A Piece of the World(70)

Al turns right at a stop sign, then drives mile after mile on a smooth road. I hear the loud blinker; we make a slow right turn. Then the crackle of gravel. “We’re here, Christie,” he says.

I open my eyes. White clapboard cottage, trellis of white clematis, dark windows, neat green arborvitae. I knew they’d moved out of the horse stalls, but seeing the cottage reminds me anew: Betsy got her house after all.

And here she is, standing on the porch in slim black pants, a mint-green blouse, a red-lipped smile, waving. “Welcome!” Behind her, Andy waves too. It is strange seeing him here, out of context, wearing a crisp white shirt and clean, unsullied trousers and shoes, his hair neatly combed. He looks like a nice, ordinary man in a nice, ordinary house. The only hint of the Andy I know is his hands stained with paint.

Al gets out and opens my door. He and Andy cradle me up the steps and into the house. Betsy holds the door open; two young boys dart back and forth like minnows.

“Nicholas! Jamie!” Betsy scolds. “You two go play upstairs. I’ll bring you some cake if you’re good.”

Al and Andy carry me into a sparsely furnished room with a long red couch, a low oblong wooden table in front of it, and two striped wingback chairs. They settle me onto the couch while Betsy disappears through a swinging door and emerges with a tray of radishes in a small bowl, a platter of deviled eggs, and a little jar of green olives with red tongues. (I’ve seen olives like this before, but never tried one.) She sits beside me and directs Andy and Al to sit across from us in the wingbacks.

Andy seems a little jittery. He shifts in his chair and gives me a funny smile. Al glances above my head and then looks at Andy. He seems jittery too.

“Toothpick?” Betsy offers.

I take one and spear an olive into my mouth. Briny. Texture like flesh. Where to put the toothpick? I see a small woodpile on Andy’s plate and balance the toothpick on my own. Looking around the room, I see Andy’s familiar pictures in frames all over the walls: a watercolor of Al raking blueberries, his pipe and cap in profile. A charcoal sketch of Al sitting on the front doorstep. The large egg tempera of Mamey’s lace curtains in a third-floor room billowing in the wind.

“They look nice in frames,” I tell Andy.

“That’s Betsy’s domain,” he says. “She names them and frames them.”

“We divide and conquer,” Betsy says. “A glass of sherry, Christina?”

“No, thank you. I only drink at the holidays.” I don’t want to say it, but I’m afraid I might spill on my blouse.

“All right. Al?” Betsy asks.

“A drink would be nice,” he says.

Al and I, not used to being served, are stiff and formal. Betsy’s doing her best to put us at ease. “It’s supposed to rain tomorrow, I hear,” she says as she hands Al a tiny glass of sherry.

“Good thing, we can use it,” Al says and takes a sip. He winces. I don’t think he’s ever tasted sherry before. He sets the glass on the table.

I glance at Betsy, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Laughing lightly, she says, “I know rain is good for the farm, but it’s no fun to be stuck inside with the children on a rainy day, let me tell you.”

Al gives Andy a droll look. “You should get them painting,” he says.

Andy shakes his head. “Finger painting is more like it. Actually, Nicholas seems to have no aptitude for it whatsoever, but Jamie—I think he might actually have some talent.”

“For heaven’s sake, he’s two years old,” Betsy says. “And Nicky’s only five. You can’t know that already.”

“I think maybe you can. My father said he saw that spark in me when I was eight months old.”

“Your father . . .” Betsy rolls her eyes.

Spearing another olive, I ask, “So you’re headed back to Pennsylvania in a few days?”

Betsy nods. “Starting to pack up. It’s always hard to leave. Though we stayed longer than usual this year.”

“It feels like you just got here,” I say.

“Goodness, Christina, you can’t mean that! With Andy bothering you day in and day out?”

“It wasn’t a bother.”

“Except when I made her pose.” Andy catches my gaze. “Then it was a big bother.”

I shrug. “I didn’t mind it so much this time.”

“Glad he didn’t ask me again,” Al says.

Andy laughs, shaking his head. “I learned my lesson.”

“Well,” Betsy says, standing up, “I need to go up and check on the boys. Andy, can you clear these plates?”

I see a look pass between them.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. When Betsy leaves the room, he gathers the bowls and puts them back on the tray. “You two will have to entertain each other. I’m just the hired help.” We watch him shuffle backward through the swinging door, holding the tray aloft.

“Nice house, isn’t it,” Al says when it’s just us.

“Very nice.” We’re artificial with each other, unaccustomed to small talk. “I could get used to those olives.”

He grimaces. “I don’t care for them. Too—rubbery.”

This makes me laugh. “They are kind of rubbery.”