“I don’t know why she always talks about me as if I’m not in the room.”
Callie had been wondering the same thing. “Do you want to come to Pride’s Heart for Christmas dinner, Rose? The Whitings would love to have you.” Paul had already run the idea by Emily. “Can I tell them you’ll come?”
“I don’t know. It depends.”
“On what?”
“What they’re serving for dinner, and what I’d have to wear.”
“Don’t worry about your clothes,” Callie said. Rose’s concerns weren’t that different from the ones she herself had raised about the Thanksgiving invitation. If anyone met Rose for the first time at this moment, she would seem normal. Callie’s heart swelled as she allowed herself the thought: Maybe Rose is coming back. “It’s not formal. You can wear what you have on now. And I’ll come by early and do your hair.”
“Will they have pie?”
Callie laughed. “I’m sure they will.”
Rose smiled. “I like pie.”
“So that’s a yes? You’ll come to Pride’s Heart?”
Rose shrugged. “Well, I’m not staying here. That’s for damned sure.”
“It’s a pretty good deal if you think about it,” Paul declared, taking a bite of the lobster Newburg that the cook had prepared. “Marta pays no rent and no taxes. The land is maintained by our grounds crew—with the exception of her kitchen garden. All she’s required to do these days is participate in the house tour. She could do worse. And she’s complaining?”
“I don’t know where you got the idea that Marta’s complaining,” Emily corrected her son. “She’s been very gracious about the whole thing.”
“As she should be,” Paul said.
Finn said nothing but helped himself to another glass of Meursault.
For the last few days, all anyone had been talking about was the Holiday House Tour scheduled for Saturday. Paul had filled Callie in on Marta’s backstory. Evidently, the Whitings had owned the land Marta’s house was situated on since the time of the witch trials, when Marta’s ancestor couldn’t pay her incarceration fees. This had been a long-standing sore point for the Hathornes, who had been granted generational life rights to the house itself. There had been various prices extracted over the years for the arrangement, some in the form of labor, some less tangible. In recent years, participation in the house tour was all that was required.
Tonight, as usual, the spacious dining room was lit mostly by candlelight, the sterling chandelier that hung over the center of the room had been dimmed to emit the same simple glow as the candles themselves. Already there were signs of the impending tour. A flower designer from Ipswich and his staff of four had been at work all day, placing arrangements in strategic nooks and on table surfaces. Tomorrow they were expecting another designer, this time from Boston, who had created handmade ornaments for the massive two-story spruce that lay prone in the foyer, surrounded by six humidifiers, all puffing steamy fog through the entryway and into the library. Earlier today, Emily’s own team had lowered and polished the sterling chandelier and the wall sconces that ringed the room.
In the midst of all the activity Emily had insisted that both Paul and Callie join them for the last lobster of the season. The Whitings’ traps sat just off the rocks, and tomorrow they would be pulled out of the water for maintenance and winter storage.
“The Newburg is very good tonight,” Emily said. Darren stood next to her offering a second helping, something she accepted. “My compliments to Hildy.”
Callie was happy to see Emily’s appetite returning; it was a good sign.
“You’ll enjoy the tour, Callie,” Emily said.
“I’m looking forward to it,” Callie said.
“Did you ask Rose about Christmas?” Paul asked Callie.
“I did,” Callie said, turning to Emily. “She said she’d love to come. Especially if you’re serving pie.”
“What’s this?” Finn asked.
“I’ve invited Rose Whelan to join us for Christmas dinner,” Emily said. “Does she have a favorite pie?”
“I don’t understand,” Finn said.
“Callie has invited Rose Whelan to join us for Christmas dinner,” Paul said to his father. “And Rose has accepted. And evidently Rose is fond of pie.”
Finn said nothing.
“Hildy makes a delicious mince pie as well as all the sweet ones. Do you think Rose likes savories?”
“I’ll ask her.” Callie smiled, thinking about her earlier conversation with Rose. She wouldn’t agree to come without the promise of pie. Now there would be pies, plural.
“Why didn’t you ask me before you invited extra people?” Finn said to Emily.
“It’s not extra people. Rose is Callie’s aunt. And I’m not in the habit of getting your permission before I invite dinner guests.”
“Marta won’t want to come if that woman is here. Nor will any of our other guests.” He looked not at Callie but directly at his wife.
“Marta Hathorne and any other guests you’ve apparently invited without informing me are all still most welcome.”
“They’re not going to feel comfortable with a crazy homeless woman sitting at our table.”
“Then you should tell them not to come.” Emily rose from her seat, placed her napkin carefully on the table, and walked out of the room.
A few seconds later, Finn stood, leaving Paul and Callie without a word, walking out of the house and slamming the heavy front door behind him.
As soon as his parents were gone, Paul moved to a seat closer to Callie. He wasn’t fazed by the scene they’d witnessed.
“What just happened?” Callie asked, staring at Paul.
“Don’t ask.”
“Where does it hurt?” Callie asked Emily the next morning.
Emily pointed to her right side. Callie played the bowls, targeting the third chakra, to address the liver. Emily was trying to relax into the sound, but she was weak and clearly in pain. She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position.
It was cold this morning, and Callie had come to the spa early to dial up the thermostat so Emily wouldn’t freeze. Emily was late, and, twenty minutes in, Callie had used the house phone to confirm that she was actually coming down.
“She’s on her way,” Darren said.
Callie was taken aback by the change in Emily’s appearance. She hadn’t slept. Her hair was uncombed, her makeup not applied. She was holding her right side as she stepped out of the elevator, and Callie had to help her onto the treatment table.
“Hang in there, Emily.” Callie played the second chakra, trying to move Emily’s energy down and out, the way she had been taught by an acupuncturist she’d worked with in Northampton. It wouldn’t budge. There was a sound she wasn’t reaching, she could feel it: a note in between the third and second chakras, between the clear E and D.
She began to sing, letting her voice slide downward from the solid E to the E flat and then another quarter tone lower, searching for the place where Emily’s pain lurked.