The Four Seasons. Mary Monroe Alice

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СКАЧАТЬ voice. She’d introduced herself as Netta. She was doll-like and positively ancient with waxy skin rouged in small circles over her cheekbones. Her eyes, however, were an animated blue that rivaled the sky Jilly had left in Paris.

      Jilly could only nod, thinking how it would take longer than the endless eight-hour flight to explain to this woman the journey she’d traveled since she’d received the telephone call from Rose. Hell, just since her last smoke. Until the last boarding call she’d stood in the bar, puffing like a locomotive, storing up nicotine in her cells for the long trip like a camel would water. She’d been in agony anticipating her return to the old Victorian loaded with memories as ancient and musty as the velvet curtains and bric-a-brac. You can’t go home again, the old adage said. She wished it were true. For twenty-six years, she’d tried not to. But here she was, on a Boeing 747, doing just that. Everything she owned was squeezed into two large Louis Vuitton bags and stored in the belly of this plane. She’d had to borrow the money from a friend to purchase the ticket to Chicago—one-way coach.

      “Are you all right?” the old woman asked kindly.

      Jillian turned her head. She saw genuine concern in the bright blue eyes, not curiosity or annoyance at her fidgety behavior.

      “I’m just tired,” she replied, taking her glass of Scotch in hand. “Thanks.”

      “Is it your job? I read about stress on working women all the time.”

      A short laugh escaped as Jilly shook her head. “No, not the job. Unfortunately.”

      “What do you do, if you don’t mind my asking?”

      “I’m a model.” She shrugged lightly. “And I was in a few foreign films.”

      The woman’s eyes crinkled with pleasure. “I thought so. You’re very beautiful.”

      The compliment washed warmly over Jilly and she smiled for the first time that day. “Not so ‘very’ anymore. I’m…retired.”

      Her smile fell as she heard again the comments of the agencies. You are still a beautiful woman, but…You’re over forty. You know how it is…. Look at them, they are nineteen! So young!

      She couldn’t blame them. Age was an occupational hazard of the beauty business.

      “I’m too old,” Jillian said, finding it easy to confess to a stranger.

      The elderly woman laughed lightly and shook her head. “How amusing. I was just thinking how I wished I was as young as you!” She reached out to pat Jilly’s hand. “You see how Einstein was right, my dear. Everything is relative.”

      “By that you mean the grass is always greener, I suppose.” She didn’t want to add that she didn’t find that the least bit comforting.

      “No,” the woman replied. “Actually I was referring literally to the theory of relativity. How different observers can describe the same event differently. From my position in the universe, my dear, you are young. And vibrant and beautiful. From your position, let’s see…” She raised a crooked finger with a tiny, yellowed nail and pointed.

      “I suppose you see that child over there as young and beautiful, am I right?”

      Across the aisle sat a twenty-some-year-old woman in jeans and a clinging shirt, devoid of makeup, with dewy skin and the firm muscle tone Jilly had lost long ago. Mouth pulling in a wry smile, Jilly nodded.

      “You see? It’s all relative. Why do you think older women like to stick together? Because we see one another as beautiful and vibrant. I guess you could say we’re traveling at the same speed.” She laughed softly again, then added wistfully, “I wish someone had explained Einstein’s theory of relativity to me when I was young. It would have taught me to be more accepting, and probably more compassionate, to others’ points of view. That would have prevented a few troubles in the past, I can assure you. Take my word and remember this—how you see the world may not agree with how others see it. But you have to accept that their observations are valid. So,” she said with a light tap of her nimble fingers on Jilly’s hand, “you are young and beautiful, my dear, and nothing you say will convince me otherwise.”

      Jilly smiled, conceding the point. “For me, relative means my sisters. And let me tell you, do we ever see the world from different positions.”

      “Ah, you’re going to see your sisters?”

      Jilly nodded. “Yes. Well, two of them. My third sister just passed away. It’s her funeral that brings me home.”

      “Your older sister?”

      “The youngest. She was the baby, just thirty-two when she died. She had bad lungs and they gave out.”

      “Oh, that is sad. Death is always so, but an early death is more tragic. You have my sympathy. Funerals can be very emotional, you know. Use this time to gather your strength.” With another gentle pat, the older woman turned her attention back to her book.

      Jilly shifted in her seat. As she watched the amber-colored fluid swirl around little chunks of ice, her mind stumbled over thoughts of Merry. Dear little Merry, gone. She swallowed the Scotch and relished the smooth burn. It was strange to think of her thirty-two-year-old sister as little, but that’s how she always thought of Merry. Poor, poor Merry…Whenever Jilly looked into those sparkling, childlike eyes, she felt a stab of guilt in her abdomen so painful it drove her an ocean away.

      Yet here she was, crossing that same ocean again. It was poetic justice that she was stuck in a holding pattern over O’Hare, she thought, twirling the ice, since her mind was going round and round the same old stories, the same old issues. Thirty years of circling…

      Her thoughts were interrupted by the voice of the captain.

      “Ladies and gentlemen, good news. The runway at O’Hare has been cleared and we’ve been given permission to land. Thank you for your patience. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. Stewards, prepare for landing.”

      The sigh of relief was audible in the plane. Taking a deep breath, Jilly pulled her large Prada bag from under the seat and reached for her makeup. Polishing her face was second nature to her. It was an armor against an unfriendly world. In her compact mirror she saw the familiar green eyes staring back at her. They were once described as bedroom eyes, but now they were simply tired and hardened by experience. She dabbed at the mascara smudges under her eyes and smoothed blush onto her cheeks. Though still creamy and smooth, her skin was far from dewy. She stared at her face a moment longer, hating it.

      Her move to Europe may have lessened the emotional intensity with distance, but it was never the cure. Each mile closer, each moment nearer to landing, she could feel the turbulence of her emotions rise closer to the surface.

      After thirty years, Jillian Season was coming home to stay.

      2

      A HELLO BURST FROM ROSE’S LIPS as she swung the door wide to see Birdie, her nose red and her head tucked into her coat collar like a turtle.

      “Come in! Come in, at last!” Rose cried out, feeling a heady joy and hugging Birdie tightly, relishing the feel of her sister’s arms around her, padded as they were by her thick coat. Birdie dwarfed Rose as she engulfed her in a long, firm embrace. Instantly they were ageless, bound by a shared childhood and years СКАЧАТЬ