On a stool before the gaslit hearth, a handsome young man with a thick, lustrous head of hair and Scottish brogue (or maybe Irish), strums an acoustic guitar to the tune of “Danny Boy.”
Under the circumstances, Harriet is finding it hard to maintain her anger. It’s possible, she’s forced to admit, that Caroline actually has her best interest in mind. Viewing her life from some distance, Harriet can see how her situation might look to her daughter: osteoarthritis, dented side panels, phantom WD-40 cans. All that house, all that yard, all those stairs. And there she is, pushing eighty years old, brittle-boned and stooped, two hours from her nearest relative. Yes, from this vantage, Harriet can see why there might be legitimate cause for concern. And for the first time, she’s touched by her daughter’s solicitude. Tonight Harriet is willing, once again, to give Caroline the benefit of the doubt. She’s earned it.
“Just have a glass of wine, Mom. Don’t worry about me.”
“No, dear, I’m fine.”
But a glass of wine sounds awfully good.
“Seriously, Mom. Just enjoy yourself. I’m around booze all the time.”
“Fine, then. I’ll order a glass.”
Harriet’s glad Caroline talked her into it. The sweet white wine is a perfect accent to the velveteen air of the Crow’s Nest, a perfect complement to the sad, sweet longing of “Cockles and Mussels.” What’s more, Caroline seems perfectly comfortable with it. In fact, between sets, she flags the passing waitress and orders Harriet another glass, which is quite thoughtful if not a little surprising, all things considered, though Harriet has a sneaking suspicion she knows who will be picking up the tab. But what’s a few dollars, next to peace and tranquillity with her daughter?
Having conceded her campaign, as far as Harriet can tell, Caroline makes no further mention of the house. They do what they never seem to be able to do: they while away the evening with agreeable conversation, treading the past lightly, avoiding points of contention, keeping the reins on their sarcasm.
“Oh, these old songs are so romantic, aren’t they?” says Harriet.
“They are,” says Caroline. “I’ve have to admit. I’m a sucker for an Irish accent.”
“Oh, look,” chimes Harriet. “It’s Kurt!”
Indeed, Kurt ambles in wearing a gray T-shirt (with sleeves!) that says LOOK, DON’T TOUCH. He’s clean-shaven, and his hair’s in order. Harriet gives him a little wave, but Kurt doesn’t register it, as he takes a stool at the bar, his back pointed squarely at Harriet and Caroline.
“Shall I invite him to join us?”
“Mom, please, no.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“I wasn’t going to try and set you up, you know?”
“I know. I’d rather it just be the two of us tonight, though.” Harriet pats her on the knee. “That’s sweet, dear.”
“And Mom, I’m sorry I discouraged you from coming on this cruise. Seriously. I underestimated you.”
“You meant well, dear, I know that. It’s also possible that you overestimated the cruise.”
“A little of both, I guess. Anyway, I’m glad you didn’t listen to me. Are you having fun?”
“Oh yes, dear,” says Harriet with a slug of wine.
“Do you want another glass or anything?”
“I’ve had plenty. Gracious, if I drank another, you’d have to carry me out of here. How about you, dear? Another club soda?”
“What’s the use, I can’t feel it.”
“Squawk. That’s what she said,” quips Harriet.
Caroline grins. “Well played, Mom.”
“Why—hic—thank you,” says Harriet.
“Look, Mom,” says Caroline, reaching into her purse. “We need to resolve some stuff.”
Harriet straightens up in her chair and summons what concern she can muster. “What is it, dear?”
“Your future,” says Caroline. “We can’t ignore it.” She sets some forms on the table and returns to her purse for a pen. “It’s just stuff designed to make things easier for you. Mostly, it’s a precaution.”
Suddenly, Harriet is alert. The warmth drains from her in a flash. “What is this?” She snatches up the paper and dons her glasses.
“It’s in case anything happens,” says Caroline. “And you’re unable to make a decision or whatever.”
It doesn’t take long for Harriet to recognize the significance of the paper. “You don’t actually expect me to sign this, do you?”
“Mom, it’s just in case.”
“Is that why you’ve been trying to get me drunk, Caroline? You actually think you can dupe me into signing away my freedom?”
Harriet stands up too fast and nearly loses her balance.
“Mom, sit down. Let me explain.”
“You’d sell my house right out from under me, wouldn’t you? Lock me away and help yourself to my bank account.”
“Sit down, Mom, you’re making a scene.”
Indeed, neighboring tables have begun to take notice.
But Harriet doesn’t care. “On top of everything else, you bungled it, Caroline. Even if you did dupe me into signing this, you’d need two witnesses. My God, you could have picked a shrewder conspirator than Dwight Honeycutt!”
The music stops. At the bar, Kurt has turned to see what the commotion is.
“Mom, sit down, please,” says Caroline. Rising to her feet, she coaxes Harriet back into her chair. Harriet complies but only because she feels woozy.
July 1, 1966 (HARRIET AT TWENTY-NINE)
Look at you, Harriet Chance, so diligent, so fastidious in your attention to detail! It’s Friday at 6 p.m., and most of the office left hours ago for the holiday. But not you, Harriet. There are documents to file, motions to draft, letters to write. A pile of work that would daunt most people but not Ms. Harriet Chance. The productivity thrills you. Every day you learn something new about the vast quagmire of law, and bit by bit you see the big picture coming together like a jigsaw puzzle.
When you’re really in a good groove, you allow yourself to daydream, don’t you? With your enthusiasm and your sterling work ethic, is it so impossible to believe that you could go back to school and earn a law degree? Isn’t that what your father had planned for you? Isn’t the timing right? You’ve got your days, with Skip at school. You could keep your job and go to school nights. You could pay for child care with your own income. You could still be your idealized self: independent, decisive, outspoken.
Ah, but you’re just musing, aren’t you Harriet? You wouldn’t dare share this dream with anyone, least of all your husband, who still seems slightly amused by your professional endeavors, though he is supportive. But what on earth would he say when you tell him you want to be a lawyer?
There is one person upon whom your good, hard work is apparently not lost, one person who has professed to believe in you all along, who has encouraged you, a person with whom you’ve always shared a unique, if not always healthy, repartee as confidants. And he just so happens to be the only one left in the office.
Listen to Charlie Fitzsimmons commend you on your superlative work. Telling you he can count on you one hundred percent, that he trusts your work and your character implicitly, that nobody is quite as quick and efficient, and discreet. Charlie’s not as old-fashioned as some. He believes the right woman can do most anything a man can do. In fact, he can see increasing the right woman’s responsibilities, expanding her sphere of influence. Who knows, maybe even subsidizing her continued education — his words, not yours.
At first, your shoulders tighten beneath his touch, which stirs an old confusion and a racing heart. But his words embolden you. The fact that until five minutes ago the man was repellent to you only seems to inflame you more, as though you’ve actually managed to turn the emotion inside out, unleashing a reckless impulse you could never have guessed at.