When Claire first looked at Minna, the green of her eyes startled her, unexpected and lovely, the soft hue of moss. As the girl took in the room — the floor-to-ceiling bookcases around three walls, stacks of books on every surface, including one tented open along the sofa’s arm — she picked the splayed book up, twisting a delicate wrist, to read the spine. “Tales of the Arabian Nights? Are you a classicist, or are you drawn to the fairy-tale elements?”
Claire smiled. “I’m making up for a stunted education,” she said, diffident as if she were being courted. “I love stories.”
“Do you love stories or love love stories?”
Minna chuckled and stretched her long legs out in front of her, crossing them at the ankle. She wore a loose summer dress, but what drew Claire’s attention were her expensive-looking gold sandals, the heels high, calling for a more glamorous occasion than the one she was there for. Her toenails were painted an iridescent red, her toes hanging over the front as if the shoes were a size too small. Her feet were long, narrow, aristocratic.
“You found me out. I love both.”
“I already feel at home here,” Minna said, granting them for the first time her wide, brilliant smile. “My great-grandmother was a novelist. We always had books around. At one point I wanted to be a librarian just to be able to read all day.”
“Really?” Gwen said, as if this were an outlandish statement.
“What was her name?” Claire asked. Triumphant, she would not look at Gwen or Mrs. Girbaldi. Now, besides Claire’s being transported by her exotic looks, Claire’s heart quickened because Minna had entered her territory. At no time did she not prefer the imaginary to the real.
“Jean Rhys.”
“Oh,” Claire said. “Oh.”
She swooned. It was as if the last thirty years were swept away and she was back in her college English lit class, reading Rhys for the first time. Her masterpiece, Wide Sargasso Sea, had turned all the Jane Austen and Brontë sisters books on their head. A prequel to Jane Eyre, it was the madwoman-in-the-attic’s side of the story, the one that Jane so easily dismissed. After reading it, Claire felt that if one knew any person thoroughly enough, almost all could be explained and forgiven. What had happened to the girl who read that book?
“She was one of my heroes in college. I loved her books,” Claire said.
“I never heard of her,” Gwen said.
Minna looked at Claire for confirmation, and said, “She was well-known in the thirties and forties. Interest revived in her in the seventies with all the postcolonial Caribbean and feminist studies. Although she hated that label; hated the island and being lumped together with other women writers.
“She told my mother she was absolutely disappointed to have a daughter and no sons. More disappointed to have only granddaughters and great-granddaughters. Ironic, that we are a whole clan of women.”
“Is she still…?”
Minna closed her eyes for a moment. “She passed in ’79. I hardly knew her. I have one memory as a baby, being dandled on her lap. I was fascinated by her false teeth, how she moved them around in her mouth.” Minna laughed.
“Jean Rhys,” Claire said. “Beautiful Antoinette, on that lush, sensual island. And Rochester, who comes to marry her.”
They all sat in silence, mesmerized for different reasons.
Minna leaned forward, suddenly serious. “She had a large impact on me as a girl. She was a great heroine in Dominica, where we’re from.”
“Do you go home often?”
“When interest in her work revived, the royalties grew. The family bought land around the original farm until we were one of the largest landowners. Then came the anglicizing. My mother decided to send me to England.”
“How about some wine?” Lucy blurted out, and Gwen glared at her as if confirmed that her sister had lost her mind.
“I’d love some,” Minna said, so quickly it was obvious that she was nervous. “Red if you have it.” She sighed, glancing at Gwen. “Maybe not appropriate for a job interview?”
“No, no. It’s fine. We’re liberal here. Go ahead, open a bottle,” Gwen said to Lucy’s disappearing back.
“We grew up on our grandfather’s coffee plantation. Took shopping trips to Martinique. A charmed life.”
“So how did you end up working at a coffee shop?” Gwen asked.
“How rude!” Claire said. “Excuse my daughter.”
“Are you aware,” Mrs. Girbaldi jumped in, “that this is a job of great responsibility?”
Minna looked off into the corner of the ceiling for a long moment, as if making a particularly difficult calculation, and, once decided, looked at Claire.
“Lucy filled me in a bit. My mother had breast cancer.”
Claire hated everyone in the room for their roughness, how they had forced this out of Minna. “Did she survive it?” Claire asked softly, as if she didn’t want to wake something sleeping in the room.
“She died of something else.”
The blood stopped and started inside Claire. She understood now the pull toward the girl, could see in her eyes that they were fellow sufferers.
“So I’ve been through cancer treatment before. I’ve learned to be careful in approaching the subject. Some people want to be direct and head-on about the whole thing. Others prefer a more indirect approach.”
“My daughters think I’m being stubborn, wanting to stay on here alone.”
“You talk about us like we weren’t even here,” Gwen said.
“You are stubborn, Claire. That’s your strength.”
Her using Claire’s name should have alarmed, a premature intimacy, and yet it thrilled Claire and made her feel they shared an understanding already.
Gwen coughed. “Lucy told us you were taking classes.…”
Minna turned toward her, her profile sharp, suddenly businesslike. “I did my undergraduate work at Cambridge. I started my PhD in political science at Berkeley, but decided to take some time off. Too much stress.”
“What are your future plans?” Mrs. Girbaldi asked.
Minna sat back and smiled, showing that she was answering these intrusive questions only for politeness. “I think I’d do well in diplomacy. My father served as a diplomat. There’s always the librarian dream to fall back on.”
“Wow, Cambridge,” Lucy said, coming in from the kitchen, balancing wineglasses, not missing a beat as she shot a look to Gwen.
“England’s a tradition in our family. Three generations. I want the advanced degree, but now I need some time off. The coffee-shop gig was just for some cash.”
Later, Claire remembered being so dazzled that first meeting with Minna that the information offered up came to her piecemeal. So distracted was she by the timbre, the wave and lilt, of Minna’s voice, like especially ravishing music that reached unexpected places. Definitely English, but something of hot sun and tropical waters, too. A slowness born out of heat and languor.
“I don’t know why this would appeal to you,” Claire said. “Taking care of a sick lady. But you won’t have to clean.”
Minna laughed, a deep belly laugh, head thrown back, perfect white teeth exposed. “I’m well acquainted with a mop. My maman made sure all of her girls kept a spotless house.”
“You have sisters!” Lucy said as if that provided a final confirmation of her worthiness.
“Two sisters. Another house of women only, like yours.”
A silence hung in the room. The family had long ago decided on omission rather than Once we had a son, a brother.…