One Way or Another(44)

In all her life, however long, however short—and Lucy recognized now there was a time limit, a sort of sell-by date on mortality, each different, each unknown—anyhow, in all her life, she would never forget how Martha had consoled her, helped her, held her in her arms, told her she would take care of her. Forever, Martha had said, though even then Lucy recognized that forever was a meaningless word, that there was no “forever.” There was only what you had, what you were given at birth, absolutely no longer and no shorter than destiny allowed. Unless somebody killed you first, of course. That could happen to almost anybody, given the right circumstances, though not to people like her; other sorts of people who got involved in bad stuff or with men or drugs and suchlike.

Speaking of drugs, she had tried a joint or two, found it didn’t do much for her except make her giggle and she didn’t need drugs for that; then the odd sniff of cocaine, smuggled into some party by one of those types you really should avoid who only wanted to get you interested, then hooked, then take you for as much money as he could get, or, in fact, “she” could get: it wasn’t only men who were evil; women counted in that department too. Lucy had known a girl like that at school, well, she had only been there a few weeks and that was because no other school would take her, her reputation was so bad, but her father was so filthy rich he thought he could buy everything, until one day she bopped him on the head with a hammer and that was that. Jail for life, no more grass, no more hammers, no more dad. The shock had reverberated through Lucy’s chain of school friends, causing them to pause for a moment and think about their own families and be grateful for what they’d got. Especially in Lucy’s case, grateful for Martha, who right now was expecting her to be clean and presentable, or, at least in jeans and a sweatshirt and decent sneakers, at nine fifteen, which was in exactly five minutes.

She was a whiz at the quick shower, learned necessarily at boarding school, and was waiting, hair still wet, cleanish sneakers properly tied, ripped jeans and all, when Martha honked the horn outside her door. Lucy galloped up the cement steps from the basement flat, forgetting as always to lock the door behind her, waved a jolly hand, beaming a good-morning smile as she climbed in beside Martha and they edged off into the traffic.

“So, what’s it like, this house?” Lucy asked, taking the Danish pastry Martha offered because she had known Lucy would not have had breakfast.

“Heavy.”

“Jesus!” Lucy took a bite of the Danish. “Sounds terrible.”

“Which is exactly why we—by that I mean you and I, Lucy—are about to turn things around, make it light, summery, gorgeous, filled with atmosphere and beauty.”

“I expect you mean ‘good taste.’” Lucy had already finished the Danish and was riffling through the paper bag on the console between her and Martha for a second. “Oh,” she said, disappointed. “Apple.”

“Get your own next time.” Lucy always had the ability to rattle Martha. “Selfish bitch,” she added.

“Marthie! Really!” Lucy grinned at her. “Selfish, maybe, but certainly not a bitch.”

“Okay, I’ll allow you that.”

“Buggie-wuggie, I hate apple.” Lucy rejected the pastry with a sigh. “We could always stop at McDonald’s for breakfast; eggs, chips, y’know.”

“I’m sure there’ll be coffee waiting at Marshmallows.”

“And buns, I hope.”

“And antiques, which, my dear sister, you and I must as tactfully as possible get rid of and replace with a whole new look. My idea is white and light and touches of bright, a twenties kind of vibe…”

“Like that Maugham woman, you mean.”

Martha threw Lucy a surprised glance. “I shouldn’t have thought you knew about Syrie Maugham, other than maybe as the author Somerset’s wife.”

“Oh, everybody knows about her, she was quite a girl, wasn’t she? I mean, the rumor is she got around a bit as well as tarting up people’s houses. Not that we know it’s true, of course, since she’s been dead forever and it seems nobody cares anymore after you’re dead, or not for much longer anyway. I mean, Marthie, who do you ever think of that’s dead, legends in their lifetime, actors and actresses, like oh, well, Rita Hayworth, I suppose, and Frank Sinatra? Before my time of course, so I would never think of them. Maybe I only think of Mum and Dad like that anyway,” she added in a suddenly small voice.

Martha threw her a quick glance again and reached out and squeezed her hand.

“It’s okay, Lucy, we’ll always remember them.”

They sat in silence for a long time after that, Lucy with her eyes shut, feigning sleep, opening them only when Martha told her they were there.

They passed through a pair of ornate iron gates set between stone pillars with recumbent oversized lions, which Martha decided she would need to get rid of immediately. They drove slowly between an avenue of stunted trees, loose gravel spitting from the tires, until they came to the house. Martha stopped, switched off the engine, and the two sat and looked silently at it: gray, pressed into the ground by a lowering gray tile roof, marshland a disturbingly bright green behind it; on top a spiky bird’s nest over which a white heron hovered as though daring them to come near. The bird was, thought Martha, her heart sinking, the only thing that brought the place to life.