3) Jean loved to travel, and spent a semester abroad visiting France, Italy, and England. In 1906 she toured Asia, including such exotic destinations as Cairo, Bombay, Burma, Java, Ceylon, Singapore, Saigon, Hong Kong, and Japan.
4) A successful journalist, novelist, and playwright, Jean would eventually write a total of eight novels and numerous unpublished stories and plays. The books that became bestsellers in her day and that have endured to ours are her stories about girls at school and college.
5) In 1912, Daddy-Long-Legs began its record-breaking career first as a serialized story in Ladies’ Home Journal, then as a hugely popular book which reviewers called “a package of condensed sunshine” and “an effervescent little love story.” A sequel, Dear Enemy, was also a best seller.
6) Daddy-Long-Legs was adapted for the stage by Jean and toured nationwide. In Washington, D.C., it was viewed by none other than President Woodrow Wilson, who “fell out of his chair laughing,” Jean wrote to a friend at the time. Her play went on to become a smash hit on Broadway and in London.
“What does ‘effervescent’ mean?” asks Cassidy.
Her mother holds up a glass of sparkling cider. “Bubbly.”
“That’s a good description of the book,” says Jess. “It’s definitely bubbly.”
“Frothy,” adds Emma.
“Vivacious,” says her mother.
“Lively,” suggests Mrs. Chadwick.
“Exuberant,” says Mrs. Delaney.
I look over at my mother, who is frowning at the untouched bowl of seaweed salad. “Fun,” I whisper to myself sadly.
“So Jean Webster visited Hong Kong?” says Gigi, sounding pleased. “I never knew that.”
“And enjoyed it very much,” Mrs. Hawthorne reports, consulting her notes.
“See, Mrs. Chadwick?” says Cassidy, reaching for the last coconut ball. “Judy and Sallie and their friends might never have had dim sum, but I’ll bet the author did.”
Her mother sits bolt upright. “That gives me a wonderful idea!” she exclaims. “How about a dim sum episode on my TV show? Would you be willing, Gigi?”
“Why not?” my grandmother replies. “Sounds like fun.”
My eyes slide over to my mom, who has a distant expression on her face. “Mother puts the ‘fun’ in ‘dysfunctional’”—wasn’t that what she told my father? Last year, Cassidy’s mom promised to do a vegetarian episode and let my mom be in charge, but that hasn’t happened yet. My mother gets up and silently clears away our dishes.
Gigi watches her as she heads for the kitchen. There’s a worried pleat between her eyebrows, and I remember what she said earlier downstairs, about things never changing between my mom and her. I turn and look outside again, where the snow is still falling in the birches. I’m not feeling like a princess in a snow globe any more. I’m feeling more like the princess caught in the middle. If I wear Gigi’s dress and her earrings, and happen to like her cooking better than my mother’s, does that make me disloyal? If I like to have fun, am I a bad daughter? Do I really have to choose sides?
Why is life always so complicated?
Emma
“Should you mind, just for a little while, pretending you are my grandmother?”
—Daddy-Long-Legs
“Trust Nutmeg to pick the coldest day of the year to have her kittens,” I grumble, my words puffing out in frosty clouds as I trot behind Jess toward her barn.
“You won’t mind once you see them,” she calls back over her shoulder at me, laughing. “They’re so cute!”
Shivering, I follow her up the ladder to the hayloft and the old storage room that Mr. Delaney let us have for a hangout. We don’t come up here much in the winter. There’s no heat and we’d freeze to death, especially on a day like today when February is giving us the cold shoulder.
That’s pretty good, I think, and pause for a second to pull out the little notebook that I keep tucked in my pocket for when inspiration strikes. I jot down February—cold shoulder. This is an old writer’s trick that my dad taught me. Ideas are like stray cats, he says. They show up at your doorstep at inconvenient times, and they’ll slip away again unless you take care of them.
He’s right, too. If I don’t write things down the minute they come to me, I always forget them later, even when I’m sure I won’t.
“Quit dawdling, Emma!” Jess calls from the other side of the storage room.
I put the notebook away and cross to where she’s kneeling by a pile of old horse blankets in the corner. For some reason, the Delaneys’ barn cats all think this is the best place on Half Moon Farm to have their kittens. Probably because it’s right above Led and Zep, and some of the warmth from their stalls seeps through the gaps in the floorboards.
Jess lifts a corner of one of the blankets, revealing a pile of furry bodies nestled deep in its folds. “See?” she whispers proudly, as if she’d produced the kittens herself. Jess loves animals of every sort, but especially baby animals. And between the goats and the chickens and the barn cats, there are always plenty of those at Half Moon Farm.
“It’s okay, Nutmeg,” she reassures the mother cat. “We just want to look at your babies.”
Nutmeg blinks up at us and purrs. I count five little fuzzballs cuddled up next to her, sound asleep. Jess is right, they are incredibly cute. Taking off one of my mittens, I reach out a finger and gently stroke the nearest tiny pink belly.
“Maybe your parents will let you have one,” says Jess, who has been trying to console me ever since the holidays.
I’ve had “puppy” at the top of my Christmas list for the past five years. Birthday list too. But so far my parents keep saying no. My dad says Melville rules the roost at our house, and it wouldn’t be fair to spring a puppy on him in his dotage. “Dotage” means old age—Melville is thirteen, same as me, but in cat-years that’s ancient. I think this is just a convenient excuse, though. My dad isn’t a big fan of dogs.
We watch the kittens until we get too cold, then head back down to the barn to the creamery where Jess’s dad is making cheese. Mr. Delaney spends a lot of time in the creamery these days, because Half Moon Farm’s line of organic goat cheeses has really taken off this year. Jess tells me that loads of restaurants are ordering it directly, some from as far away as New York, and a bunch of organic grocery stores are stocking it now too. Blue Moon is the farm’s second most popular brand, right after the original plain kind, Half Moon.
“How are my two best apprentice cheesemakers today?” says Mr. Delaney.
Jess gives him a halfhearted smile. I know she feels guilty not being able to help out more, now that she’s at Colonial Academy. “Your best ones? We’re your only ones, Dad.”
Her father gives her braid a tug. “You’re still the best, though.” Turning to me he says, “Jess tells me you took Eva Bergson to ‘Granola with Grandparents’ last week.”
I nod.
“What a great idea! Her husband coached my hockey team when I was the twins’ age, and she was there at every practice and every game. She’s a terrific lady.”
Mom was the one who encouraged me to invite her, after Gran and Paw-Paw told me they’d rather come visit in the summer when the weather is nice. Flying to the East Coast from Seattle in early February is too iffy, they said, what with snowstorms always threatening to shut down the airport.
I was nervous about asking Mrs. Bergson. I really like her and everything—she’s a great skating teacher, which is only natural since she skated in the Olympics about a hundred years ago. But it’s not like I really know her, so I was kind of surprised when Mom suggested it. I went ahead and invited her, though, and we actually had a lot of fun. Everybody in town knows her, because she’s been teaching skating at the rink here in Concord forever, so there was this big cluster of people around her practically the entire time we were at school. I had no idea she’d taught so many people I know, including Ms. Nielson and a bunch of the other teachers. Even Mrs. Hanson, our principal, took skating lessons from her
once.
I’d been worried about having to make conversation, but Megan brought Gigi, of course, and she and Mrs. Bergson really hit it off. It turns out Gigi is a big fan of figure skating, and loves to watch all the competitions on TV, so the two of them had tons to talk about. Plus Cassidy’s grandmother was there too, and thanks to Cassidy she knows a lot about hockey now, so there were never any lulls for me to have to try and fill in.
As a thank-you for inviting her, Mrs. Bergson asked me to her house for tea. “Now that we’ve broken the ice,” as she put it, smiling at her own lame joke. I’m supposed to go there later today, after we help Jess’s dad with the cheese.
Jess and I roll up our sleeves and get to work cleaning and washing all the equipment. Everything has to be kept spotless and sterilized in the creamery, and that’s a large part of our job as “apprentice cheesemakers.” We wear rubber gloves so we can use really hot water to rinse everything before we load up the industrial-size dishwashers, and we even have to put our hair up in those net things like the lunch ladies in the school cafeteria. We’re used to them now, but the first few times we put them on we both just cracked up.
A while later the barn phone rings and Mr. Delaney answers it.
“Okay, hon,” he says. “We’ll be right in.” He hangs up and turns back to us. “That was your mother, Jess. Lunch is ready.”
After lunch—tuna sandwiches and Mrs. Delaney’s homemade carrot soup—Jess and I head up to her room.
“Has Madison written to you lately?” I ask.
“Just one letter since that Christmas card I got back in December.” She rummages in her desk drawer and holds up a CD. “She sent me another recording of her band.”
“Moonrise?”
“Yeah.”
“I still think that’s a totally cool name for a band.”
“Yeah, me too. Want to hear it? They’re pretty good.”
I nod and Jess pops it in her CD player and we listen for a while. She’s right—the music is pretty good, especially Madison’s guitar. A person could actually dance to this stuff.
“So what did she say in her letter?” I ask, curious.
Jess rummages in her drawer again and pulls out an envelope, which she hands to me. I open it and start to read.
Dear Pen Pal,
My mom and dad and little brother and I went to Chicago to visit my grandparents for Christmas. It was fun. We drove down Miracle Mile to look at all the lights and shop displays, and we went to the movies with our cousins a couple of times and on New Year’s Eve we all went to the Navy Pier on Lake Michigan to watch the fireworks. They were awesome. I got the new guitar I asked for, and some CDs and clothes and stuff.
Happy New Year from your friend,
Madison Daniels
“Kind of short, huh?” I say.
“Yeah.”
“She seems nice, though, and it was really sweet of her to send you some more music.”
“I know, but I still don’t feel like I know her very well yet. Not like you and Bailey.”
My pen pal and I are like two peas in a pod. Bailey and I write each other at least once a week, but I keep telling Jess not to worry, she’s still my best friend. I also point out that if anyone should be feeling worried, it’s me, since she has Frankie and Adele now, who are real live flesh-and-blood friends, not just pen pals.
I tell Jess that it’s only because she’s at Colonial Academy and isn’t around as much to talk to that I write so often to Bailey. And that she shouldn’t worry too much about Madison not writing to her all that often. Some people just aren’t big letter-writers.
“So what’s Julia been up to lately?” I ask, moving on to our pet topic. Savannah Sinclair is endlessly fascinating.
“Oh, just more of the usual,” Jess replies, flopping onto her bed. She leans back on her pillow, crossing her arms behind her head and staring up at the ceiling. “I’m still hearing all the details about her stupid ski trip. Her family’s going someplace called St. Moritz. I guess it’s pretty fancy. All she and Peyton can talk about is how amazing it’s going to be and how sorry they are for me because I’ll be stuck here over the break in pokey old Concord.”
“What’s wrong with pokey old Concord?” I ask. “You’ll have fun. I know I’ll be in school, but I’ve already asked my mom and she’s promised we can have a sleepover at my house over the weekend before you have to go back. And who cares what Miss La-di-da Sinclair thinks anyway?”
Jess sighs. “I guess you’re right.”
At three, Darcy shows up to get me. My parents won’t let me ride my bike to Jess’s in the winter—the roads are too slippery this time of year and it gets dark too early—and since Darcy has his license now, he’s going to drop me off at Mrs. Bergson’s before going to the movies with his friend Kyle. Afterward, Stewart’s going to meet me and walk me home. He doesn’t have his license yet.
“I haven’t seen much of Jess this year,” says Darcy as I get into the car.
“I know,” I reply. Jess is standing on the steps to her back porch, waving, and I wave back. So does Darcy.
“I kind of miss having her around,” my brother continues, backing out of the driveway. “She’s a nice kid.”
I give him a sidelong glance. Is he dropping a hint? “Well, she’s kind of busy at her new school,” I reply cautiously.
“Does she like Colonial Academy? Those girls always seem kind of stuck-up to me.”
“Some of them are,” I agree. “But some of them are really nice, too. And Jess loves her classes. You know how smart she is. Plus, she’s learning how to ride.”
“Cool.” Darcy pulls out onto the main road. “Belknap Street, right?”
I nod, wondering if I should say anything to him about Jess. Does he know that she likes him? Darcy doesn’t have a regular girlfriend, although there are a few girls he hangs out with now and then. I have no idea how he feels about Jess, but he must have noticed how pretty she is. She’s spent enough time at our house over the years. Megan and Becca and Ashley are always telling her that she should wear makeup and stuff, but Jess can’t be bothered and she doesn’t need it anyway. She’s perfect just the way she is, as far as I’m concerned.
Before I can decide whether or not to say anything to him, though, we pull up in front of a big yellow Colonial house.
“This is it,” my brother says. “Have a good time, and say hi to Mrs. Bergson for me.” My brother plays hockey for the Alcott Avengers, and spends more time at the rink than I do.
I get out of the car and head up the walkway to the front door. There are four doorbells—Mrs. Bergson told me that the house is divided into four condominiums—and I push the one marked “Bergson.” The intercom crackles.
“Is that you, Emma?”
“Yes.”
“Come on up. I’m the left-hand door at the top of the stairs.”
The front door buzzes, and I push it open and go inside. Upstairs, Mrs. Bergson’s door is ajar.
“Hang your coat in the closet!” she calls. “I’ll be there in a minute. I’m just finishing up here in the kitchen.”
She appears a minute later, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Welcome,” she says warmly, giving me a hug. “Would you like a tour?”
“Sure.”
Mrs. Bergson’s condo is small, but really nice. All the rooms have high ceilings and there are three fireplaces, one in the living room, one in the dining room, and one in her bedroom. “These rooms were all bedrooms once upon a time,” she tells me. “Old-fashioned houses can’t be beat for fireplaces.”
There’s a fire in the living room, or “sitting room,” as she calls it, and a tea table has been set up in front of the hearth between two comfortable armchairs. I take a seat, suddenly feeling a little shy. I glance surreptitiously at Mrs. Bergson as she pours our tea. She’s medium height, like my mother, and very fit. Her face is weathered and tan and covered with wrinkles, but they’re more like what Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid calls “happiness lines” than wrinkl
es, because she’s always smiling. Her bright blue eyes look out at the world from beneath a tidy cap of white hair, and she doesn’t wear a speck of makeup. I guess when you’re that old, you figure why bother?
I take the teacup she passes me and look around the room. There are framed photographs everywhere, some on the piano, others on the mantel, and still others on the bookshelves flanking the fireplace.
“My late husband and me,” she says, pointing to a portrait on the mantel of a slim blond couple. They’re on a mountaintop somewhere, laughing. “Wasn’t he handsome?”
I nod and she passes me a plate of cookies. I take one and bite into it. It’s thin and crispy and delicious. “Yum,” I say, and Mrs. Bergson smiles.
“Yum for sure. They’re Pepparkakor—Swedish gingersnaps. My husband’s grandmother’s recipe. Nils was from Sweden, you know. A speed skater. We met at the Squaw Valley Olympics a very long time ago.”
“Do you have any kids?” I ask her, and she shakes her head.
“No,” she replies, a trifle sadly. “They just never came along.” She brightens. “But of course I have had many, many children in my life over the years through my teaching. And perhaps, since I got to pretend to be your grandmother last week, you wouldn’t mind pretending to be my granddaughter once in a while.”
“Okay,” I reply, feeling shy again.
She smiles and pours me another cup of tea and I start to relax.
The sitting room is cozy, with the fire crackling and the cheery floral slipcovers on the sofa and chairs and February banished outside. A last few rays of feeble winter sun slant in through the big windows, lighting up the bookshelves. Curious to see what kinds of books Mrs. Bergson likes to read, I set my teacup down and wander over to look at some of the titles. Poetry and biographies and mysteries, apparently—especially Agatha Christie and somebody named Dorothy Sayers—and she has a lot of my favorites, too, including Little Women and the Anne of Green Gables series. She even has some of Jean Webster’s books.
“We just read Daddy-Long-Legs for our Mother-Daughter Book Club,” I tell her, taking it off the shelf.