—
Grace tries to decide what to pack for her trip. She may as well take her best dresses since she knows Halifax will be more sophisticated than the village in which they now live. Because the temperatures will be changeable, she decides to wear her lined raincoat, a dull khaki. She livens that up with a red leather bag and a pair of red pumps. She refuses to wear rubbers to the city. She puts her spectator pumps in the suitcase along with a navy purse in case she ruins the red shoes. How odd to pack for only one person.
When she’s finished, she sets the suitcase by the front door. They’ll be leaving early in the morning to take advantage of the three-day “break.”
The kettle she left on the stove begins to whistle. She carries her tea to her favorite spot, a wooden chair next to the kitchen table that she’s arranged so she can see her lawn and garden. Signaling the beginning of spring, the daffodils are up, and she can make out the cracking of the soil where mounds of tulips will be next. The grass is still gray-brown with sporadic patches of green, and in the corner of the yard are dark red shoots of rhubarb. The thought of the red shoots gives her an idea. She’ll photograph the garden each day, one photo per day, and date the pictures. Birth, life, decay, death: a complete record. At the very least, the series, though costly, will please her next winter.
—
When the yellow and white bus arrives, Tim gives Rosie a quick kiss while Grace hands the driver her suitcase. Grace has brought the lunches because the trip will take five hours.
Rosie has on a chic cornflower blue spring coat with pumps to match.
“Your coat is terrific,” Grace remarks. “Wherever did you get it?”
“Would you believe my mother made it for me?”
“Yes, I would.”
“I saw a picture in a magazine. She not only made the coat, she created the pattern for it just from the picture.” Rosie has on fake emerald earrings, which draw attention to her red hair. Grace feels dowdy in her raincoat.
Rosie reapplies her lipstick after Tim’s kiss.
“Maybe I’ll buy a spiffy coat in Halifax,” suggests Grace, knowing that she won’t, that she wants to save her money. “Window shopping will be fun.”
“I have a list of all the best department stores. Well, all two of them. But there are smaller shops on Barrington Street we can try.”
“It feels strange not to have the kids,” Grace muses.
“Feels good to me.”
“Think they’ll be all right?”
“As long as they’re still alive when we get back, I’ll be fine.”
“You’ve stayed at the Lord Nelson,” Grace says.
“I have. You’ll love it. They do a delicious tea. But I’ve arranged for us to have dinner tonight at the Prince George.”
Lord Nelson. Prince George. A delicious tea. How far this seems from Hunts Beach, about which John Lighthart was correct. Land on the coast, according to her mother, is selling for high prices now. Some of the tin shacks remain, while the houses that were rebuilt by the government are tiny capes, none with fireplaces. How long will those last?
“First we’ll get our nails done,” Rosie announces.
“Our nails done? Just as I’ll be digging in the garden?”
“Now, listen, Grace, for three days we are not mothers or garden diggers or housekeepers. We are ladies on the town.”
—
As soon as they arrive at the hotel, Grace highlights her ears with rhinestone earrings and applies red lipstick to match her shoes and handbag.
“Nice,” says Rosie as she emerges from the bathroom.
After the appointment with the manicurist, it seems they shop for hours, stopping only to have a tea. Rosie takes her shoes off and sticks them among a half dozen packages under the table. “Most of what I bought was for the children,” she says, sighing.
“It’s too bad that mint satin with that gorgeous waist was already spoken for. The shawl collar was perfect on you.”
“But where would I have worn it?” Rosie asks, slipping a cigarette from its pack. “Want one?”
“Rosie, you’re not playing the game. You’re supposed to buy it because it’s beautiful and someday you might have a chance to wear it,” says Grace, who takes a lit cigarette and inhales deeply. “These are your rules, by the way. I didn’t buy one thing for the children, and I’m feeling guilty.”
“There’s tomorrow.”
“Teahouse scones are always better than the ones you can make at home,” muses Grace, taking a good-size bite. The ham sandwiches they had on the bus barely constituted lunch.
“Put the cream and jam on them,” Rosie advises. “They’ll be even better.”
“You’re not eating?”
“Oh, I will, believe me. Just resting my dogs.”
Grace’s feet hurt, too, but it’s a point of pride not to remove her shoes in a public place.
“Now see that man over there at the banquette?” comments Rosie in a low tone. “Don’t look now. I think he’s exceptionally handsome.”
“You shouldn’t be looking,” Grace chastises lightly. “You’re married.”
“I’m not looking for me.”
“You’re looking for me?” Grace asks, surprised.
“You need a man,” her friend says.
“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t do that.”
“The statute of limitations has run out.”
“I don’t want a man,” Grace explains, “and that’s the truth. And I really, really don’t want to be married.”
“Look,” says Rosie, taking a bite of her scone, “you had a bad experience. Get over it.”
“I am over it. I just don’t want the complications.”
“You’re afraid because you think you’ll get another raw deal.”
“I’m not afraid. I like being a single mother. I don’t pine for a man or a marriage. I like my own bed. I’m proud of the life I’ve made.”
—
They walk through a park so green that Grace has difficulty believing in it. Their heels click on the pavement and stick in the gravel. Around them, tulips in provocative colors compete with the dresses of strolling women. They come across a boy in a red cap and bow tie, a dark man in a powder blue linen suit. Grace and Rosie have on dresses with wide full skirts and have to walk a few inches farther apart than they normally would. Grace admires the park—how can she not?—but she’s developed an antipathy to nature in confinement. Banks of perfectly spaced tulips, hedgerows precisely clipped, conical mazes of rosebushes that haven’t yet bloomed fail to delight her in the way they once did. She prefers her garden at home, the one cultivated so close to the sea that the wind whips every bush and flower to its will. She prefers her long and wild forsythia to the neatly pruned balls through which they meander.
—
The sun sets cold on them, and Grace wishes she’d brought something more substantial than her sweater. She’s both frigid and ravenous when they step into the dining room, where a fire is lit; Halifax is a schizophrenic city this time of year. When seated, they order winter drinks—Manhattans—not yet ready for summer’s gin and fizz.
Grace scans the room. The clothes on the diners are not as fashionably cut or as rich in material as those in Merle Holland’s closet (are they still in her closet?), but they’re a step up from Sunday best. She catches glimpses of yellow chiffon, a gold watch, and earrings so dazzling they might be real diamonds. She notes draped hands with long, painted fingernails. Grace’s, too, are newly red to match her shoes, and sometimes, when her hand crosses her line of sight, she’s startled by the shiny color. The nails make satisfying clicks on the smooth surface of the table.
“Date night,” Rosie asserts as she sips her drink.
“Don’t you think they’re tourists like ourselves?”
“A little soon for tourists. The weather is too unpredictable. People don’t come until mid-June. Tim and I pretend when we come here that we’re on a date, but you can’t really. Most of the
time we just end up talking about the kids, or drinking too much to make the evening feel festive.”
“But you and Tim are so good together!”
“Oh, we are. But, you know, a marriage is a marriage.”
“I’m surprised we haven’t talked about the children,” Grace says.
“Not till tomorrow. And maybe not even tomorrow.”
Rosie offers a cigarette to Grace, who shakes her head. “It’ll steal my appetite, and I plan to indulge tonight.” She orders a shrimp cocktail, a bowl of vichyssoise, and a steak, medium-rare, which comes with scalloped potatoes, carrots, and peas. She and Rosie split a baked Alaska for dessert.
“We’d better walk a mile,” groans Rosie. “My dress is about to bust its seams.”
“Then we’d better walk fast,” adds Grace, contemplating the night temperatures.
“We could ask the waiter to order us a taxi.”
“Come on,” says Grace, standing, “we’re tougher than that.”
—
They walk with heads bent into a cold wind off the water.
“Want to go dancing?” Rosie asks.
“Tomorrow maybe. It’s been a long day. I was up at four. Couldn’t sleep.”
“Too excited?”
The wind picks up. Conversation comes in fits and starts and then is carried away on gusts.
Grace passes a granite building and stops. She puts a hand on a column. She bends, unable to straighten.
Rosie, fifty feet ahead of her, realizes Grace’s absence and returns. “What’s wrong?” she cries, running the last twenty feet.
Grace, unable to speak, not wanting to speak, shakes her head. She knows the moment Rosie understands because she says, “Oh my.”
Grace stands, gathering herself. “I want to see,” she says. “I want to hear.”
Rosie checks her watch and then the poster. “It’s half over. I’ll see if we can get in.”
Grace follows Rosie into an ornate lobby. Though her mind is spinning, she’s aware of massive doors, parquet floors, and a ticket booth where Rosie is talking and gesturing.
“We can go in during intermission,” Rosie says when she reaches Grace. “But,” she adds, sounding hesitant, even wary, “are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes.”
—
Doors open, cigarettes are lit, a crowd rushes for the bar. Rosie leads Grace through an entry and hunts for seats together. The hall is grand with gold leaf carvings, red velvet booths, and a large crystal chandelier. Grace fixes on the impossibly long black piano being rolled onto the stage.
“Breathe,” Rosie says when they are seated.
“I’m fine.”
Rosie raises an eyebrow, removes a compact from her handbag, and reapplies her lipstick. Grace clutches her hands together to stop the shaking.
The lights dim. The conductor threads through the orchestra to great applause. Then the soloist, dressed in a black tuxedo, his hair thick and longer than she remembers, sits in front of the sleek machine and waits.
A hush of anticipation.
“Breathe,” whispers Rosie.
Grace hears the haunting, piercing notes of a French horn and the beautiful reply of the piano. She has listened to the record dozens of times. She can’t see Aidan’s body or his hands, but she can just make out his face and shoulders.
When he begins to play, goose bumps slide down her arms. She feels the notes at the back of her neck, just as she did that first day she walked into Merle Holland’s house. She knows the melodies by heart. Rosie reaches over and takes her hand.
Aidan launches into a difficult section she remembers well. Grace can pick out the repetitions of the first theme, the introductions of others. What strikes her now is how tumultuous the piece is, how often that tumult is followed by moments of quiet. It’s the combination that creates the beauty.
“Your face,” Rosie whispers.
Yes, her face must show her rapture, but the soloist, Grace reminds herself, is not hers. He belongs to the orchestra, to the audience, and to the elegance of the concert hall. This is his turret now, his sitting room, his library.
This is his life, moving from city to city, entering concert halls, and paralyzing audiences.
There are multiple sections to the concerto. She listens and sometimes holds her breath. She listens and closes her eyes. She listens and knows that the end is coming and that she is again powerless to stop it.
The audience is on its feet, clapping. Rosie and Grace join them. Aidan Berne takes three, four curtain calls, sweeping his arm to include the orchestra. When he leaves the stage the final time, the lights come up.
“You’re crying,” Rosie says.
“It was beautiful.”
“It was amazing.”
It’s a few minutes before Rosie is able to lead Grace out of the concert hall. When they have moved away from the din of the crowd, she turns to Grace. “That’s him, isn’t it?”
Grace embraces Rosie.
“He’s magnificent,” Rosie whispers in her ear. “In every way possible. You lucky girl. You lucky, lucky girl.” She draws away from Grace. “Come on.”
Rosie takes Grace to the back of the concert hall, where already there’s a crowd. Men and women have programs and pens in their hands. Grace will have one more glimpse of the man who was once her lover.
While they wait, the cold penetrates Grace’s shoes and blows through her sweater. She shivers, a combination of the temperature and nerves. She can’t manage the business of smoking, so she hugs her sweater close.
The murmuring grows louder, and Grace watches as the stage door opens. A man steps out, not Aidan, but he beckons to someone inside. Aidan emerges and stands on the stoop, an iron railing running around it and down a short set of concrete steps. The murmuring breaks up into individual pleas to sign programs. Grace knows the moment Aidan sees her because his face blanches, and then his color is restored. He descends the stairs and moves toward her, gently parting the crowd, and Grace knows, in the time it takes for him to reach her, that her life is about to change.
She can see it all. The astonished but happy gaze. The kiss, the night spent together. The promises and plans they’ll make. He’ll learn to fly, he’ll say, so that he can see her more often. Grace will travel to attend some of his concerts, she’ll say, and she’ll wear a cloth coat. Aidan will come to her house, and her children will perhaps remember the man who made music and played with them. Aidan will buy a piano and install it at Grace’s so that he can practice when he comes home and sleeps with her. She’ll have a life she could never have imagined, a life different from anyone else’s. They will be lovers whenever and wherever they can. They will never be separated, no matter how great the distance between them.
He reaches her and takes hold of her wrist. “Hello,” he says.
Grace meets his eyes. “Aidan, this is my friend, Rosie.”
“Hello, Rosie,” he says with a smile.
Rosie grins. “Your concert was wonderful.”
Aidan, not letting go of Grace, invites the two of them to dinner. Before Grace can explain that they’ve already eaten, Rosie begs off. “I’ve had a headache since this afternoon. Blissfully, it went away during your concert, but now it’s back. I think I’d better go lie down.”
Grace turns to Rosie. “I might be late,” she whispers.
“I certainly hope so.”
It occurs to Grace, as she watches Rosie walk away, that she could be wrong, that what she imagined moments ago might not come to pass. She and Aidan will have dinner and talk, and he will see her back to the hotel and promise to let her know when he is next invited to play in Halifax, which will never happen.
But the grip on her wrist is fierce.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my editor, Jordan Pavlin, and my agent, Jennifer Rudolph Walsh, both of whom were brilliant, wise, and encouraging while I was writing this book.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
An
ita Shreve is the author of eighteen novels. She lives in New Hampshire and Maine with her husband.
An Alfred A. Knopf Reading Guide
The Stars Are Fire by Anita Shreve
The questions, discussion topics, and reading list that follow are intended to enhance your reading group’s discussion of The Stars Are Fire, the new novel from beloved author Anita Shreve.
Discussion Questions
1. The epigraph is a quote from Shakespeare’s Hamlet: “Doubt thou the stars are fire; / Doubt thou the sun doth move; / Doubt truth to be a liar; / But never doubt I love.” What does it mean? What does it have to do with the novel it introduces?
2. “Containerize, her own mother once told Grace, as if imparting the secret of sanity. Her mother meant children as well as dry goods.” (this page) In what ways does Grace follow this advice? When does she disregard it?
3. Grace intends to seduce Gene on this page, but the results are degrading and painful. If the novel were set in the present, might this be considered marital rape? How are things different now from in the 1940s?
4. On this page, Grace thinks, “It feels true that she might have wished her mother-in-law gone. Not dead, just gone. It feels true that she caused the hurtful night in bed, even though she sort of knows she didn’t.” Why does she blame herself for these things? When does she stop blaming herself?