The Four Seasons. Mary Monroe Alice
and probably more compassionate, to others’ points of view. That would have prevented a few troubles in the past, I can assure you. Take my word and remember this—how you see the world may not agree with how others see it. But you have to accept that their observations are valid. So,” she said with a light tap of her nimble fingers on Jilly’s hand, “you are young and beautiful, my dear, and nothing you say will convince me otherwise.”
Jilly smiled, conceding the point. “For me, relative means my sisters. And let me tell you, do we ever see the world from different positions.”
“Ah, you’re going to see your sisters?”
Jilly nodded. “Yes. Well, two of them. My third sister just passed away. It’s her funeral that brings me home.”
“Your older sister?”
“The youngest. She was the baby, just thirty-two when she died. She had bad lungs and they gave out.”
“Oh, that is sad. Death is always so, but an early death is more tragic. You have my sympathy. Funerals can be very emotional, you know. Use this time to gather your strength.” With another gentle pat, the older woman turned her attention back to her book.
Jilly shifted in her seat. As she watched the amber-colored fluid swirl around little chunks of ice, her mind stumbled over thoughts of Merry. Dear little Merry, gone. She swallowed the Scotch and relished the smooth burn. It was strange to think of her thirty-two-year-old sister as little, but that’s how she always thought of Merry. Poor, poor Merry…Whenever Jilly looked into those sparkling, childlike eyes, she felt a stab of guilt in her abdomen so painful it drove her an ocean away.
Yet here she was, crossing that same ocean again. It was poetic justice that she was stuck in a holding pattern over O’Hare, she thought, twirling the ice, since her mind was going round and round the same old stories, the same old issues. Thirty years of circling…
Her thoughts were interrupted by the voice of the captain.
“Ladies and gentlemen, good news. The runway at O’Hare has been cleared and we’ve been given permission to land. Thank you for your patience. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. Stewards, prepare for landing.”
The sigh of relief was audible in the plane. Taking a deep breath, Jilly pulled her large Prada bag from under the seat and reached for her makeup. Polishing her face was second nature to her. It was an armor against an unfriendly world. In her compact mirror she saw the familiar green eyes staring back at her. They were once described as bedroom eyes, but now they were simply tired and hardened by experience. She dabbed at the mascara smudges under her eyes and smoothed blush onto her cheeks. Though still creamy and smooth, her skin was far from dewy. She stared at her face a moment longer, hating it.
Her move to Europe may have lessened the emotional intensity with distance, but it was never the cure. Each mile closer, each moment nearer to landing, she could feel the turbulence of her emotions rise closer to the surface.
After thirty years, Jillian Season was coming home to stay.
2
A HELLO BURST FROM ROSE’S LIPS as she swung the door wide to see Birdie, her nose red and her head tucked into her coat collar like a turtle.
“Come in! Come in, at last!” Rose cried out, feeling a heady joy and hugging Birdie tightly, relishing the feel of her sister’s arms around her, padded as they were by her thick coat. Birdie dwarfed Rose as she engulfed her in a long, firm embrace. Instantly they were ageless, bound by a shared childhood and years of history.
“Mother, I’m freezing!” cried Hannah.
The sisters laughed and stepped aside as the wind gusted, sending a spray of icy crystals in their faces. Rose shivered but held the door for Hannah, then waited for Dennis as he huffed and puffed up the stairs with the suitcases. Rose thought their faces were travel-weary as they filed past and she sensed a tension between them, as though they’d been arguing. She notched up her cheeriness, closing the heavy oak door behind them against the cold. They stomped the snow from their boots and slipped out of their coats and gloves, all the while delivering bullets of reports on the journey. Boy-oh-boy what a trip…back-to-back traffic…one accident after another…slippery…damn tollbooth backed up for miles.
Rose led them into the living room, where soft halos of yellow light from the lamps created a welcoming warmth and the scent of her roast beef and garlic permeated the wintry air. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played softly in the background—a family favorite.
On the table cheese, crackers and crudités, looking a bit tired after the long wait, awaited on silver trays. She was proud of her efforts to make the house comfortable, pleased to see the tension ease from their faces and color suffuse their cheeks.
“So many flowers!” Birdie exclaimed, eyes wide as she walked from table to table admiring the arrangements and pausing to read the cards.
“More come every day. Merry’s doctors, the neighbors, old friends of Mom and Dad’s, they all sent something. I didn’t know so many people cared about her. She didn’t see people much, but she obviously made an impression. I only wish she were here to enjoy them,” Rose added wistfully.
“Aunt Merry loved flowers,” Hannah ventured solemnly.
Rose nodded, noting the sullen expression on her niece’s face.
Birdie’s face was passive as she walked around the large living room, taking in the familiar twelve-foot ceilings, turrets, molding, quaint panes of glass and gorgeous woodwork. It was a shame, she thought, how far from grace this room had fallen. Growing up, the room had been a showcase of the craftsmanship of an age past. Now it was a gloomy house, muted, shuttered, even shabby. It was far too big a house—too expensive—for Rose and Merry to have lived in alone. It all but bled Merry’s trust fund dry. Several times she’d suggested that they sell it and move into a small, more manageable house. But that was unthinkable to Rose. She’d claimed Merry would be too upset to move and argued, rightfully, that private hospitals or homes would be as expensive, if not more. In truth, she knew the prospect of leaving the family home filled Rose with as much horror as it did Merry.
And Rose deserved every consideration. She certainly took her duty as caretaker to heart. The house, though falling down around their ears, was spotlessly clean. The brass fixtures gleamed, the wood was polished and smelled of soap, and all the beveled glass on the cabinets and the grand crystal chandelier sparkled. Yet with her mind on putting the house on the market, Birdie was looking at it with a cold and practical eye. They’d certainly have a lot of work to do before selling it.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” Rose asked, eager to make them comfortable. “Water? You all must be parched. Hannah, how about a Coke? Dennis?”
“A beer would be great if you’ve got it,” he replied, rubbing his hands.
“Nothing for me. I’m going upstairs,” Hannah called out, retreating as usual. “Where am I sleeping, Aunt Rose?”
“I put your parents in the guest room, so you can either sleep on the sofa bed in the library or in Merry’s room.”
“I’ll take the sofa bed.”
“I thought you might. You’ll find linen and blankets all ready for you.”
“You put me in the guest room?” Birdie asked, her brows raised in obvious pique.
Rose’s toes curled, but she nodded firmly and looked Birdie in the eyes. “Yes. I put Jilly in her old room.” Then to Dennis, “I’ll get your beer.”
Birdie’s lips pursed in annoyance, but she didn’t reply. She tucked her hands in her slacks’ pockets and followed Rose into the kitchen. It was an immense room, old-fashioned, with the same white cabinets and appliances that were there when their mother cooked in the room. Only in the pantry did a large new refrigerator hum. Rose headed straight for it.
“Have you heard from Jilly yet?” Birdie asked.