Olive was disappointed in this creature. A silence fell into the room and Olive let it sit there. Finally, Lucy Barton said, “Well, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Ay-yuh” was all Olive said, swinging one foot back and forth. There was something odd about this woman: She wore no glasses, and her eyes were not small, but she had a slightly stunned look on her face. “What are those things you’ve got on your feet?” Olive asked.
The woman looked down at them, sticking her toes straight up. “Oh, they’re boots. We went to Rockland last summer and I found these in a store.”
Rockland. Money. Of course, Olive thought. She said, “There’s no snow on the ground, don’t know why you need boots.”
The woman closed her eyes for a long moment, and when she opened them she did not look at Olive.
“So, I hear you’re with us in town to stay,” Olive said.
“Who told you that?” The woman asked this as though really curious to know the answer, and she continued to look slightly bewildered.
“Bob Burgess.”
And then the woman’s face changed; it became gentle, relaxed, for a moment. “Right,” she said.
—
Olive took a breath and said, “Well, Lucy. How are you liking our little town of Crosby?”
“It’s quite a change,” Lucy Barton said.
“Well, it’s not New York, if that’s what you mean.”
Lucy looked around the room and then said, “I guess that is what I mean.”
Olive continued to watch her. For a few moments there was only the ticking of the grandfather clock and the slight whirring sound of the refrigerator in the alcove kitchen. “You told Bob that you had a story to tell me?” Lucy asked. She slipped off her coat then, letting it stay on her back, and Olive saw a black turtleneck. Skinny. The creature was skinny. But her eyes were watching Olive now with a keenness.
Olive swung an arm lightly toward the stack of books on the bottom shelf of the small table beside her. “I’ve read all your books.”
Lucy Barton did not seem to have any response to this, though her eyes briefly dropped down to the books on the shelf.
Olive said, “I thought your memoirs were a little self-pitying, myself. You’re not the only person to come from poverty.”
Lucy Barton again seemed to have no response to this.
Olive said, “And how does your ex-husband William feel, being written about? I’m curious to know.”
Lucy gave a small shrug. “He’s okay with it. He knows I’m a writer.”
“I see. Ay-yuh.” Olive added, “And now you’re back with him. Together again. But not married.”
“That’s right.”
“In Crosby, Maine.”
“That’s right.”
—
Again, there was a silence. Then Olive said, “You don’t look a bit like your photograph on your books.”
“I know.” Lucy said it simply and gave a shrug.
“Why is that?” Olive said.
“Because some professional photographer took it. And also my hair isn’t really blond anymore. That photo was taken years ago.” Lucy put her hand through her hair, which was chin-length and pale brown.
“Well, it was too blond in the photo,” Olive said.
A sudden slant of sunlight came through the window and fell across the wooden floor. The grandfather clock in the corner kept on with its ticking. Lucy reached behind her and took her coat and placed it on the couch next to her. “That’s my husband,” said Olive, pointing to the large photograph on the hutch. “My first husband, Henry. Wonderful man.”
“He looks nice,” Lucy said. “Tell me the story. Bob said you had a story you wanted me to hear.” She said this kindly. “I’d like to hear it, I really would.”
“Bob Burgess is a good fellow. I’ve always liked him,” Olive said.
Lucy’s face got pink—this is what Olive thought she saw. “Bob is the best friend I have in this town. He’s maybe the best friend I’ve had ever.” Her eyes dropped to the floor as she said this. But then she looked up at Olive and said, “Please—tell me the story.”
Something in Olive relaxed. She said, “Okay, but now I don’t know if it’s worth telling.”
“Well, tell me anyway,” Lucy said.
*
The story was this: Olive’s mother had been the daughter of a farmer in a little town in Maine called West Annett, about an hour away from Crosby. And oh, by the way, Olive did not like her mother. But that was probably irrelevant.
“Why didn’t you like her?” Lucy asked, and Olive thought about it and said, “I suppose because she didn’t like me.” Lucy nodded. “I was five years old by the time my little sister was born, and I have a memory—who knows if it’s true—of having asked my mother why I didn’t have any brothers or sisters, and she had looked at me and said, ‘After you? We wouldn’t dare have another child after you.’ But then they did.”
