gestured to the arched gates. The park swelled with joyous shouting and threatened to burst out of its fence. Later, I thought. Later I tore my gaze away and hurried along in the fat woman’s wake.
Mrs. Harrington lumbered down a path that led us past the park and around the western shore of the bay.
“The docks are here,” she said, “but the grand old steamers don’t run anymore thanks to this silly new obsession with speedboats. A few of the smaller steamers, the streetcar boats, still make tours of the lake. We do enjoy a ride on the Minnehaha now and then, don’t we, Hannah?” The pile of ribbons nodded her answer. “Perhaps we’ll take you on it, Garnet.”
“Yes, I’d like that,” I said, imagining myself in the midst of an expanse of water—a fresh lake breeze against my face and the swell of the waves rocking me.
A strip of grass and trees ran along the western shore in front of us. “What’s up there?” I asked.
“They call this park the Commons, after the Boston Commons. It’s all public land. I’d like to build a little summerhouse in that cove up there, but the city won’t sell. Pity. We’re buying in Florida instead. That’s the new promised land, you know, and it’s very reasonable to buy at the moment. There’s wonderful money to be made in real estate, even when you buy on credit.”
I narrowed my eyes critically, but then I felt Hannah’s gaze on me and worked to change my expression to a neutral one until she looked away. Mother had often cautioned me against ever spending money I didn’t have. I snuck a look at Hannah and wondered if she was dressed that way because her family was rich, or just because they wanted to look rich.
“In any case, there are public beaches up there and lots of pretty little inlets,” Mrs. Harrington continued. “Nice clean, clear water—not like those dirty city lakes—perfectly safe for swimming if you’re inclined that way and if you’ve brought a proper bathing costume. You don’t want to seem indiscrete. So many of the young people these days . . .” Her voice trailed off for a moment. Clean, clear water. I could hardly wait to feel it cool against my skin.
“Off to our left here is the town proper,” she continued, gesturing widely with her fan. “Lovely little shops up there—all the necessities. It’s very quaint, makes a pleasant stroll. Ah, we’re nearly there.” She nodded toward a gleaming white building up ahead, set back from the park on a bit of a hill and across a narrow street, overlooking the lake.
“Oh, it’s perfect,” I said. A grand double-wide staircase led up to a veranda that stretched the length of the building. Two more stories rested above the first, with windows looking east, over the Commons and the bay.
At last we reached the front steps. They rose gently, not steeply like in a normal house, and it was easy to climb them with grace. A bellboy bowed to Mrs. Harrington and opened the main doors at the top. The lobby was large and richly carpeted, with a huge polished wooden counter for a front desk. An ornate radio stood in the corner with pretty little sofas and cushioned chairs clustered around it, their flowered upholstery clean and bright. Electric lamps nested on shiny end tables next to glossy copies of Ladies’ Home Journal and the daily paper.
Mrs. Harrington led the way to our suite on the second floor. We had a modern bathroom, a small sitting room, and three bedrooms. Mrs. Harrington had already settled into the large bedroom with the bay window in the very center of the building, and Hannah’s little room nestled next to hers. Mrs. Harrington showed me to the tiny room in the northeast corner that looked out over the roof of the veranda toward the lake. It wasn’t much but it was all mine, and I could tell after just half an hour with the Harringtons that the privacy it afforded would be a relief. The maid had already unpacked my things into the dresser drawers and the closet, and the empty luggage sat on the top shelf of the cupboard like it had always lived there.
“Meals are served in the dining room three times a day,” Mrs. Harrington said as I pulled back the heavy drapes, opened the window wide, and looked out at the lake. “The dining room is on the south side of the first floor, off of the lobby. Hannah and I will be down on the veranda when you’re ready to join us. We’ll leave you now so you can settle in.”
I stood there awhile at the east window. Maybe I’ll be able to see cranes fishing along the shoreline from here, I thought. Then I pulled away to investigate the second window on the north wall of the building. It looked out on a huge silver maple tree. And that must be a heaven for songbirds. I’ll never, never close these drapes.
“You have no modesty,” I said aloud to myself in my mother’s voice.
“I need to wake up to blue sky in the mornings,” I replied in my own as I fastened the sashes firmly. “And you, Mother, are not here to chide me.”
As my own words sunk in, I felt a great weight lifted from me. Without the confines of Mother’s anxious hovering and Father’s persistent gloominess pressing in on me, I felt light. I filled my lungs with fresh, country air and thought that there might in fact be some real health benefits to “taking the lake air” after all, even for me.
I left the window and searched for my sewing kit. The maid had tucked it into the top drawer of the dresser, next to my stockings. I fished out a pin and took the chickadee silhouette out of my pocket. I tacked the little bird carefully over my narrow bed—the beginning of a new flock. I resolved to look for a grouse in the underbrush by the lake as soon as I could get out for a walk, so I could cut its image in honor of Mrs. Harrington.
Then I changed into fresh stockings and made my way down to the veranda, ready for the Harringtons, ready for lunch, and ready for my glorious summer to begin.
Blue Jay
(Cyanocitta cristata)
“Will it ever let up?” I whined to no one in particular, tossing my needlework aside in a huff. Hannah went on crocheting a doily beside me as though my complaining embarrassed her.
“May I borrow your scissors?” Hannah asked. I handed over the plain ones from my sewing kit. She snipped the final bit of cotton on her perfect lacy round before passing them back. Her mother smiled proudly at the finished product and aimed a pointed glance in my direction. Hannah’s work was always lovely—she finished projects quickly and seemed to enjoy every stitch. Her mother’s glance said You could learn something from my daughter, and I couldn’t deny that it was true. But I was tired of needlework, and Hannah’s patience with it and her natural talent for it only made me irritable.
It had been raining for days. The perfect summer morning of my arrival showed me just enough of the beautiful lake town to build my excitement for walks amid exotic country wildlife, thrilling boat rides, swims in cool, clear water, and possibly even forbidden excursions to the amusement park and the dance hall. But dense clouds moved in just after lunch that day and a dreary rain began that was not to let up for a week. Between meals and naps, I spent those long days sitting on the hotel’s veranda with the Harringtons reading magazines, quilting, cross-stitching, sipping iced tea, listening to the radio, chatting about nothing, and watching sheets of rain fall from the gray sky to the gray lake below. Hot, heavy air lay in a damp blanket over us all, and the stagnant humidity only made boredom more stifling and sleep more restless.
Mrs. Harrington rapped her cane on the floor and snapped her fan shut in a motion that meant Waiter, bring me more tea. I reluctantly picked up my discarded embroidery hoop. Think of pink thread and even stitches.
