Cascade by Maryanne O'Hara Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maryanne O'Hara
quickly. Easier said than done. They’d laughed at the mess they made until Dez caught sight of the broken shells lying in the sink. They had wasted half a dozen eggs. Other women were making eggless cakes and crusts. Dez Spaulding had wasted three days’ worth of her husband’s breakfast with another man in her husband’s kitchen. Even though the two of them were mutually, wordlessly, careful not to threaten their easy camaraderie with flirting or innuendo, Dez had been troubled. What kind of relationship wasted eggs? Wasted anything?
“I don’t know how to talk about him. We have a friendship—a very good friendship. He’s never tried to make it anything else.” And he never had. If anything, he was the one who backed off when their conversations got too intense, who put up the wall of caution.
“Have you?” Abby waited. “Cat’s got your tongue? Well, what does he look like?”
The truth came out in a blurt: “The more you know him the better-looking he seems to get.” Somehow those subdued looks and quiet mannerisms added up to something startling, the embodiment of one of Shakespeare’s truths—
Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind
.
“Does he see anyone? Never mind. I can see by your face that he does, and you don’t like it, do you?”
“Stop it, Abby. You’re making too much of this. He’s a normal man, of course he sees someone.” And no, she didn’t like it but she had no right not to like it, and anyway, it didn’t seem to be serious.
Ruth and I just happen to have mothers who are ardent matchmakers
, he’d once said.
“Well, I just don’t understand how you live like this. You studied in Paris. You grew up with a maid and a cook and a yardman! Really, my dear!”
“And who has a maid or cook now? Every dollar I can spare goes into art supplies or the fund to reopen the playhouse.”
“Sell the playhouse, or worry about it later. Focus on yourself now.”
“I would never sell it, even if there were such a thing as a buyer nowadays. And besides—” She hesitated.
“What? Tell me.”
Dez admitted her father’s misguided intentions regarding the playhouse.
“Oh, my dear. He
gave
it to Asa?”
“Well, he put it in trust for our firstborn.”
“Oh, Dez,” Abby said. “Cut your losses. Come to New York. We’ll live together like we always said we would. We’ll find a flat in Greenwich Village, we’ll be real bohemians.”
“Listen to you.”
“I just don’t see you with him. I don’t see it at all.”
“I’m hardly going to leave Asa because you don’t ‘see me’ with him after meeting the man for all of ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes was enough. And I’m not being cruel or flip, just being your friend.”
In her quietest moments, Dez sometimes let herself wonder if she could ever really leave. First of all, there would be the awful stigma, and she couldn’t help it, she didn’t want to be a divorced woman. And every imagined conversation with Asa, every explanation, regardless of the words she used, would boil down to the same hurtful confession:
I married you so we would have a place to live. I didn’t think through the consequences, didn’t think ahead.
“Well, Asa’s my friend, too. And I can’t leave Cascade. I promised my father I would never abandon the playhouse, promised on his deathbed no less.”
“Too many promises to other people.”
“Maybe so, but I made them. And it’s not like I have any means of support.”
“You could make money doing illustrations. You have that Rockwell kind of skill. Some of the best illustrators are female.”
“Oh, come on. Unemployment is still, what, twenty percent? Thousands of men—men with families—are without jobs, and someone would pay me to draw pictures? I don’t think so.”
Abby ground out her cigarette and leaned in close. “Listen.” Her eyes glittered like a gambler’s. “Have you read that book
A Room of One’s Own
?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
Abby spoke
“I don’t know how to talk about him. We have a friendship—a very good friendship. He’s never tried to make it anything else.” And he never had. If anything, he was the one who backed off when their conversations got too intense, who put up the wall of caution.
“Have you?” Abby waited. “Cat’s got your tongue? Well, what does he look like?”
The truth came out in a blurt: “The more you know him the better-looking he seems to get.” Somehow those subdued looks and quiet mannerisms added up to something startling, the embodiment of one of Shakespeare’s truths—
Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind
.
“Does he see anyone? Never mind. I can see by your face that he does, and you don’t like it, do you?”
“Stop it, Abby. You’re making too much of this. He’s a normal man, of course he sees someone.” And no, she didn’t like it but she had no right not to like it, and anyway, it didn’t seem to be serious.
Ruth and I just happen to have mothers who are ardent matchmakers
, he’d once said.
“Well, I just don’t understand how you live like this. You studied in Paris. You grew up with a maid and a cook and a yardman! Really, my dear!”
“And who has a maid or cook now? Every dollar I can spare goes into art supplies or the fund to reopen the playhouse.”
“Sell the playhouse, or worry about it later. Focus on yourself now.”
“I would never sell it, even if there were such a thing as a buyer nowadays. And besides—” She hesitated.
“What? Tell me.”
Dez admitted her father’s misguided intentions regarding the playhouse.
“Oh, my dear. He
gave
it to Asa?”
“Well, he put it in trust for our firstborn.”
“Oh, Dez,” Abby said. “Cut your losses. Come to New York. We’ll live together like we always said we would. We’ll find a flat in Greenwich Village, we’ll be real bohemians.”
“Listen to you.”
“I just don’t see you with him. I don’t see it at all.”
“I’m hardly going to leave Asa because you don’t ‘see me’ with him after meeting the man for all of ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes was enough. And I’m not being cruel or flip, just being your friend.”
In her quietest moments, Dez sometimes let herself wonder if she could ever really leave. First of all, there would be the awful stigma, and she couldn’t help it, she didn’t want to be a divorced woman. And every imagined conversation with Asa, every explanation, regardless of the words she used, would boil down to the same hurtful confession:
I married you so we would have a place to live. I didn’t think through the consequences, didn’t think ahead.
“Well, Asa’s my friend, too. And I can’t leave Cascade. I promised my father I would never abandon the playhouse, promised on his deathbed no less.”
“Too many promises to other people.”
“Maybe so, but I made them. And it’s not like I have any means of support.”
“You could make money doing illustrations. You have that Rockwell kind of skill. Some of the best illustrators are female.”
“Oh, come on. Unemployment is still, what, twenty percent? Thousands of men—men with families—are without jobs, and someone would pay me to draw pictures? I don’t think so.”
Abby ground out her cigarette and leaned in close. “Listen.” Her eyes glittered like a gambler’s. “Have you read that book
A Room of One’s Own
?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
Abby spoke