Thank you for the gorgeous wedding gift! We’re putting it away until we have our house in the suburbs. I can picture it on a console table in the foyer or on the fireplace mantel. All that is in the future – not too distant, I hope. Right now we have to think about Dana’s career. Shall we give up our jobs and move to New York where there are plenty of auditions? Or stay here where I have steady income and a promise of promotion? Although Dana is doing well at the store, his heart isn’t in retailing. He could make better money as a manufacturer’s rep, but I’d hate to have him on the road all the time. What kind of life is that for two people so much in love? We read the want ads every day and hope – and hope – and hope. Dana isn’t quite as optimistic as I am, but I know something wonderful is just around the corner.
Love from Annie
A question arose in Qwilleran’s mind. What was the gorgeous wedding gift? All the time he was growing up in a respectable townhouse apartment with a foyer and a fireplace, he had never seen such an impressive object, or had paid no juvenile attention. Annie might describe it in a later letter; a crystal vase, a silver bowl, a porcelain figurine… He went on to October 22:
Dear Fanny –
Can you stand some terrifically good news? If I sound incoherent it’s because I’m tipsy with delight! I’ve just found out I’m PREGNANT! Dana is sort of stunned. They laughed at me at the library because I immediately checked out an armful of books on parenting. Speaking of parents, I dashed off a note to Mother, but it was returned unopened. Too bad. Some mother/daughter talk would be comforting right now. You are my dearest friend, Fanny. If the baby is a girl, I’ll name her after you. If it’s a boy, Dana can name him. Frankly, he would be more enthusiastic if he had a decent job, preferably with a repertory acting company. I wish you could see him on the stage, Fanny. He’s so talented! It breaks my heart to see him so frustrated. I try to make him feel that he’s loved, no matter what. We have each other, and that’s what matters, and soon we’ll be THREE! Can you believe it?
Love from Annie
After reading the letter he rejoiced that he was not named Francesca Qwilleran, or even Fanny Qwilleran. The next letter was short, but he was limiting himself to two at a sitting. “Goodnight, Annie,” he said as he closed the clasp on the box-file.
Fifteen
Sunday, September 2O – ‘Contented Cows give the best milk.’
QWILLERAN WAS ACCUSTOMED TO spending Saturday and Sunday with Polly, but this weekend she needed a day to do things around the house, to catch up with correspondence, to organize her winter wardrobe. Qwilleran said he understood – and called a friend to have Sunday brunch at Tipsy’s Tavern in Kennebeck.
It was a no-frills, limited-menu roadhouse in a sprawling log cabin, serving the best steak and the best fish. A recent innovation was a Sunday brunch offering the best ham and eggs and country fries and the best flapjacks with homemade sausage patties.
Wetherby Goode, the WPKX meteorologist, met him at Tipsy’s. He said, “Lots of vacant tables, considering the usual popularity of this brunch.”
“The fugitive scare,” Qwilleran surmised. “Yesterday we took the color tour, and there was hardly anyone on the road. But the autumn color was magnificent – best ever!”
“Moose County has always had better color than Lockmaster.” Wetherby was a native of Horseradish, a town in the adjoining county.
“We have more trees,” Qwilleran explained. “After the lumbering companies had cleared the forests a century ago, the Klingenschoen family bought up huge tracts of worthless land and left it to reforest itself. Now the K Fund has it in conservancy, safe from developers who would use it for resort hotels, golf courses, race tracks, mobile home parks, and – God forbid! – asphalt plants. The streams are full of fish, and the woods are full of wildlife.”
“The Klingenschoens weren’t in lumbering or mining or quarrying. Where did they get their money?”
“Don’t ask.”
The ham was succulent; the eggs were fried without crusty edges or puddles of grease; the country fries had skins-on flavor and were toasty brown.
Wetherby asked, “When are you closing the barn? You’d better move to The Willows before the first blizzard.” He occupied Unit Three.
“We have a new neighbor in Unit Two,” Qwilleran said. “Have you met him?”
“No, but I’ve seen his car. Massachusetts tags.”
“He’s a rare book dealer from Boston. His name is Kirt Nightingale.”
“‘Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never Overt.”’ The weatherman always enlivened his predictions with snatches of poetry or songs.
“Wrong bird,” said Qwilleran. “It was written to a skylark.”
“Whatever. It was Keats at his best.”
“Sorry, friend. Wrong poet. Shelley wrote it. But speaking of blithe spirits, do you think Amanda will be able to unseat the mayor?”
“Absolutely! She’s tough! She’s honest! She’s a Goodwinter! And some of us have talked her into adopting a cat from the animal shelter – to improve her image.”
