Goodnight Beautiful(15)
Tour guide at the Chestnut Hill Historical Society, I said, all smiles. I’d been thinking about volunteering for some time (somewhat true), and, on a whim, went to the organization’s website (less true, but not out of the question). I saw the volunteer posting and decided to apply (patently false).
Sam was polite enough not to point out what we both know is true: I am exceedingly overqualified for this (fake) volunteer opportunity. But we agreed it was something to do, and to be honest, I’ve been enjoying the image of myself leading a busload of old biddies from Boston up and down Main Street, pointing out all the shops under new management, necessary amenities for the recent settlers from the city. Mid-century floor lamps. Farmhouse dining tables. Eighteen-dollar hamburgers that don’t have the decency to come with a side of fries.
And while lying to Sam is a terrible habit, there are worse things for me than getting into the shower and out of the house two hours a day, three times a week (that’s my schedule, subject to change). I’ve made a list of the cultural destinations I plan to visit on the hours I need to be out of the house, making the most of this lie, starting right now, at three o’clock on a lovely Wednesday afternoon, my first day on the “job”: the Chestnut Hill Historical Society. It is, after all, only fitting that I start here, and my spirits are high when I pull into the parking lot in front of the little white house. Built in 1798, it houses a collection of pieces from when Chestnut Hill was a thriving center of brick manufacturing, a display of artifacts from the Civil War, and a permanent exhibit on the Lawrences, the town’s founding family.
I park beside the only other car in the lot, a dark-brown Buick, and climb the three rickety steps. The bald man behind the desk looks genuinely surprised to see me. “Help you?”
“Yes, I’m here to view the permanent exhibit.” I hold up the paper I’d printed from the website. “The Lawrences: Chestnut Hill’s Founding Family.” I can’t resist leaning forward to offer a bit of advice. “This title? You might want to suggest something a little more inspired.”
“Second floor,” he says, blank-faced. “Elevator’s broken, use the stairs.”
“Thank you.” I take the stairs two at a time, excited to learn more about this family whose house I occupy—chemical magnates, building a fortune off polluting the earth, their efforts memorialized here on the second floor: thirty-two foam-core panels that could use a good dusting.
I start at the beginning. James Michael Lawrence, made his money in oil before turning to chemicals.
Philip, big patron of the arts.
Martin, invested in newspapers, and his wife Celeste.
I feel like I know them all intimately, having worked my way through most of Agatha Lawrence’s papers. James’s bout with scarlet fever. Martin’s nagging colitis. Philip’s work to bring prohibition to Green County.
Of course, it’s Agatha who intrigues me the most.
People here think they knew her: the single sixty-seven-year-old woman who died alone; the poor spinster up on the hill. But that wasn’t her at all. In fact, she may be the most interesting woman I’ve ever come across. Yesterday, in between patients, I found her journals, and the portrait that is emerging is truly fascinating. She was brazenly independent and smart, part of the first class of women admitted to Princeton in 1969. After leaving for college, she rarely spoke to the others in her family, all of them staunch conservatives. A textile designer, she traveled the world, most of the time alone. Her work was exhibited in galleries in New York and London, and she was living with a woman in San Francisco when she got news her father had died. She knew this day was coming, that she’d become the sole heir of the Lawrence estate, and she returned to Chestnut Hill, to the family house, where she surprised everyone by selling the company and using most of the proceeds to buy large swaths of land that she put into a trust, making amends for her family’s role as the worst polluter in New York State for several decades.
“Spitfire,” that’s what my dad called women like her, and it was not meant as a compliment. Too ambitious and brash. But I’m enamored. There’s a photograph at the end of the exhibit of her in front of an easel set up in the living room of the house, along with a caption: “Agatha Lawrence died in the Lawrence House at the age of sixty-seven. She was the last surviving member of the family.” I stand in front of it for a long time, transfixed by the curious expression on her face, the bright red hair; wondering if she felt afraid the day she died, alone in her study.
The alarm on my watch chimes loudly, my reminder that happy hour with Sam starts in forty-five minutes. I head for the door, eager to go home and see him. He’ll want to hear all about my day.
Chapter 9
Sam takes a step forward in line, giddy, the paperwork signed by his mother on Rushing Waters letterhead tucked under his arm. There’s one bank teller—a girl in her twenties with auburn curls and a face full of freckles. She chews her bottom lip as she waits for the woman at the counter to fish her ATM card out of her wallet. Sam shifts back and forth, impatient. The bell rings. He steps forward and clears his throat.
“I’m here to close an account and place it in my name. I have this document—” He slides the letter toward her.
“I can help you with that,” she says, shooting him a bright smile. He keeps his eyes on her face, away from her blouse, where the buttons are battling it out in a magnificent tug-of-war across her breasts. Don’t do it, Sam. Don’t look down. She scans the paperwork, turns to her keyboard. “You got your Halloween costume ready?” she asks, her long pink fingernails click-clacking across her keyboard.