to the tenant houses. Later, when I became more involved with the orchard operations, I changed my habits.
After Michael went down for his nap, I called the hospital to check on my father, but he was sleeping and I hung up feeling sad and empty. I was tired. Exhausted, really. But I didn’t want to sleep or particularly be alone.
Press had held me for a moment after he rushed home and I told him what had happened, and I felt the wall I’d put up between us shift the slightest bit. But I pulled away when he began to insist that I follow Nonie to Clareston. I almost told him about seeing Eva and Olivia, that I couldn’t possibly leave the house, leave them behind for that long, but I stopped myself. He seemed surprised when I refused, and I knew he was wondering what was wrong.
“Whatever you think best, Charlotte. I just worry that your father will be disappointed.”
Another unkind observation. I was getting used to his small cruelties, and couldn’t help but think again that he simply wished me out of the house while J.C. was there.
Taking my garden basket and some clippers, I went out the mudroom door to the herb garden, thinking I would trim back the oregano and thyme’s fall growth. I stood for a moment with my eyes closed, comforted by the warmth of the sunshine on my face. Just the day before, I’d been driving with Rachel in the Thunderbird and walking the pristine grounds of The Grange, but that seemed like days or even months ago.
We had part-time gardeners who handled the bigger gardens, but tending the herb garden was one of the few activities Olivia and I routinely shared. Marlene had been doing her best to keep up with what I hadn’t been up to doing in those past months, but she had many other jobs to do.
It was a formal hexagonal garden, the herbs separated into individual beds. Each bed had a permanent wood-burned marker, so if I wasn’t sure about something, I could look it up in one of the books in the family library. Marlene wasn’t a very adventurous cook and only used the oregano, thyme, rosemary, seasonal basil, and occasionally the sage. There was also peppermint for iced tea, and of course the lavender that Olivia put into the sachets that were nested in drawers and linen presses all over the house. I was no seamstress, but I was sure I could refill the hand-stitched sachets with dried lavender when it came time the next summer.
I had trimmed the thyme and had a small pile of pruned lavender stems in the garden cart when I looked up to see a man in paint-stained blue coveralls standing silently on the porch a couple of dozen feet away from where I knelt.
He was older than most of the workmen I’d seen coming and going from the theater, perhaps even older than the foreman, who looked about fifty. (But then, so many people over thirty seemed to be “about fifty” when I was young.) His paint-stained coveralls were old-fashioned, with straps like a farmer’s overalls; and though his shirt was a brilliant, unstained white, there was a smell of turpentine and ash about him. Not woodsmoke but coal, as though he worked around coal fires.
“Yes? Can I help you? The entrance to the theater is on the other side of the house.”
“I was told to ask for the missus. Ain’t you the missus?”
“I’m Mrs. Bliss.”
“You have a job for me?”
“Oh, you must be here about the ballroom.” I was surprised, but suddenly excited. Press had said he would think about it. I wondered if, somehow, J.C. had been involved in his decision to let me go ahead with the playroom. It didn’t matter. I was just glad.
The man nodded. “You tell me what color you want, and I’ll take care of it for you.” When he smiled, he showed only the very front of his teeth as though his mouth wouldn’t open easily. His leathery skin appeared stretched tight over his face and head, like Terrance’s. I wasn’t certain, but he also seemed to be bald beneath his painter’s cap. Perhaps I should forgive myself for being na?ve, but I noticed and then promptly ignored the lifeless aspect of his watery blue eyes. I wanted what I wanted, and what I wanted right then was something good to happen.
I stood up, took off my gardening glove, and offered my hand.
He was enormously tall, his hand surprisingly soft and much cooler than my own. Again, the painful half-smile.
“Abram, ma’am.”
The color. With a flash of irritation, I realized that I might have asked J.C. for suggestions about the exact color I was looking for. If only he’d brought a brochure or some kind of samples.
“I want the walls to be white. Not bright white, but softer. Like. . . .” I closed my eyes searching for a word. An image.
“Like new butter? Or cow’s cream?”
Cow’s cream was the exact image that had come to my mind. Staring into the milk pitcher on my grandmother’s kitchen table after her neighbor had brought some Jersey cow’s milk over for our dinner as a treat for me, the cream floating on top like a soft, shapeless continent.
“How did you know?”
“Everyone wants cream. It’s a very popular color.”