Back home I set the table with flatware, glasses, and the perfectly starched embroidered white napkins that I found late yesterday in a drawer. Then I arrange the vases I’ve filled. The result of so many splashes of white—napkins, tulips, and candlesticks—on the dark table is dazzling. It makes me think of a comment my mom used to make when she was alive: Sometimes more is more. Though she’s been dead twelve years, I still hear her lovely voice in my head, offering the little aphorisms she loved to share.
Gazing at the table, I realize I’m experiencing a kind of adrenaline surge I haven’t felt since late winter, since before the accident. Maybe it’s all a matter of motion begetting motion, I decide. I need to give myself a couple of projects each day, along with some physical activity. I’ve been banned for the time being from running—something I sorely miss—but I could at least force my ass onto the sidewalk each day for a walk.
But as soon as I’ve positioned the other tulips in the living room, I feel the energy being sucked away, so fast it almost leaves me breathless. I stagger out to the screened porch and collapse on the daybed.
For a while I just lie there, listening to the jeering call of a blue jay in the yard. And then, above the bird sounds, I hear knocking. It’s someone at the front door, I finally realize. I glance at my watch. Too early for the caterer.
After forcing myself up, I make my way to the entrance hall. When I swing open the wooden door, I find a woman standing on the other side of the screened one. She’s tall and statuesque, early forties, I’d guess, her black hair cut in an attractive shaggy style. Even through the screen I noticed that one of her hands holds a small shopping bag with a tuft of lavender tissue paper poking out from the top.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
I suspect she’s wondering if she’s busted a closet afternoon napper. I should never have answered the door.
“How can I help you?”
“I’m Sandra Dowd. Are you Bryn? Bryn Harper?”
“Yes.”
“I’m on a committee for the Saratoga Arts Council, and I wanted to drop off a package for you—on behalf of all of us.”
“Oh, that’s so thoughtful of you,” I say. Though all I want to do right now is slink back to the daybed, it would be rude to do anything but swing open the screened door. Which I do, and Sandra Dowd steps into the entrance hall. She’s smartly dressed: a dark red blouse, the shade of a pomegranate—and which she more than fills out—cream-colored pants, and nude pumps with at least three-inch heels. The only slightly off thing about her appearance is her nose. It’s nearly vertical, straight up and down, as if she had a bump taken off years ago.
“I know that the last thing you need is some Welcome Wagon–type person dropping by in the middle of your day,” she says, her tone light and breezy, “but one of the members heard you’d moved to town and were renting the Jessup house. We thought you’d appreciate a bit of material about the area.” She hands the bag over to me. “There’s a calendar of events for the summer, that sort of thing. And I dropped my card in there.”
A thought rustles in my brain, but I can’t get hold of it. “Thank you. I’ve spent a few weekends here over the past two years, but I’m still not very familiar with the area.”
“Full disclosure,” Sandra says, looking as if she’s about to spill a naughty revelation. “We’d love the chance to pick your brain at some point, though no rush on that. Maybe after you’re settled.”
With my energy at sloth level these days, I can hardly imagine helping out in any way, but I don’t want to obviously blow her off.
“Let me see how the summer unfolds, okay?”
“Are you here just for the season then?”
I nod. “My husband’s job is in Saratoga, and he usually commutes to the city on weekends. We decided it would be fun for me to spend the summer here. I just moved up three weeks ago.”
“He must be thrilled to have you in town.”
“It’s been really nice, yes.”
“I was in a commuter relationship myself, so I know the challenges.” Her gaze wanders around the large center hall with its gold-and-cream-striped wallpaper and mahogany staircase. “What an amazing house. I’ve driven by it plenty of times, but I’ve never been inside.”
“We were really lucky to find it. Guy has an apartment in town, of course, but it’s tiny and there’s no room for me to write. I was able to set up a little office off the kitchen here. Would . . . would you like to come in and have a glass of iced tea?” It seems discourteous not to ask.
“That’s lovely of you, but unfortunately I’ve got to scoot. I’m headed out of town on a business trip.”
“Are you with one of the colleges?”
“No, I run my own small firm. Public relations.”
It’s not a surprise that she’s an entrepreneur. She seems confident, full of energy.
“I’d love to take a rain check, though,” she adds, “or maybe we could have lunch in town.” She lifts her chin toward the living room, which is just off the center hallway. “This must be the perfect place for entertaining.”
“We’re actually giving our first dinner party tonight.”
“Oh dear, I shouldn’t be keeping you. Are you doing the cooking yourself?”