Her granddaughter took another nibble of cake. Like Alice on the other side of the looking glass. Now, what will this cake do, make her grow big or small?
Veronica chose a mint-green cake with a lavender iced flower. The fondant melted on her tongue and she hummed with pleasure. Sharing with the girl made it oodles more delicious. When had she last, truly, enjoyed a bite of food?
She lifted the heavy pot of tea. Rosalita’s eyes widened when she saw the delicate 24K-gold-rimmed saucer in Veronica’s shaky hand.
“Please, Veronica…” Rosalita paused. “Mrs. Pencott. Let me serve.”
How could she tell Rosalita that she yearned to hold the seashell-thin bone china once more before she died? The same cups she’d sipped from at her first formal tea with Bob’s mother almost sixty years ago. That tiny bluebird rising from its nest, off the porcelain and into the clouds.
“Thank you, Rosalita. Please do.”
When Rosalita left the sunroom, Maddie glanced around to be sure they were alone. “Why do you call Rosalita a girl?”
“Beg your pardon?”
The girl’s face went as pale as the milk in Bob’s great-aunt’s heirloom creamer. “I’m sorry. My dad’s always telling me to think before I speak.”
“Yes,” Veronica said. “That sounds just like the kind of advice men like to give women. Especially young women.”
Maddie smiled.
“And you haven’t offended me. Not at all. It is, however, a thought-provoking question.”
“Well, it’s just that…” Maddie began, and Veronica was pleased to see her granddaughter hadn’t backed away. With change marching toward the island like a horde of enemy troops, Veronica knew those too timid to stand their ground would be trampled.
“Ray,” Maddie continued, “gets to be called a man. And Rosalita—who is totally, like, ten years older than Ray—is called a girl. Weird, right?”
“Totally weird,” Veronica said with a straight face, enjoying the giggle it provoked from Maddie. “You’re spot-on. Women can be called girls and it barely seems an insult. But to call a man a boy … well, I’m sure wars have been waged over less.”
The girl looked pleased with herself in this new role as teacher.
“This is why I like you, Maddalena,” she said before sipping the oolong tea. “You’ve got—what is it they say these days? Balls?”
Maddie laughed, her hand flying to her mouth, too late to capture the lovely sound. She bumped the table and cream flooded the tray.
“Oh God, I am so sorry.”
The girl was on her hands and knees, using her napkin (Veronica had chosen an Irish set embroidered with periwinkle forget-me-nots) to soak up milk streaking the oriental rug. One Veronica had traveled all the way to Turkey to purchase.
“I knew I was going to do something like this. That I’d break something, or spill, or…”
Veronica silenced her by placing a hand between her narrow shoulder blades.
“Sit down, please,” she said softly. “Now, what would Oprah say?”
Maddie took her seat, smoothing her skirt.
“Life’s too short to cry over spilled milk?”
“Yes!” Veronica cheered. “And we shall call our new game What Would Oprah Say?”
“I love it!”
I think I love you, sweet girl.
Maddie’s hand hovered over another cake. She looked to Veronica, her feathery brows lifted.
“Eat them all! I can’t have your grandfather stuffing his face. Falling into a diabetic coma. Do you watch this Oprah show with your mother?”
Maddie turned the silver band on her finger. It took Veronica a moment to see the pattern—five to the right, five to the left.
“She’s been busy.”
“Doing?”
“Well, she wants to open a doll shop. Like, fancy dolls you stick on stands. In fancy outfits.” She thought for a moment. “Like Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With the Wind.”
Just like Ginny, Veronica thought, to have such a romantic, and absurd, idea.
“She’s been talking to investors. There’s a lot of interest.” Maddie nodded vigorously. As if she was trying to convince them both.
“I know she’s gone through a hard time.”
Maddie chewed her bottom lip. Veronica knew she was weighing the consequences of telling the truth.
“Anything you tell me in this sunroom”—Veronica waved at the trails of pachysandra and spider plants dangling above—“stays in this room. You can trust me.”
“Mom has … depression. She’s been seeing Dr. Murray in town.”
“The ex-tap-dancing chiropractor?”
“He’s also a social worker and they do, like, talk therapy.”
Oh the terrible things Ginny has surely said about her to that quack, Veronica thought. But she wanted the girl to continue. She needed Maddie to trust her, or her plan could not move forward. She was just about ready to mention the Marshall boy.
“You are compassionate. Other girls might feel—I don’t know—resentful?”
Maddie searched her face. Wary. As if the girl suspected a trap, and this made Veronica admire her. Was there anything more detestable than gullibility?
“And your father, well…”
She was interrupted by a sharp crack outside—so loud and seemingly close that she was sure a bird had flown into the sunroom window.
“That’s got to be Dom and the Colonel,” Maddie said. “Dom said they were having target practice today, but I didn’t believe him.”
“Your grandfather. He’s taking his anger out on those poor stewed-tomato cans. There’s been more vandalism. This time, God forbid, at the American Legion.”
“I heard. The post office too.”
“Believe me,” Veronica said. “When it comes to boys and their guns…”
“Dom’s a big sweetie,” Maddie said. “He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“I shouldn’t poison your heart against men just yet,” Veronica said. “They’ll do that all on their own. It’s amazing how much patience a girl can have with boys. And how little a woman has for men.”
She dabbed at her sweating upper lip with the Irish linen. “Never mind the bitter ramblings of an old lady. I did meet the most remarkable man the other night. At the dinner party. Believe it or not, he’s named after Caesar.”
Three more gunshots rattled the window and Veronica realized she was clenching her fist over the lump of scar tissue where her left breast had been.
“This man…” She struggled to continue but knew she couldn’t stop now. “He’s a connoisseur of the orchid. Of all things. And a Harvard man to boot.”
Recognition lit her granddaughter’s face.
“The Marshall man. The…” Maddie paused.
“It’s okay, dear. You can say it. He is black. We—and the rest of this island—are white. It is what it is.”