“Yes, please," Cecily replied.
“And I'm Ruth. My sister and I have so much enjoyed reading the first chapters of the autobiographies. Especially yours. What a very interesting life you've had. Jane, aren't you writing your life?"
“No, I've invented one, but I haven't let anybody but Missy see it."
“What a splendid idea! Naomi will be down in a moment. She's feeling a little puny today and just woke from a nap. Would you like to see the garden? It's hot out, but we wouldn't be long."
“You and Mother go. I'd just be eaten up with jealousy," Jane said. "I've got my first garden, and between the pets and the bugs, it's a pitiful thing."
“Organic pest control. That's the key. I'll send some articles home with you. Now, Cecily, I've got some daylilies I want you to see....”
Their voices trailed off. Jane looked around the room. It was extremely feminine without being fussy. Most of the furniture was ornate but delicate antiques; little piecrust tables, a pair of Empire love seats with tapestry upholstery by the fireplace. Jane thought the color of the fabric was probably ashes of roses, a description that had always fascinated her. In front of the fireplace was a lovely peacock feather fan. Off the living room was a room that looked as if it had once been a porch, but was now enclosed to form a combination sun room/greenhouse. Light streamed in the windows that completely surrounded it. There were lush African violets on the windowsills and airy ferns hanging from the ceiling. The furniture was fresh white wicker with plump floral cushions. It was definitely a woman's house. Jane wondered if it had been like this when Ruth's husband was living or whether Ruth and Naomi had gradually made it over to suit their tastes.
Naomi came in the room as Jane was studying a china shepherdess on the mantel. "Oh, Jane. I didn't hear you come in. Ruth should have told me. Is she showing off the garden?"
“Yes, to my mother. Is that your cookbook collection?" Jane asked, gesturing toward a bookshelf of old books next to the fireplace.
“Why, yes. I've made scones for our tea from one of them. Would you like to see some of my favorites?”
Some of the books weren't even really books anymore, just sets of loose pages with ribbons and strings keeping them together. Others were so formidably bound that Jane found herself wondering about the strength of the women who'd first acquired them. Most were published works, but some of the oldest were handmade to pass from mother to daughter, often with drawings and sketches to illustrate methods of preparing and cooking. Naomi not only collected the books, she tried most of the recipes to the best of her ability—given directions like "churn until curdled" and "take a two-month-old piglet . ." She promised to copy down some of the best recipes for Jane.
“My very favorite is a recipe for relish from a Victorian-era book. The author says to season until `it's as sharp as a mother-in-law's tongue, and use in very small portions,' " Naomi said with a laugh. Jane liked the way Naomi handled the fragile old books—with care, but not fanatic care. In her hands, they weren't just objects of historical merit, but old friends.
“Oh, you've shown off your books without Cecily here," Ruth chided, coming back into the room with Jane's mother in tow. "Now you'll have to do it again. Ladies, do sit down while I get the tea.”
Naomi ran through a few of the high points andhad just retold the relish story when Ruth backed through the kitchen door, balancing a huge silver tray. Naomi tried to help her, but Ruth said the tray was far too heavy for her. She set it down on a low coffee table.
Jane's eyes nearly bulged at the sight of the food on the tray. There was a plate of tiny sandwiches cut in fancy shapes with a cookie cutter and sprinkled with a dusting of parsley, another piled high with scones, a bowl of what she later learned was sweet clotted cream. The tea steaming in a small silver tea urn was strong Earl Grey. It was accompanied by tiny bowls of colored sugar. To finish, there were fragrant puff pastries with crushed nuts in a gooey candied syrup over the tops. And tucked among all the dishes were sprigs of rosemary and several tiny glass vials with delicate brilliant yellow flowers and fragile, pungent foliage. "Dahlberg daisies," Ruth explained. "They grow like weeds, and most people don't even know about them.”
Jane could hardly speak. The look, the smell—heaven! While they ate, Ruth and Naomi frankly bragged on each other, Ruth complimenting Naomi's cooking, and Naomi boasting about Ruth's gardening, particularly an iris that Ruth had developed and named for her late husband. When Ruth referred to Naomi as her "little sister," Jane was surprised. Naomi, frail and ill, looked a good ten years older than the robust, tanned Ruth.
“Missy told me the two of you are planning to write a joint autobiography," Jane said when she finally reached the point that she could stop gobbling and talk. She felt as if she could just tuck in her arms and legs and roll home. "Why didn't you turn it in to the class?"
“Each of us has written a large portion of our own, but the problem is in how to join the two," Ruth said. "That's why we were so anxious to take Missy's class. Alternating chapters seems obvious, but I think would be confusing unless one of them is cast in the third person. And of course, there's very little logical overlap. We didn't find each other until so recently."
“Yet you seem like you've been together forever," Cecily said, daintily sucking a little syrup off her fingertip. "How did you get separated, if you don't mind my asking?"
“No, not at all. It was a long time ago. Our parents both died during the war—World War Two, which seems a thousand years ago now. I was only six, and Naomi was a baby," Ruth explained, giving her sister a quick smile. Naomi returned the smile, but shakily. Jane was uneasy, but certainly Ruth wouldn't be telling this story unless she and Naomi had come to terms with it.
“Things were so confused," Ruth went on. "We had only one relative—an uncle who'd died in Germany. We were shipped off from the South Pacific to his widow in Detroit, a young show girl who was appalled to have us dumped on her. She just gave us away like you would puppies. We each drifted from family to family. I was very fortunate to end up with a childless couple—a professor and his wife. Naomi wasn't so lucky. Naomi, darling, don't you think you might go up and lie down a bit?" she broke off.
Naomi had grown even paler, and her fingers were like claws on the arms of the chair.
“Excuse me," Naomi said. "I think I will. But I'll see you in class tonight. Maybe we can meet againbefore you have to leave," she said to Cecily. Her voice was thin and weak.
When she'd gone, Cecily said, "I'm sorry if we upset her by asking."
“Oh, no. It's not that at all. It's just that she has to have regular blood transfusions, and she's a little overdue. The doctors have recently adjusted her medication, too, and she's been awfully tired the last couple days."
“It's a shame Mrs. Pryce was so rude to her about her illness," Jane said.
“Terrible. I'm afraid I overreacted. It's amazing how many times something like that has happened, however. Most people are more subtle about it, but it's a health-conscious world, and people are terrified to be around someone seriously ill. Naomi's more philosophical about it than I am. She jumped all over me for making a scene." But for all her calm appraisal, she looked worried and glanced once or twice over her shoulder as she spoke, obviously concerned with whether her sister had gotten up the stairs safely.
“We're going to get out of your way," Cecily said, standing suddenly and moving toward the door at a pace that was courteous and yet brooked no argument.