The Four Seasons. Mary Monroe Alice

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      Looking up she was caught by surprise to see Dennis leaning back in his chair looking at her intently. The disapproval she had seen in his eyes was replaced by open gratitude for her rescue. She smiled briefly, acknowledging.

      The back door swung open and Birdie swept in with a gust of cool air. Her arms were overflowing with plastic bags and she was fired up with a sense of accomplishment.

      “What a morning I’ve had!” she announced, her voice as blustery as the wind. “The sun is shining and melting the snow. Nobody will have a problem making it to the funeral. Come see. I’ve bought all sorts of paper products: plates, napkins and cups. And tons of plastic tableware.”

      “Paper products?” Rose went directly to the bags and began sifting through them.

      “Take a look at the pattern, Rose. The gray is somber but not too dark, don’t you think?” She wasn’t asking as much as thinking out loud. She came up for air, looking around the room.

      Everyone sitting at the kitchen table stared back at her in silence. One face caught her attention.

      “Jilly!” she exclaimed, catching sight of her sister at last. “You’re up!”

      Birdie’s face registered delight, surprise, then maybe a hint of disapproval at seeing her so scantily clad and barefoot. Her gaze darted to Dennis, but she regrouped quickly, set down her bundles and hurried to Jilly’s side. They hugged a bit awkwardly, what with Jilly still seated and Birdie bending low. The wind had chilled Birdie’s cheeks and the ice on her woolen coat soaked straight through Jilly’s silk. Yet it was the chill in her greeting that Jilly wondered about.

      “You were three sheets to the wind last night,” Birdie said in a scolding manner. While she spoke, her eyes studied Jilly with a clinical thoroughness. “And you’re pale as a ghost this morning.”

      Jilly immediately brought her hand to her face, smoothing it. “It was a horrible flight, followed by a horrible drive from the airport.” She was gratified to see a flash of guilt in Birdie’s eyes for not having picked her up as promised. “Then, of course, there was the jet lag. But Rose took care of me, as always the perfect hostess. I’ve had coffee and fruit and feel much more myself.”

      She wanted to ask Birdie what her excuse was for looking so bad. She hoped her face didn’t reflect shock at seeing how much her sister had aged since she last saw her. She looked ten years older than her forty-one years, more bulky and pasty. The vivid red highlights in her brown hair had faded and competed now with a new crop of gray. And to make matters worse, the hair was cut in an unflattering, mannish style. Birdie had always been bigger than the other Season girls but she’d been lithe and strong and had carried herself like a queen. Now she was so changed. Was it age or food or just no longer caring that led her to let herself go? She watched as Birdie unwound a brightly patterned fleece scarf and slipped out of her navy pea coat, tossing it over the back of a chair. Crossing the room to Rose, she unconsciously stretched her Fair Isle sweater over her wide rump.

      Rose looked up from the bags, her face crumpled with worry. “But, Birdie, we don’t need all this.”

      “Of course we do,” Birdie replied decisively, coming to her side. She reached in the bag and began unloading the contents.

      Dennis sighed deeply and lifted the paper high to block his view.

      “Really, Rose,” Birdie continued, oblivious. “We’ll go along with the luncheon at home. We have no choice. But this notion of yours to use china and crystal is far too romantic. This is a funeral and we don’t need to be theatrical. It’s too much work to set up, then wash up after all those people. If you’re worried about the expense of paper, don’t be. I’m happy to cover it.”

      Rose’s back was ramrod straight and she had laid her hands over the bags as though to forcibly keep the contents in. “But…” She swallowed hard. “I’ve already unpacked the china.”

      “Rose, be sensible. We cannot use Mother’s dishes.”

      Jilly glanced at Hannah and saw her face set in fury, the same as her father’s, as they listened.

      “Why not?” Rose wasn’t backing down.

      Birdie stopped unpacking and rested her hands on the counter. After an exaggerated pause she said, “For one thing, there isn’t enough of any one set of china to serve this size a crowd. For another, there are not enough salad forks or matching wineglasses. It would all be an embarrassing mishmash of patterns. And it’s much too late to call for rentals.”

      “Who the hell cares?” Dennis snapped, obviously fed up with his wife’s interference. “If she wants to use the damn dishes, let her.”

      “Dennis,” Birdie said in controlled fury, furtively checking Jilly’s reaction to his outburst. “Would you go out and get the rest of the bags from the car, please?”

      Dennis tossed down his newspaper with an angry flip of the wrist, then rose abruptly from the table, pushing back his chair so hard it almost toppled over. He took pains to allow a wide berth between himself and Birdie.

      Jilly sensed the tension escalating in the room. Daggers flowed in the gazes between Dennis and Birdie, and again between Rose and Birdie. Jilly sipped her coffee, narrowing her eyes. She’d never seen this side of Birdie before. She’d always been bossy growing up, but now she was more of a bully. In contrast, Rose caved in, staring absently at some point across the room.

      “If Rose has planned to use Mother’s dishes,” Jilly began cautiously, “then that’s what we should do. We don’t have time to argue over the point, so let’s just pitch in and do what she wants.” She put down her cup and lifted her chin. “It is, after all, her call.”

      No one missed the steel in Jilly’s voice. Birdie drew her shoulders back and met her gaze. “Her call?” She took a breath, then said in a controlled voice that fooled no one, “Jilly, I know you just arrived. Perhaps you don’t appreciate all I’ve done to organize this funeral. Everything was set until Rose decided entirely on her own to change everything. Imagine, a luncheon here! You don’t have any idea….”

      “But of course I do!” Jilly replied with a light laugh. “This isn’t a formal sit-down dinner, darling. It’s a petite soirée. You’re making entirely too big a fuss over it. I’ve thrown lunches bigger than this on a moment’s notice. It’s all in the attitude. I think it’s fabulous that Rose is finally going to use all this stuff. Mother hardly ever entertained.”

      “That’s because she was a perfectionist,” Birdie said, drawing herself up. “It mattered to her that things were properly done, or not done at all.”

      “Oh, come on, Birdie,” Jilly countered, waving her hand. “Mother was so intimidated by Emily Post and things like matching china, menus, which side to serve on and which side to take away, that she was simply overwhelmed by it all. The truth is she was afraid nothing was ever good enough.” Her eyes flashed. “She was always so damn worried about what other people thought. That’s why she never entertained.”

      Hannah watched her mother summarily silenced by this mysterious aunt and sat back in her chair. Birdie appeared to be holding on to her position, for the sole purpose of winning in the eyes of her daughter.

      “Come on, Birdie,” Jilly said, rising from the table. “Rose has done all the preparation, let’s have fun putting it together.”

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