Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Chapters 40, 41

 

Chapter 40

Argeles-sur-Mer, France

May

 

My husband didn’t come to bed until four in the morning. He’d been on a Zoom meeting of the hickory golf board of directors. The meetings start at 8 p.m. EST, which is 2 a.m. our time in Central Europe, and the meetings generally run two hours or more.

 

His neck and shoulders were stiff. I gave him a message before a cuddle. As usual, Sherlock saw us and didn’t want to be left out. He nosed his way between us.

 

My husband and dog fell asleep almost immediately.

 

I did not.

 

I’m happy I didn’t.

 

For weeks, I’d been trying to work out the story line for Daphne’s and Florence’s comic book. I didn’t want to include the actual drawings and story but enough for the reader to get an idea of what it is about. And I thought of a way to tie it into 1775.

 

I also thought of how Gareth can reveal his lack of stability as well as Florence’s and Daphne’s first step in getting a publisher.

 

There is something wonderful about being married to another writer. He reads his writing to me, too.

 

Had he not interrupted my sleep, who knew when I would have solved the plot issues that had been niggling at me for far too long.

 

Chapter 41

Boston and Sudbury, Massachusetts

October

“FLORENCE! 

Daphne was gobsmacked to see her friend standing at her door. “When did you get back?” Daphne was still dressed in pajamas and big fuzzy blue slippers. She held an almost empty coffee mug in her hand.

 

“May I come in?” Florence took off her dark glasses.

 

“I thought you were still in France.” Florence’s family emergency had slowed work on their project. Her mother was suffering with pancreatic cancer. Florence had left in the August heat and humidity to care for her in Paris.

 

Now Halloween decorations were all over Boston. Leaves were turning red and yellow. Leaf piles, made for kicking, hid much of the brick sidewalks. In the mornings and after the sun went down, it was possible to see one’s breath.

 

Without asking, Daphne led Florence into their state-of-the-art kitchen, which seemed out of place in this otherwise Victorian apartment with its high ceilings, decorative moldings, oak wainscoting and antiques, all of which belonged to the consulate.

 

The coffee pot was half full and warm. Daphne grabbed a mug and filled it for Florence and topped up her own. She didn’t bother with milk and sugar because she knew Florence took her coffee black. So strong, they joked, it could melt the china.

 

“I got back two days ago,” Florence said. She wore dark jeans, a flowing-sleeved blouse and a scarf in some convoluted folds around her neck. She carried a heavy sweater, which she dropped on one of the four stools arranged around a gray marbled center island.

 

They were alone. A month before, Daphne had asked the embassy that a cook only be there if they were entertaining, which to date they had not done. Maya, the woman who had been assigned to them, had found another job, higher paid, in a Boston restaurant, which Daphne thought was a win-win. The woman had a good job: she didn’t have to try and keep the woman busy. If they did need to do a formal meal, the consulate could hire a caterer.

 

Stephanie, who had been assigned to her for any secretarial needs (almost none), had returned to her family in Wales and wasn’t replaced. A cleaning woman came in three times a week, which was enough. This wasn’t one of those days.

 

“Where’s your staff?” Florence asked.

 

Daphne told her as she sat kitty corner to Florence, her two hands around her coffee mug. “I really prefer having the flat to myself most of the time.”

 

She hesitated to ask Florence about her mum.

 

In the short time they had worked together, they discovered they often read each other’s thoughts.

 

“Mama died two and a half weeks ago. I know I should have e-mailed you, but after the last few weeks being a full-time nurse, clearing out her apartment and getting a notaire going on the paperwork, which will take forever ...”

 

Daphne put her hand on Florence’s arm. “No should about it. You had your hands full. How are you handling it, the emotional stuff that is?”

 

“A little numb. We were able to put aside all our old battles. She was one tough lady. Maybe all those moves around the world.” Florence was quiet. “I often wondered why she didn’t come back to Massachusetts. She told me she felt more at home in Paris.” Then Florence stopped talking and fiddled with her coffee cup.

 

Daphne did nothing to fill the void, waiting for her friend to continue.

 

“It’s funny, I’m an orphan, but no one feels sorry for an adult orphan.”

 

“I can feel sorry for you if it will help. What time do you want me to start?”

 

Florence laughed. “English humor, I love it. When I arrived back, I didn’t realize how tired I was. Jet lag like I’ve never experienced before. But this morning I woke up, ready to get back to work on our project.”

 

“I’ve been working on it, especially the Abigail part.”

 

“You have formed the characters?”

 

“Yes. For example, the twins are the only children of William and Dorothy Billington. Dorothy had lost at least three children with miscarriages and two other children had died before they were four. Not sure how we should deal with so many kids dying.”

 

“Real people?”

 

“Composite is more like it. I found letters and diaries. Took a bit from here and bit more from there. It’s mixed enough that plagiarism isn’t an issue although I’m not sure of United States plagiarism law for materials written close to 250 years ago.” She had debated checking with the consulate, but that would alert Gareth how deep she was still working on the project. Maybe she could have checked with one of the law schools in the city, but then again she didn’t want to do anything that would involve an expense.

 

Gareth had given her an allowance, making her feel as if she were a child again. It was more than enough to buy lunch, go to a movie or pay a museum entrance, or even to purchase clothes. However, he wanted to go with her to check that they were suitable.

 

Suitable?

 

When she worked at Tweed company, she wore jeans or slacks. Rummaging in dusty files did not lend itself to suits. For board meetings, when she briefed the family who sat on the board, she had two suits, blue and black. She would alternate. A different scarf or blouse would vary her appearance, although she doubted that the board members paid any attention.

 

More important were her PowerPoints.

 

That was another life. Unlike the fights in her marriage, her battles were what should be included in the history. Sometimes, two family members, brothers in their eighties, worried about revealing family secrets so far in the past that that anyone who participated in those secrets was long gone.

 

Sometimes Daphne ached for those days when she was responsible for herself only.

 

“Earth to Daphne. Earth to Daphne.”

 

“I’m sorry. You were saying?”

 

“Do we want to go into that much detail? This is a comic.” Florence hopped off the stool and poured herself more coffee. She held the pot in the air toward Daphne, who shook her head.

 

“I agree, but be aware even if we don’t say it, it needs to be there,” Daphne said.

 

“I wasn’t arguing.”

 

“I know. And like any good bande desinée each frame will have lots of detail in the drawing …”

 

“… which is why we have to spend more time in those old houses in Lexington so I can make sure we get the details right.”

 

Daphne had more to share about her progress.

 

During Florence’s absence, Gareth had made several trips to the main embassy in Washington. This left her time to work without him being aware of what she was doing, even though she felt uncomfortable keeping it a secret. The need to keep it a secret for peace in her marriage bothered her more.

 

When he wasn’t in Washington, most days after he left for work, she headed for the Boston Public Library. At times it felt much like having an ordinary job with fixed hours. She thought of the building with its marble central staircase and lion statues almost as a palace.

 

She’d fallen in love with the reading room and the rounded ceiling above. She loved its green lamps placed strategically along long wooden tables. She loved ordering the books and waiting for their delivery. Some could not be removed from the library. Others could.

 

Rather than take them out and leave them around the apartment where Gareth might question their presence, she sent them back to the archives. It wasn’t the type of reading matter that would be in great demand as a best seller would be. Still, when the book she was working with was there the next day, she felt a sense of relief.

 

It felt good to have a project where she could immerse herself as she had when she did research at uni or searching the records of the textile company to write a company history.

 

At night, whether Gareth came home early or late, she could have continued working but instead would read mysteries, biographies and chick lit. Even if her at-home reading was relaxing after her research, she felt sneaky. She may not have liked keeping secrets from her husband, but she did like the peace that enveloped her marriage when she did.

 

She had acknowledged something was wrong with her marriage where she couldn’t follow her interests without annoying him. That he deemed the project “stupid, a waste of time, slacking her wifely duties” and on and on annoyed her even more.

 

Annoying was perhaps the wrong word. Gareth’s moods could change from lovable to ranting in minutes. She was never sure what would set him off.

 

When she figured out how to deal with it, she would. Now wasn’t the time and she wasn’t even sure she would recognize the time when it arrived.

 

She shared none of these problems, not so much of not wanting to reveal them, but because there was no one she felt that she could talk to.

 

Her friend Victoria was at a critical point in her PhD thesis. Daphne didn’t want to distract her.

 

Her parents were too far away to help. If she were to pack up and move in with them in Scotland while she sorted her life out, she had no doubt they would do everything they could to help with only minimal clucks.

 

At the same time, she knew they would talk in bed at night, keeping their voices low, saying how they knew Gareth was not the man for their beloved daughter, that something always seemed off. They might mention his exceptional good looks, his Oxford degree and his place in the government, all of which were reasons to look deeper, for they were distrustful of anything that looked too perfect.

 

It was like she was living in a romance-type novel: young woman thinks she meets man of her dreams: her dreams slowly evolve into a nightmare. Maybe nightmare was too strong a word, but bad dream could work as a description. In a romance novel, Mr. Right would appear and save the heroine. She didn’t want to meet Mr. Right. She just wanted a smooth life: successful, handsome husband with interesting job, no money worries, a chance to see different places — a checked-off list of why she should be happy.

 

She wasn’t happy.

 

Often, before Florence had left for Paris, Daphne debated confiding in her. But that would mix personal into their project. She didn’t want to do that. Keeping them separate felt better. And then, Florence was the wife of another diplomat.

 

It didn’t help that Gareth kept saying how he disliked Florence and wished that Daphne didn’t spend so much time with her. When asked why, he had gone into his office, slamming the door. He hadn’t emerged until after she was asleep.

 

She didn’t know if Gareth knew Florence had gone to Paris. Maybe he thought that Daphne was no longer seeking out Florence’s company but the lack of the woman in and about their lives had reduced tension. It was just one more subject that they didn’t discuss.

 

“Let’s go to lunch at the Wayside Inn, then to Lexington so I can take some photos of the houses for the artwork?” Florence asked.

 

“Give me time to get dressed.”

 

*****

A waiter ushered them to a linen-draped table near the fireplace where little gray squares of a an almost burned-out log were outlined in red. A waiter added another log. When it fell on top of the old log, ashes flared up with a thud and crackle. Sparks flew up the chimney.

 

When the women arrived, most tables were either empty, or people were shoving credit cards into wallets and reaching for jackets.

 

“It’s a good thing we aren’t allergic to wood.” Daphne swept her hand to indicate the floors’ wide planks, the wood-paneled walls, and wooden beams holding up the wooden ceiling. The atmosphere was cozy compared to the cool day outside with a wind that was stripping the remaining-colored leaves from trees.

 

“What do you expect? It goes back to the 1700s,” Florence said.

 

“How did you know that?”

 

“Longfellow wrote about it. At the time it was called Howe’s Inn or something like that. Just for the hell of it, I took an Early American Lit course nights last year, never thinking I’d sometime be working on a book about the period.”

 

Daphne had to admit life took strange twists. A year ago, and a little more, she thought her life in Edinburgh was settled into a satisfactory routine of research, reports, and seeing a few girlfriends for a drink or show.

 

A waiter appeared. “Would you ladies like a cocktail?” He was seriously cute with his curly dark hair and brown eyes one could fall into. He oozed charisma. Not that she was thinking of being unfaithful to Gareth, but she liked to admire nice-looking people. He would not be the man who saved the heroine like in that romance novel she had just read. She would save herself.

 

“Do you have anything typically New England, maybe even something typical of the Revolutionary era?” Daphne asked. Maybe they could use the meal in their comic book. She liked to feel history, not just read about it. Among her thrills was when she stood on the spot where Mary Queen of Scots was crowned as a baby and in the palace room where Mary’s lover was killed.

 

“There’s our Cow Wow; it was the area’s first mixed drink with rum and ginger brandy.” He had a smile that if it were a TV commercial, a light would shine off a tooth and the audience would hear a ping.

 

“Sounds powerful,” Florence said.

 

“Or there’s the Stonewall with gin and apple jack.”

 

“What’s apple jack?” Florence asked.

 

“An old New England drink going back to the 1600s.” His smile pinged.

 

“Sounds pretty strong, but we’ve work to do this afternoon. Maybe just a glass of wine,” Florence said.

“Excuse her, she’s French,” Daphne said. “I’m driving, so a Coke.” They wouldn’t be using alcoholic drinks in their comic book.

 

“Let’s go New Englandy with our meals,” Florence said.

 

“Nous avons New England Yankee pot roast. “Aussi quelque chose with cornbread stuffing and cranberry sauce.” Another smile without its ping.

 

Daphne looked at the menu. “What’s a Boston Scrod?”

 

“A fish,” the waiter said. “Usually haddock, but always a white fish. Very Bostonian to call it scrod.”

They selected the pot roast and the cornbread stuffed chicken and decided to share between them.

 

Once the waiter left, Daphne reached into her backpack and pulled out a folder. “Want to discuss Abigail?”

 

“Bien sur.”

 

“Don’t bother to take notes. I’ll e-mail you this file and photos of things like the clothes when we get back.”

 

“Abigail is either twelve. She has a twin brother. None of her siblings survived either checking out of the womb or giving in to the various diseases of the day. She attended the local elementary school, reads, writes. Her parents want her home to help with chores.”

 

“They had schools?” Florence asked.

 

“Blame the Puritans. They made a law that every town of fifty families or more must have a school for boys and girls. This was so they could read the Bible.”

 

“Maybe we can include that in the story, her going to school, not the law itself.”

 

“She could hate it or love it. Oh, I didn’t tell you. She lives on a farm and her father is one of the Minutemen. That’s what they called the men who served in the militia,” Daphne said, just as the waiter brought their drinks and left with another ping-style smile.

 

“I knew that,” Florence said.” We need to give her character. Make her a rebel?”

 

“I thought of that. She doesn’t like to embroider although her mother makes wonderful samplers. She’s garbage at sewing, but she’s good at spinning, cooking in the open fireplace, and churning butter. Maybe a series of panels with her doing chores, which might come as a shock to modern children.”

 

“They might like the no-school part,” Florence said.

 

“Not so sure after the schools being shut during the pandemic,” Daphne said.

 

“We could have her dress as a boy and fight the British. Or maybe she could dream about a mobile phone,” Florence said.

 

Daphne stared for a moment then laughed. “I have missed you so much.” She had not realized how much until that moment.