“Thank you,” I said. “And thank you for lunch. It’s delicious.”
“Everything Mrs. McGruder makes is delicious. At the moment, our three other guests are half-board because they know they’ll get a dinner ten times better than anything in any restaurant out there,” she added.
“I’d like to do the same,” I said.
“Very wise decision. Well now,” she said, seeing that I had finished my lunch, “shall we show you the Abigail Adams?”
“Yes, please,” I said.
We went out to the stairway and started up. It was only a short stairway, but because the windows in the upstairs hallway were small and far apart and because there were no lights on at the moment, it was much darker.
As if she knew what I was thinking, Mrs. Winston turned to say, “We don’t waste electricity here. I don’t put the lights on until after dusk. For years after electricity became a big thing, my family held on to candles and oil lamps. I think we might have been the last ones in this section of Quincy to install a telephone. One should not be so eager to give up one’s history. Not all change is for the better, you know.”
I didn’t say anything, but I understood her point. None of her ancestors had given up as much as I was trying to give up and deny about my own history.
We turned right and went to the third door, where she paused as if we were in a movie and she was anticipating some entry music.
“The Abigail Adams,” she announced, and opened the door.
I imagined it had been renovated, too, because it had two large windows, one on each side of the simple white enameled four-poster bed, maybe half the size of the king-size bed I had in California. It was made up with simple light blue linen. There was an old-fashioned crocheted bedspread with knotted fringe. The windows faced the street. The chintz curtains were tied back so the light fell fully on the small table beside the bed. On it was a shaded reading lamp. Although there was a mirrored dressing table with a cover of clear glass, there was also a long mirror on what I imagined was the closet door, two chairs, one of which was wicker, and a footstool. In the far right corner was a writing desk. The walls were papered with a small pattern of flowers in soft colors, and there was a large plain green woven rag rug. On the left was a bureau.
“That’s Abigail Adams,” Mrs. Winston said, nodding at a painting over the bureau.
Both she and Mrs. McGruder were obviously waiting for me to say something that would reveal how impressed I was.
“This is a beautiful and very comfortable-looking room,” I said.
“And immaculate,” Mrs. McGruder added.
“Why don’t you settle in?” Mrs. Winston said. “I’m going to make a phone call for you right away.”
“Phone call for me?”
“I’m calling my nephew Ken Dolan. He owns Dolan Plumbing Supply and is always looking for qualified help. I’m sure he’ll grant you an interview, maybe today,” she said.
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Winston.”
“Yes, well,” she said, glancing at Mrs. McGruder, “you can call me Amelia.”
“Thank you.”
“Mrs. McGruder is not as fond of her given name and likes to remain Mrs. McGruder.”
“Oh?”
“Hortense,” she said disdainfully. “My brothers had a good time with that, as you can imagine.” She rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue.
“Now, as to the rules,” Mrs. Winston said, cutting discussion short. “Obviously, we don’t tolerate any smoking in the house or on our grounds.”
“I don’t smoke,” I said.
“Good. Hopefully, you’ll keep to that. It goes without saying that drugs and alcohol are off-limits as well. We do serve wine at dinner, and we do from time to time provide after-dinner brandy and a homemade elderberry wine. I don’t think it will do you any harm to partake despite your age. We do that mainly on holidays or other special occasions, but no alcohol is permitted in any of the bedrooms.”
I nodded.
“We expect you will respect the furniture and the linen and towels we provide. Everything is replaced
daily, but how you keep your room tells us pretty quickly how much you respect it. As to comings and goings . . . you’ll be provided with your own front-door key, of course. We’re not here to supervise anyone. We just ask that you take care to move about quietly after eleven. There are no overnight guests permitted,” she concluded, and pressed her lips together quickly, as if to keep any other reference to such a thing from slipping out.