The Sparrow Sisters (11 page)

T
he Mayo house was almost as old as Ivy House. It was white clapboard with deep green shutters and a columned porch, all set on a lawn marked by a thick stone wall that separated the house and its owners from the deep blue harbor and the boats that lay at anchor. It also kept them far away from the summer riffraff that wandered the three tidy piers. One of the original Mayo lawyers, a judge advocate, had built the house in the late eighteenth century. Since then, nearly all the Mayos had been in the law and had lived in the house. Most in the twentieth century had used it as a summer residence, but Simon's grandfather had stayed. It had the best view in
town, by far. At sunset, as on the night of the party, the light off the water made the seagulls drift to a stop on the small sandy beach below the house. They turned as one to watch, none of them bothering to cry out. A white tent waited at the rear of the house, and caterers milled around setting out glasses that caught the sun in blinding flares. Soon it would be dark enough to see the Big Point lighthouse fill the sky with intermittent flashes.

Patience had spent more time than she liked to admit getting ready for the party, for Henry. She'd chosen a pale blue dress with a boat neck that exposed her collarbones in the front and her shoulder blades in the back. Patience found it hanging with several others in the cedar closet in the attic and wondered where her mother had worn it. Her neck rose, a strong, slender column, and she'd wound her hair into a low bun. Nettie wove bee balm through the auburn strands so that every time Patience moved, a lemony current swirled around her. Freckles were scattered across her chest like sand. All in all, Patience thought, not bad for a girl who usually had dirt under her nails and leaves in her hair. “You still have leaves in your hair,” she said to the mirror.

Henry arrived at Ivy House early. For the first time he would see the sisters as they really were, at ease as they moved around their house. Patience came to the door, and Henry took a deep breath. She looked beautiful, and he was already trying to guess her mood by her scent; Pete's advice had taken hold in his mind. But all he smelled was the bee balm, although he
certainly couldn't name that. She led him back to the kitchen. It was hard to tell who was more startled when Patience's hand stole out to take Henry's.

Sorrel was pouring lemonade into ice-filled glasses in the kitchen as Nettie added strong tea and mint. They were laughing so loudly that Henry had to clear his throat before the sisters turned to see them.

“Ah,” Nettie sighed as she looked over. “You are so pretty, Patience. And Dr. Carlyle, very sharp.” Nettie laughed at Henry as he pushed his hair back.

Henry was wearing gray flannels and a white shirt, the smell of starch clear in the warm kitchen. A slightly tarnished silver belt buckle caught the light as he bowed to the sisters. He held his jacket over his arm; it was too hot to put it on. His hair was wet, and Patience had to clasp her hands behind her back to keep from dashing the drops from his neck. He'd been in the sun; his cheekbones were redder than the clean-shaven face below. Henry blushed at Nettie's comment.

“You're burned,” Patience said. “I'll get some salve.”

“Were you at Big Point Beach?” Sorrel asked.

“Oh, no.” Henry tried to focus, but he could still hear the swish of Patience's dress against her legs when she turned. “I promised Ben I'd check his boat, not that I know what to look for. He'll be discharged tomorrow, but he's sidelined for the season.”

“Ben Avellar?” Nettie asked as she arranged the mint more precisely than absolutely necessary.

“Patience didn't tell you?”

Nettie shook her head.

“He broke his thumb. It was a bad break; he had surgery yesterday afternoon. He's on intravenous antibiotics to combat an infection. I'm going to pick him up in Hayward tomorrow.”

“Poor Ben,” Nettie murmured as she handed Henry a glass.

Patience returned and after she smoothed a dollop of thick white cream onto Henry's cheeks and nose, she took the glass from him before he'd had even a taste.

“I won't be home late,” Patience said with a grimace.

Henry rubbed at his face as they walked down the porch stairs, spreading the cream into a pale mask.

“What is this? It smells awful.”

Patience batted his hand away. “It's cider vinegar and some other stuff.”

“I must look like a mime,” Henry said.

“Just give it a minute and it'll soak in,” Patience said.

He stood still outside Ivy House and waited.

“What?” Patience asked, turning back. She'd started down the walk.

“I'm giving it a minute,” Henry said.

“Oh, for the love of corn.” Patience put her hand out, and Henry took it.

“No, give me your hanky,” she said.

“How do you know I have one?” Henry asked as he reached into his pocket.

“Men like you always have a hanky,” Patience said as she
lifted the handkerchief to her mouth. She dabbed it on her tongue and began to scrub at Henry.

“Stop,” he said. “Give me that.” Henry finished the job and then didn't know what to do with the dirty cloth. He stuffed it into the cracked stone urn at the end of the steps to Ivy House.

“I'll be back for it later,” he said to Patience. She lifted one eyebrow, and Henry hoped she couldn't see him blush beneath the sunburn.

By the time Henry and Patience arrived at the Mayos', the redness on Henry's cheeks had faded to a faint flush, and his skin was as tan as that of any local. Henry felt Patience's bare arm press against his shirtsleeve, and it was all he could do to keep walking. He wanted to turn around and take her to his apartment. He wanted to lie in his bed with her, tell her his secrets as the night air cooled them. That thought made him stop suddenly and then speed up to cover. He knew his gait was uneven, but Patience steadied him with her hand on his arm.

“What's going on in there?” Patience tapped his temple, as if she'd heard Henry's jumbled, hopeful thoughts. She saw that his eyes were the deep gray-blue of a newborn.

“We're here,” Henry said as they turned onto the waterfront.

And they were. The house rose above them, the seawall made of local granite, the porch steps painted a shiny gray. The front door was open, and Patience could see Sorrel's giant flowers from the sidewalk.

“Gird your loins and sharpen your tongue,” she said with a wicked grin. “This will be a battle.” She stepped away, putting
a full three feet between them. “Let's not give the crowd anything more to talk about.”

Inside a harpist played in a corner by the stairs. Patience crossed her eyes at Henry and reached for two glasses of Champagne as a summer-help waiter from the yacht club came past.

“Drink up. Think of it as anesthesia.”

Henry took a sip and Patience took a gulp.

They were greeted by Charlotte Mayo who, Patience was sure, hip-checked the mayor to reach Henry.

“Dr. Carlyle!” she trilled. “And Patience,” she sighed. “What a treat.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” Henry said as he shook Charlotte's hand.

“No, no, thank you!” Charlotte pulled Henry closer. “I have been wanting to talk to you forever.”

“He's only been here since April.” Patience had very little tolerance when it came to Charlotte Mayo. In general, she had little patience and even less time for the social aspect of her town. As soon as she and Henry walked through the door, Patience forgot why she had agreed to come and remembered why she never had before.

“Oh, Patience.” Charlotte laughed. “You are always so literal.”

“Charlotte.” Patience laughed. “You are . . .” She closed her mouth.

Henry watched the women with a vague smile, so uncomfortable that he began to back away.

“Oh, no you don't,” they both said when they saw him.
Henry found himself being pulled into the living room by Charlotte. He managed one panicked look at Patience before the crowd closed over him like a wave. The names and faces of the other guests ran together as Charlotte shepherded him from one group to another. He exchanged his empty glass for a full one and looked longingly at an icy tray of oysters as it whizzed past. Charlotte brought him out to the terrace overlooking the harbor, and Henry leaned against the rail in relief.

“I'm sorry to give you a full-immersion baptism but you need to know these people.” Charlotte moved next to him. “Consider it the price you pay for success.”

“I'm grateful,” Henry said, though he considered the price a little high.

“Yes, but I wanted you alone for a moment.” Charlotte put her hand on his arm. “I have a professional concern.”

“I would be happy to see you in my office,” Henry said. He looked at Charlotte; he could see something dark in her eyes and was unexpectedly sorry for her.

“I will make an appointment, of course,” she said and then lowered her voice. “Dr. Higgins has my records, but I don't want you to dismiss me out of hand. I still have hope.”

“Oh no,” Henry said. “Are you ill?”

“If only.” Charlotte waved her hands, and Henry leaned away from them, their nails painted a bright coral, her rings as heavy as hardware. “Simon and I want a family but . . .” she shrugged.

“I'm not a fertility specialist,” Henry said.

“But you're young and new, and maybe a fresh pair of eyes?”

Henry put his hand over Charlotte's. “I'll look at your file and we'll meet.”

“Thank you, Dr. Carlyle.”

Patience watched Henry and Charlotte as they talked. She saw the desperation that threatened to snap Charlotte's civility like a rubber band, but she didn't know what caused it. She couldn't read her, probably because Charlotte refused to be read; some people did that, not many. For a moment Patience felt a twinge of sympathy, but when she saw Henry touch Charlotte's hand, she took a half step forward. Ridiculous really, she thought, but I'd just like to keep an eye on him. She might have managed to swerve through the crowds to rescue Henry, but that tray of oysters came by and she was distracted. She took one and a lemon, squeezing it so hard the juice stung her eye.
Fair price,
she thought as she tipped the oyster into her mouth.

It slid down her throat, with an echo of the sea, the siren song of salt and rock and dark depths.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered.

“Yes?” a deep voice said in her ear.

“Sammy!” Patience nudged her shoulder against the decidedly larger one of Sam Parker, high school make-out partner, fireman, and now EMT. She could have shoved against him with all her might, and he wouldn't have shifted an inch.

“I am shocked!” Sam said. “Shocked, that you're in the house that generations of money-grubbing Mayos built.”

“Well, I came on a dare.” Patience kept her eye out for eavesdroppers. Then she pointed to the terrace.

“Charlotte dared you? Ooh, that would get you going.” Sam looked confused as he leaned in to Patience's neck. “No, you're not feeling cranky; I smell lemon.”

“It's the bee balm in my hair, and don't go sniffing around me like a dog.” Patience pushed Sam back and he let her.

“So, who's the dare? You can tell me.”

Sam Parker was one of Patience's best friends. Sam was the only one, other than her sisters, whom Patience let guess at her mood so openly. The rest did it when they thought she wasn't looking. Now, after more than ten years of friendship, there was little Patience could hide from Sam, little she cared to.

“See the guy standing with Charlotte?” she said, tilting her head.

“The new doctor?” Sam didn't need to search for Henry; he was tall enough to see over the throng, and Henry was tall enough to be seen. “What the hell are you doing with him?”

“I am not doing anything, like it's your business,” Patience said. “He asked, I answered.”

“Patience, can I just say one thing?” Sam turned her around so that her back was to the view. “Do not play with him.”

“What is it with you people?” Patience grabbed a glass as a waiter skated past.

“You have not been with a guy since like a year ago,” Sam said, lowering his voice. “I know this because that last one had to be talked down from a shed roof after you dumped him,
and since I haven't been called out to rescue another lovesick puppy, I think it's safe to say that you're not getting any.”

“Thanks, that was pretty,” Patience said. “And the jumper, Tommy, Timmy? He was fragile to begin with. And high.” Patience put her glass down perilously close to the lip of the table where Sorrel's flowers cascaded in a riot of scent and color and summer.

“P, if you really think you're ready to let a guy in,” Sam looked around, “to want somebody more than you want things your way, don't make Henry Carlyle your test case. He is not someone to be toyed with. He's a hero, you know that, right?” Sam looked at Patience until she met his eyes.

“I know, I know, he was in the army, saving lives, wounded in action. I'm impressed, I am.” Patience couldn't seem to stop herself; her voice had taken on a sharp, bitter edge even though she wanted to say that Henry Carlyle had softened her to the point of melting, that Henry made her miss him before she even knew him. And that he'd done so in the time it took most men to walk away from the challenge.

“Damn it, Patience,” Sam hissed. “He saved a classroom full of kids in Iraq. Well, all but one. He would never say so, but it's true.” He pulled her toward a wall and crowded her against it. “The story I hear? He ran
into
the burning building, Patience.”

“You do that all the time, Sam.” And he did. If Sam called Henry a hero, Patience knew she should listen.