The Stars Are Fire(77)

When she’s finished, she sets the suitcase by the front door. They’ll be leaving early in the morning to take advantage of the three-day “break.”

The kettle she left on the stove begins to whistle. She carries her tea to her favorite spot, a wooden chair next to the kitchen table that she’s arranged so she can see her lawn and garden. Signaling the beginning of spring, the daffodils are up, and she can make out the cracking of the soil where mounds of tulips will be next. The grass is still gray-brown with sporadic patches of green, and in the corner of the yard are dark red shoots of rhubarb. The thought of the red shoots gives her an idea. She’ll photograph the garden each day, one photo per day, and date the pictures. Birth, life, decay, death: a complete record. At the very least, the series, though costly, will please her next winter.


When the yellow and white bus arrives, Tim gives Rosie a quick kiss while Grace hands the driver her suitcase. Grace has brought the lunches because the trip will take five hours.

Rosie has on a chic cornflower blue spring coat with pumps to match.

“Your coat is terrific,” Grace remarks. “Wherever did you get it?”

“Would you believe my mother made it for me?”

“Yes, I would.”

“I saw a picture in a magazine. She not only made the coat, she created the pattern for it just from the picture.” Rosie has on fake emerald earrings, which draw attention to her red hair. Grace feels dowdy in her raincoat.

Rosie reapplies her lipstick after Tim’s kiss.

“Maybe I’ll buy a spiffy coat in Halifax,” suggests Grace, knowing that she won’t, that she wants to save her money. “Window shopping will be fun.”

“I have a list of all the best department stores. Well, all two of them. But there are smaller shops on Barrington Street we can try.”

“It feels strange not to have the kids,” Grace muses.

“Feels good to me.”

“Think they’ll be all right?”

“As long as they’re still alive when we get back, I’ll be fine.”

“You’ve stayed at the Lord Nelson,” Grace says.

“I have. You’ll love it. They do a delicious tea. But I’ve arranged for us to have dinner tonight at the Prince George.”

Lord Nelson. Prince George. A delicious tea. How far this seems from Hunts Beach, about which John Lighthart was correct. Land on the coast, according to her mother, is selling for high prices now. Some of the tin shacks remain, while the houses that were rebuilt by the government are tiny capes, none with fireplaces. How long will those last?

“First we’ll get our nails done,” Rosie announces.

“Our nails done? Just as I’ll be digging in the garden?”

“Now, listen, Grace, for three days we are not mothers or garden diggers or housekeepers. We are ladies on the town.”


As soon as they arrive at the hotel, Grace highlights her ears with rhinestone earrings and applies red lipstick to match her shoes and handbag.

“Nice,” says Rosie as she emerges from the bathroom.

After the appointment with the manicurist, it seems they shop for hours, stopping only to have a tea. Rosie takes her shoes off and sticks them among a half dozen packages under the table. “Most of what I bought was for the children,” she says, sighing.

“It’s too bad that mint satin with that gorgeous waist was already spoken for. The shawl collar was perfect on you.”

“But where would I have worn it?” Rosie asks, slipping a cigarette from its pack. “Want one?”

“Rosie, you’re not playing the game. You’re supposed to buy it because it’s beautiful and someday you might have a chance to wear it,” says Grace, who takes a lit cigarette and inhales deeply. “These are your rules, by the way. I didn’t buy one thing for the children, and I’m feeling guilty.”

“There’s tomorrow.”

“Teahouse scones are always better than the ones you can make at home,” muses Grace, taking a good-size bite. The ham sandwiches they had on the bus barely constituted lunch.

“Put the cream and jam on them,” Rosie advises. “They’ll be even better.”

“You’re not eating?”

“Oh, I will, believe me. Just resting my dogs.”

Grace’s feet hurt, too, but it’s a point of pride not to remove her shoes in a public place.

“Now see that man over there at the banquette?” comments Rosie in a low tone. “Don’t look now. I think he’s exceptionally handsome.”

“You shouldn’t be looking,” Grace chastises lightly. “You’re married.”

“I’m not looking for me.”

“You’re looking for me?” Grace asks, surprised.

“You need a man,” her friend says.

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t do that.”

“The statute of limitations has run out.”

“I don’t want a man,” Grace explains, “and that’s the truth. And I really, really don’t want to be married.”

“Look,” says Rosie, taking a bite of her scone, “you had a bad experience. Get over it.”

“I am over it. I just don’t want the complications.”