Page 77 of Henhouse
“And if Effie asks,” Brayden ventured, “that’s why Theo was here.He got his ticket with me when Louisa first posted them for sale. I had always planned on asking you tonight . . . before everything went sideways with us . . . and wanted my best man by my side. He wasn’t trying to impose when she didn’t want him around. He was helping me.”
Hope thought on that for a moment. She couldn’t be certain Effiedidn’twant Theo around, but she kept that to herself. “It was a simply fun way to find you down on one knee. I’m glad he came.”
“Me too,” Brayden said. “It’s weird though. Nothing about how I feel about you has changed in the last ten minutes, but Ifeelchanged. Like this is all just beginning. It all feels new.”
“I know what you mean,” Hope said smiling. She rested her head on Brayden’s shoulder, hand on her belly, as she enjoyed the majesty of Louisa’s garden ball.
Hope saw the lavender bell of her dress before she saw Louisa wander through the arbor to a patch of grass beneath the lights. She looked heavenward, unaware of Hope’s attention. The deep breath that lifted her chest felt like it released a monster from her back. The wind rustled and the music carried farther through the backyard garden as a new set of footsteps shuffled across the bluestone.
Hope squeezed Brayden’s hand and watched with bated breath as a gentleman caller handed Louisa a glass of champagne. Louisa’s returning smile was coquettish and warm—nothing like the cynical, overprotective sister Hope experienced the other night.
“You’re right,” she whispered to Brayden. “Everything is new.” Hope smiled, a magic settling over the Thatcher house in the wake of Brayden’s proposal. A magic that felt an awful lot like breaking a curse.
37
Effie didn’t waste any time after the ball searching for a gallery space for Aunt Beatrice. It was a nice distraction from her self-pity and the boxes that piled up in Hope’s bedroom.
Effie’s inquiries around town had led her to the doors of the Portsmouth Historical Society. They had a few rental spaces within their two buildings that would do nicely for a watercolor show complete with light appetizers, drinks, and mingling. Effie had scoped out the spaces ahead of time and invited Aunt Beatrice out to approve the one she liked best.
They walked along the second-story gallery in the federal-style building on Middle Street. A white wooden railing marked out the open center of the floor, looking down on the well-kept interior. Paneled walls made great frames for art pieces that the event coordinator assured them could be swapped out for Beatrice’s paintings.
“What do you think?” Effie asked.
“It’s perfect.” Beatrice beamed, patting Effie’s arm where she heldit for support during their turn about the space.
“We have an opening two weeks from today,” the coordinator exclaimed from behind her clipboard. “Since you’re doing appetizers and cocktails I should be able to pull it together quickly for you.”
“Perfect.” Effie bubbled with excitement at making these plans for her dear great-aunt. “But we will require a signature cocktail for the lady of the hour. Something with gin and lavender.”
“Oh, Effie. Don’t fuss.”
“Fuss I must. You’re too important to let this be glossed over. We aren’t just renting a space. We’re celebrating youryearsof beautiful artwork.” Effie turned to the event coordinator. “Do you have a weekly newsletter we could announce the show in?”
“Of course, but we do charge for advertisements.”
“Whatever it is, I’ll pay it,” Effie said with such confidence she wondered why everything in her life wasn’t so easy to decide.
“I’ll go draw up your contract and make a note about the cocktail. Feel free to peruse and plan,” she said gesturing to the space.
Effie led a quiet Aunt Beatrice in another turn about the room, noting which walls would be best for a display of Issa portraits and how they might lay out the evolution of the Thatcher women along the four walls that made up the expansive circle of the balcony-like room. “What’s on your mind?” Effie finally asked.
A pensive beat before Beatrice replied, “You don’t have to go through so much trouble. I only wanted them displayed for a night. I didn’t need ashow.”
“I know you didn’t need it, but it feels right, don’t you think?”
“It feels likesomething, and it’s been a good long while since I’ve hadsomethingto look forward to. For that, I will be forever grateful.”
Effie paused before an oil painting of a bowl of fruit. She had never understood still life paintings, finding them to be more evidence of skill or practice in color theory than actual artwork. But this one, with its blue lace tablecloth and ceramic bowl filled with berries and stone fruits, had her wondering if she’d judged the style too harshly. There was a sweetness to the brush strokes, a calm in the beam of light through the blurred window in the background.
It reminded her of their kitchen, their own bowl of fruit that rested in the center of the breakfast table. It became an emblem of life lived around the objects and a sentience radiated from the blue lace, the worn wood, the fruit that would never rot or be eaten.
“Aunt Bea?”
“Yes, Effie dear?”
“Does it ever get easier to let yourself be happy?”
A sigh emanated from the sturdy, wrinkled frame of the woman beside her. “I think it’s the hardest thing in the world to let yourself be happy.”
