Getting the idea, he poked his son. “Nice seeing you,” he said to us.
“Yes,” Raymond said. “Looking forward to the next time,” he told Sylvia.
She narrowed her eyes and looked at me the moment they left. “When is next time?” she asked.
“Not ever,” I said. “Forget it, Sylvia. It’s just something someone says.”
“Well, why do they say it if it’s not true?”
“Just to make conversation. Most people hate silence. C’mon, let’s finish. You need to fix up your art studio with the new things we just bought.”
She nodded, but she watched Raymond Hingen leave the restaurant, and I thought she was more than just curious. His smile and the twinkle in his eyes had stirred something in her, something she might have felt for the first time. I was confident she didn’t understand it. I remembered when I first had it, actually when I first met Arden. It both frightened and excited me simultaneously. I wanted to understand it, this tingle in my budding breasts, this thrill that traveled through my body, but I didn’t want anyone to know about it, especially Vera or my aunt Ellsbeth.
I had brought Sylvia a long way from the disadvantaged little girl who had been treated so poorly by others in our family. Even Papa had to talk himself into accepting her as his daughter at the start. Was I wrong now to assume that she wouldn’t ever be interested in young men? Was the idea of a romance, a relationship, as far off as another solar system when it came to her? If she could have a passion for art, why couldn’t she have a passion for a man?
Eventually, she might have these feelings; she probably did at this moment, I thought, but no man would treat her well. And even if there was a man who cherished her now, when she lost her beauty, as we all did eventually, he would have far less tolerance for her and would surely cast her aside. Maybe it was cruel of me, but I wouldn’t let Raymond Hingen or any young man date my sister, no matter how far she had come. It would only mean deeper suffering for her.
I could see that after I paid the bill and we were on our way out, she was still looking for Raymond. I tried getting her mind off him by talking about her artwork, her lessons, and what beautiful paintings she might do someday.
“We’ll hang them on our living-room wall next to the expensive ones we’ve had in our family for years, Sylvia. Wouldn’t you like that?”
She was quiet, thinking, gazing out the window as we drove home.
“Sylvia?”
“The faucet by the washing machine leaks a little,” she said. “Maybe we need a plumber to fix it.”
Was I astonished? Yes. But was I more fearful than surprised? Yes. “I’ll look at it,” I said. “Sometimes it’s easy to fix.”
She wasn’t happy with my answer, but I did get her mind on other things when we arrived at the house and brought her new art supplies up to the cupola. She didn’t mention Raymond Hingen again. I thought she might say something about plumbers and leaks when we sat with Arden at dinner that night. We had prepared a roast chicken with stewed potatoes. He didn’t open another bottle of wine or make any nasty remarks. I was anticipating more about the papers Mr. Johnson had sent over with him, but he didn’t mention them. Maybe he had asked someone’s advice and had been told he’d get more with honey than with vinegar.
At times this evening, he reminded me of the young man who had courted me when I was a
young girl. He was so sweet back then, always worried about me. He volunteered to take me on his bike to my piano lessons and was always waiting for me afterward. He was so protective. When I learned that his mother had lost her legs and that her husband had deserted her and Arden, I admired him even more for doing all that he could to make his mother happy. As insulated as I was, it was probably not unexpected that I would fall in love with the first boy who showed me so much attention and concern.
Tonight, he sounded so much like the Arden Lowe I remembered, giving Sylvia more attention than ever. Suddenly, he wasn’t upset about spending money on an art teacher for her.
“You do great art without knowing anything about it. Imagine what you will do when you get all these lessons,” he told her. His soft tone brought smiles to her face, even though I didn’t think she understood what he was telling her.
Afterward, while she washed the dishes and put away the food, I complimented him on how nice he was to her at dinner.
He nodded, thinking. “It’s important that we bring some happiness back to Whitefern,” he declared. “We have to change the landscape, as they say—as your father would say.”
He poured himself an after-dinner cordial and asked me if I wanted one. I decided I did, and we sat reminiscing about some of the happier times when his mother had first moved in and taken such good care of my father.
“Sometimes you had to remind yourself that she’d had her legs amputated,” I said.
“Yes. She had spirit. I hope I’ve inherited it.”
“You have.”
He looked at me with the pain of warm memories lost to time in his eyes. Nostalgia is always painful. You realize you can’t bring back the smiles and laughter. In our house, reminiscences of past happiness often brought heartache. Sometimes it seemed better to forget them, no matter how wonderful they once were.
“I’m sorry I always talk about it, but we need a child, Audrina. We need someone who will strengthen our bond and give us more purpose in life. And I don’t mean to blame anything on you.”
That brought tears to my eyes. “I know,” I said. “I want it as much as you do, if not more, Arden.”
He kissed me. Sylvia came in and stood there looking at us. “I’m going up to finish drawing,” she said.