The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,49
turned it off after a few minutes. Maybe it was just because I was used to living in smaller spaces, but even tucked up in my yarn cave with the door closed and a movie playing, the house felt too big and too quiet. Funny, I’d never thought of it that way when I was growing up.
Of course, there’d been more of us back then, a lot more.
What must it have been like for Calpurnia, rattling around here all by herself? Had she thought the house was too big, too quiet, too lonely? Was that why she’d started hoarding this junk, because she was trying to fill the empty space? Maybe. But the more stuff she brought in, the more isolated she’d become. You can’t have a relationship with a box of old Sears catalogs or a bag stuffed with out-of-date packets of coffee creamer.
I got up from Beebee’s chair and paced the edges of the room like a cat in a cage, stretching out my arm and letting my fingers bump against the wooden edges of the white cubbies, then brush the soft skeins of silky, or woolly, or nubbly yarn. Tired as I was, I was also restless and bored and, more than anything else, lonely. After I’d circled the room a fourth time, my eyes fell on the empty cookie plate I’d left sitting on the little table next to Beebee’s chair. I hugged it to my chest, opened the door to my cave, and trotted down the partially cleared staircase, tucking my elbows in tight so I wouldn’t bump on piles of junk during the descent.
Out on the piazza, it wasn’t dark but nearly. After I tripped over the handle of a rusted wheelbarrow and almost dropped the plate, I was more careful. I took my time picking my way down the walkway to the gate, which emitted an embarrassingly loud squeal when I pushed it open, and stepped onto the sidewalk.
The Pickneys’ house was dark, the only light from an upstairs bedroom. Happy Browder’s house was dark as well, but I could smell the fragrance of her freshly cut boxwood hedges as I walked past and saw a constellation of tiny, blinking blue lights from a swarm of fireflies that flittered and hovered above her lawn. I heard the buzz of cicadas too.
I smiled to myself, remembering what I’d almost forgotten: the soundtrack of summers in the South and how good it felt when shadows fell at the close of a hot and humid day and the twilight breezes caressed and cooled your skin.
Every light was on at Caroline and Heath’s; the house looked like the party boats that cruised the dark waters of the harbor after sunset, loaded with tourists and lovers and conventioneers. The windows were open to catch the breeze, and music poured from them, but it wasn’t the type that a hip early-thirties couple generally listens to. I heard violins, a steady but not quite driving beat, and the lilting hum of what I thought was an accordion. It was hard to know for sure because of the background noise, a scratching and fuzzy underlayment, but I smiled because they were most definitely home.
I crossed the street, mentally rehearsing what I would say after explaining that I’d just dropped by to bring back the plate and they insisted I come inside. I didn’t want to seem too eager.
Just as my foot made contact with the curb, two shadows appeared in the first window, one taller and darker, one smaller and more delicate. They clung closely, turning and floating and moving as one, then disappeared from sight, only to reappear, golden and lovely, framed by lamplight in the next window.
They danced so beautifully and in such perfect sympathy, as if they were born to do this but only with each other. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. Caroline twisted left and then right, tapping tiny steps with her tiny feet. Heath held her as if he could not and would not ever let her go.
The music swelled theatrically and Caroline twisted away so her back was to her husband, then slid down the length of his body. He swept his hand over his head before sweeping it down again, placing his palm flat against her stomach. Caroline rose slowly and turned to face him, as if drawn by the force of desire. The current of passion that passed between them was so strong that I felt my cheeks go hot.