The Four Seasons

“Good morning, Aunt Jillian.”

Jilly held up one finger to indicate that everyone should wait while she drank the water thirstily. Then, after a lusty “Ah,” she peered over at the pale, dark-eyed, rather plump teenager slouched in the chair across the room. Her red hair was the mark of a Season.

“Hannah?”

The girl nodded, eager.

“I wouldn’t have recognized you if not for the hair. You’ve grown!” She caught the nanosecond of anguish in the eyes and the faint blushing of her cheeks and instantly understood, as one woman does with another, that this was a teenager sensitive about her weight. “You’ve become a woman!” she amended smoothly.

Hannah’s face relaxed. “I’m fifteen, Aunt Jillian. Almost sixteen.”

“You must call me Jilly. We’re all adults here,” she replied, winking before sipping more water.

Dennis lowered his Chicago Tribune. His was a considerably cooler gaze than his daughter’s. He masked it with a politely rigid smile of greeting. The house suddenly felt several degrees colder. Jilly tightened the kimono about her neck.

“So, the prodigal sister returns,” he said, more as a pronouncement, folding the paper and placing it in his lap.

Jilly felt a stab of annoyance. How like Dennis Connor to pull some biblical quote laced with criticism as his greeting after ten years. She wasn’t hungry, but to mask how upset she was, she casually reached out for a croissant.

“Prodigal?” she replied, with an arch to her brow.

“Prodigal is apt,” he replied, crossing his arms. “The long-lost child returning to the fold from her wanderings.”

Jilly picked a corner from her croissant and delicately put it between her lips. “I wasn’t aware that I was wandering.”

“She lives in Paris, Daddy,” Hannah said, as though he were a dolt.

“In this family, living anywhere beyond a day’s drive is clearly exploring the wilds.” His countenance lightened. Then with a crooked smile he added, “And we do rejoice that you’ve returned.”

She cracked a smile, forgiving him a little.

Rose set a cup of coffee at the table beside a pitcher of fresh cream and a bowl of sugar. She clasped her hands, studying her table anxiously. “I know this isn’t as good as what you’re used to, but…”

Jilly gratefully accepted the steaming cup of coffee and ignored the cream. “Mmm, Rose,” she said with an appreciative groan. “It’s better.”

Rose’s chest swelled.

While she sipped, Jilly discreetly eyed Dennis as he returned to his paper.

Dennis Connor…He had aged exactly like she’d thought he would. He was always handsome, even in high school, in a mature, intellectual way that she’d once found attractive. Back then he’d worn his blond hair long to the shoulders and parted down the middle. His heavy eyeglass frames were a statement over his dark and piercing eyes and thick, arched brows. And that cleft in his chin. Lord, that dimple had turned quite a few heads back in high school. Hannah had his eyes and the cleft in her chin, she realized, amazed at genetics.

His hair might have thinned at the crown, his body thickened at the waist, but he’d aged very well indeed. She might even say he was more attractive now, having grown into his mature appeal. There was no denying that Birdie was a lucky woman.

“I can’t imagine living in Paris,” Hannah said with her chin in her palm. “How can you stand to come back to boring old Chicago? Or Milwaukee?” She rolled her eyes and reached for another croissant.

“Are you sure you want that?” Dennis asked his daughter from over the newspaper.

Hannah’s arm stiffened and she furtively glanced at Jilly. A faint red blush crept up her neck and ears. She slid her hand back into her lap, slumping her shoulders forward as though to somehow make herself smaller.

Jilly’s heart cringed for her. She knew Dennis was trying to be helpful, but men could be such idiots! The last thing he needed to do to an overweight teenager was draw attention to that horrid fact.

“Hannah,” Jilly said in a breezy manner, “pass me some of that grapefruit, would you? One of the first things I learned in modeling was to eat lots of fruit and drink gallons and gallons of water. It flushes out the system and leaves your skin glowing. It’s de rigueur. Here, darling, won’t you split a grapefruit with me? You know,” she continued, slicing through the fruit, “when I’m exhausted like I am now, I tend to pick at food all day without thinking. And I am absolutely exhausted now. So be my friend, would you? When you see me nibble, tell me to stop. I swear I won’t bite your head off.” She laughed, pleased to see Hannah’s frown lift to a shy smile. Lifting her spoon, Jilly dug into the grapefruit with relish.

Hannah’s dark eyes lost their dullness as she reached for the other half of the grapefruit.

Jilly was well aware of the lure modeling held for teenage girls. Her career gave her status. Eyeing Hannah, she thought her niece wasn’t so much fat as she was big, much as Birdie had been at that age. Except that Birdie was a champion swimmer with long, defined muscles as sleek and smooth as an otter’s. With her physique, coupled with her blazing confidence, she was magnificent. In contrast, Hannah was soft, slumped-shouldered and recalcitrant. That glorious sparkle of confidence that was such a hallmark of girls at this age was missing in this child.

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.”