Bittersweet. Miranda Beverly-Whittemore
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man’s sweater told you that right off the bat, but she was irreverent and honest, traits which I had seen Ev love in others. As soon as she found out I was a reader, she wanted to talk books, and, seeing my goose bumps rise in the broad southerly wind coming off the bay, she brought me an afghan off the back of the couch. We passed the afternoon on Wuthering Heights and To the Lighthouse, my limbs wrapped in the scratchy wool. I told her about my mother’s love of line dancing – it wasn’t much, but it was more than I’d ever told Ev – and, in turn, she described her junior year abroad in Paris and the love affair that had ended with a kiss beside the Seine. I gathered she was lonely and, in the way of those the world has left behind, fiercely attached to her solitude while quick to blame the world – and her family – for her isolation. But I didn’t mind being in her company. My week as Ev’s scullery maid had made it lovely to simply enjoy someone without the threat of impending expulsion. We drank many pots of tea, and I made many trips to Indo’s jury-rigged toilet in the exuberant bathroom, and it wasn’t until I noticed the long shadows moving across the lawn that I realized the day was almost gone.
‘I think we’ve become friends,’ Indo said when I told her I should be going. ‘Do you feel that?’
‘Of course,’ I replied.
‘It may be “of course” to you, but I don’t have many friends. Don’t get me wrong, that’s my own goddamn fault, but it means I’m afraid I don’t often get the chance to connect with people like you. People who are trustworthy, and kind and—’
‘Thank you.’ I felt myself grow hot under her compliments.
But she went on. ‘You see, when you find you don’t have anyone to trust, it makes you greedy. Here I am, in this little rat’s nest of mine, gathering my things around me, sure at any minute it’ll all be taken from me—’
‘I can’t imagine anyone taking this from you. It’s your home.’
‘Who’d want it, right?’ She laughed, gesturing to the chaos around her. ‘Who indeed. Perhaps you’re right. Or perhaps a friend will climb out of the woodwork and present herself to me, help me in my time of need, just when fate comes to screw me after all. A friend like you: brave and bold.’
I squirmed in my seat as her eyes bored into me. ‘I’m neither of those things. Really.’
But Indo wasn’t deterred. ‘I guarantee that if your mettle was tested you’d be surprised. Indubitably surprised at how resourceful you are.’ She sat back. The wicker creaked underneath her. ‘And you know, you might be surprised what you’d gain by even trying to help someone like little old me.’
I knew I was being manipulated into asking, but I couldn’t help myself. ‘Like what?’
She smiled. Spread her arms wide, indicating all her possessions, and the house around her. ‘Like this.’
‘Like your house?’ I asked incredulously.
She nodded.
‘But it’s your house. The one you’re afraid someone is going to take from you. And anyway, you don’t know me. And what do you need help with?’ I sounded irritated, I knew, but I was beginning to feel trapped by her rhetoric.
‘After this afternoon spent together, I know you infinitely better than any of my nieces. I can see that your mind moves like quicksilver, and I admire that. And you know when to bite your tongue.’
‘You’re being very kind,’ I said, scooting my chair out so I could stand. I felt dizzy, as though a spell had been put on me.
‘It’s not kindness. It’s fact.’
‘Really,’ I protested, my voice rising without my permission, ‘I’m not the kind of person you think I am. I’m not. I’m not brave at all. I’ve been tested, I promise you I have.’ I stopped myself from going on.
But I’d said enough for Indo. She leaned back in her chair and narrowed her eyes at me. ‘I see.’
‘This was such a nice afternoon.’ I gathered up the dishes. ‘Let’s do it again soon.’
She shook her head. ‘I didn’t peg you as a girl plagued by self-doubt.’ She rose from the table, muttering. ‘Well then, perhaps it’s better – yes, it’s better to let you find your own way.’
‘Thank you so much for your hospitality,’ I said primly, striding back inside.
She caught up with me in the kitchen as I stepped into Ev’s boots. ‘Mother always told me I shouldn’t force what takes its own time.’ She caught my arm. Her fingers gripped me with a strength I couldn’t have guessed at. It was then that I noticed six locks lining the inside of the back door, chains dangling, bolts pushed back, padlocks undone. I would have chalked them up to Indo’s eccentricities if I hadn’t seen John install the bolts in Bittersweet.
Indo followed my gaze and took in the locks as though she, too, was seeing them for the first time. Quickly, she pushed the door open, hustling me outside.
‘I’ve been looking for a friend like you for a while,’ she persisted. ‘Someone interested in stories. You’re interested in stories, aren’t you? You see, I’ve been trying to locate a manila folder … I’m sure you’re aware we have a family collection of artwork …’
‘Yes,’ I answered, glad to be outside again. She was still talking, but I was distracted by the softness of the late afternoon. The drone of the mower continued from over the hill – the landscapers were still at it.
‘The Winslows have pretty incredible tales,’ she pressed on. ‘They’re just sitting up there, in the attic of the Dining Hall, waiting in boxes. Samson’s papers, his son’s, it’s really worth looking at. You could keep an eye out for that folder I need, and find an interesting tale or two to make your own.’
‘Sure,’ I said, ‘okay,’ eager to placate her as I waved good-bye, even if I had no idea what she’d meant by ‘that folder,’ wondering if Ev was worried about me. We had so much to do before the next day’s inspection.
A damp and droopy Abby, tongue lolling from a day in the water, met me on the Bittersweet road. She gamely licked my hand, but it wasn’t until I got to Bittersweet that I noticed John’s truck, parked behind the cottage, out of sight.
‘Hello?’ I called.
The screen door swung open, and John strode down from the porch, brushing past me. ‘You guys had a leak,’ he said, not looking me in the eye, calling Abby to him, hopping into the truck and gunning the engine. He was off in a matter of seconds.
‘What was that about?’ I asked when I found Ev on her hands and knees scouring the porch, her hair tied back in her bandanna.
‘Huh?’ she asked dreamily.
I pointed in John’s direction, noticing, with disappointment, that the porch was in the exact state I’d left it that morning.
‘Oh, right. We had a leak.’
THE WINSLOWS DESCENDED THAT third June Saturday like bees to the hive. The sun was high in the sky by the time Tilde and Birch arrived at our door. Ev and I were sprawled on the porch couch, exhausted – we’d finished mopping at 4:00 a.m. and allowed ourselves only a few hours of sleep, lest we miss the knock. At the sound of nearing footsteps, Ev perked up, grabbing a copy of Catcher in the Rye and focusing on a random page with rapt attention. I put down Paradise Lost, bookmarking the page I’d been trying to decode for a good hour. My heart was in my throat.
Birch had seemed easygoing the first time I met him. I had a hard time imagining him a harsh critic, but I