The music and flowers were magnificent. The rector, who had barely known her, gave a rote eulogy, referring to Grace as Gracie. A long—too long—parade of Grace’s friends came forward and spoke; it was touching, moving, a cause for laughter and for tears, as well as of frustration at the sloppy diction of the young, which caused many of us to miss the point of the stories. Finally, a piano played the adagio from Beethoven’s Pathétique sonata as the pallbearers carried Grace back out into the winter sun, followed by Avis, head down, face raddled with weeping and looking twenty years older than when she had come in, and the stepsisters and their families, all also in tears. I’d be pleased if I never had to hear that piece of music again. When I finally saw myself in a mirror an hour later, there were black smears of eye makeup down my cheeks. I should have known better than to wear mascara.
Dinah stayed in her pew for a long while. I got up with the bulk of the crowd and made my way slowly along with the current, surrounded by people greeting friends, putting away their hankies, beginning to make their plans for the afternoon.
Across the church, in a similar sea of people, I saw Peter Varnum. He was alone. He was freshly barbered and wearing a clean shirt but looked as if he’d been crying for a week. When he finally got up he put on mirrored sunglasses that hid his eyes before he left his pew. He stood up straight and tapped the side of the funeral program against his wrist in a vacant tattoo as he slowly moved toward the sunlight along with the distant acquaintances and the sightseers. What will his life be like now? What will he tell his children about this day?
Outside, I waited to see Dinah make her exit. I could have ridden to the reception in one of the family limousines, but the weather was mild for winter, and one could easily walk from the church to the Colony Club.
Dinah finally appeared under the Gothic arch of the door. The dress we had chosen draped well, and she too was wearing large dark glasses. The press surged toward her, cameras clicking and flashing, and began shouting questions. Richard and Richard Jr. with their children formed a flying wedge in front of Dinah. With Charlotte and Laura at her sides, they muscled her through the crush and into a car that quickly left the scene.
I saw a tall woman with auburn hair moving toward me as we descended the dark stone steps in the sunlight. She reached me and said, “Loviah, it’s Meredith Flood,” at the same time as I said, “Meredith. Hello.” I didn’t offer my hand.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, touching my arm.
You should be, I did not say out loud, wishing she meant sorry about my garden.
“I know how close you are to Avis and Grace. It’s so, so sad.”
“Thank you.”
A pause. I didn’t help her. “Well. I just wanted to say that, to say how sorry I am. We all are.” She moved on past me.
It had been graceful of her. I just wasn’t in the mood for it.
I don’t need to describe the reception to you, you were there. Balloon glasses of chardonnay in every hand, and platters of funeral food. Clumps of young women leaned together in their too-short dresses, weeping. The young men looked restless and miserable and tried to check their watches without being seen. It was a workday. No one from Dinah’s side came, unless you count me.
Sherry Riggs came up to me. I think I mentioned her, Sherry Wanamaker, my new-girl roommate at Miss Pratt’s. She had been crying. She said to me, “Lovie, was I a bitch to you at boarding school?”
I just looked at her. She said, “Never mind. Don’t answer. But I’m sorry.” She wandered off, following a tray of hot canapés.
Dinah is giving up that apartment at last. She may move up to the Vineyard full-time. Avis has settled into a routine of work and Lindy. Lindy will go to nursery school in the fall, which is good. A child shouldn’t be alone in a silent apartment with two old ladies so much of the time. Grave is not the word you want to think of when you think of a child-centered home.
I don’t sleep well anymore. As I’ve mentioned. Sometimes in the very dark hours of some morning, I think about my garden. There was a Cécile Brunner climbing rose on the back wall that I had taken out because there was too much pink in that section of the perennial beds, and it was common. I regret it now. The Lady Banks I put in instead would have been lovely, but it never did well. I have no idea why not.
I’ve been seeing a lot of Casey Leisure. She was widowed suddenly and doesn’t seem to know what to do with herself, and she talks too much for most people. She has her good points. She likes to go on cruises now and play bridge with people she meets on the ships. My bridge game has gotten fairly good; if I have to close the shop, I may try one with her. There’s a tour of the Baltic I like the look of; we’d see the cities of the Hanseatic League and end in St. Petersburg. The white nights of summer are so lovely there.
At least that’s what people tell me.
Acknowledgments
So many people help a book along its path. Sanna Borge Feirstein has been deeply generous, again, this time providing guidance on the course of Loviah’s young professional life. Jennifer Mitchell Nevin was similarly invaluable on the subject of Avis’s career, and I thank them both. Thomas Mifflin Richardson, Anthony Fingleton, Phil Norris, Katherine McCallum, Gail Monaghan, Ramon Rodriguez, Don Barney, and Richard Osterweil all enriched these invented lives, and I’m grateful to have them in my actual life. Lauren Belfer and Elizabeth Oberbeck kindly read the manuscript for me at different stages and provided essential advice and support. I thank Wendy Weil, who has been my friend and my agent for over half my life, for her wisdom, her loyalty, and the pure fun of being a member of her tribe. I am grateful to my editor, Jennifer Brehl, for her skill and her lovely spirit, and to all those at William Morrow who do what they do so well. And first, last, and always, I am grateful to Robin Clements.
About the Author
BETH GUTCHEON is the critically acclaimed author of eight previous novels: The New Girls, Still Missing, Domestic Pleasures, Saying Grace, Five Fortunes, More Than You Know, Leeway Cottage, and Good-bye and Amen. She is the writer of several film scripts, including the Academy Award nominee The Children of Theatre Street. She lives in New York City.
www.BethGutcheon.com
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Also by Beth Gutcheon
Good-bye and Amen
Leeway Cottage
More Than You Know
Five Fortunes
Saying Grace
Domestic Pleasures
Still Missing
The New Girls
Credits
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Cover photograph © by Ellen von Unwerth / Art + Commerce
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
GOSSIP. Copyright © 2012 by Beth Gutcheon. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-193142-0
EPub Edition © MARCH 2012 ISBN: 9780062100948
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Beth Gutcheon, Gossip
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