The Correspondent: A Novel by Virginia Evans - 11

Rosalie Van Antwerp

33 Orange Lane

Goshen, CT 06756

February 4, 2013

Dear Rosalie,

Fiona called this week to tell me she is pregnant. Apparently it took an awfully long time, a petri dish and more capital than the down payment on a house (it’s astounding how much money she makes, not that I know specifically), none of which she chose to share with me until after the fact. She is going to have the baby over there; dual citizenship is a perk. There were some concerns, but now she’s well into the second trimester. I suppose this makes you its great aunt or/and the ‘godgrandmother.’ I’m sure I won’t know the child, as I only see Fiona once a year at this point.

In other news, Guy’s funeral is two Saturdays hence all the way out in Frederick, so I’ll have to go. The last time I was in Frederick was years ago. It is a lovely part of the state, with the big horse farms, but you know how I loathe to drive highways. Anyway, I was going to see if Bruce would come with me, which I’m certain he would have because Bruce positively loved Guy, but I remembered Bruce will be on vacation skiing in Colorado with his children, so I have asked James Landy to drive me. Do you remember James? He came to clerk for Tom Buggs in the late eighties. James is a little uptight, and married to a real wreck of a woman riddled with nerves from a wealthy family out in California or some far-flung place, but I’ve always liked him and he has a child with whom I correspond. I’m getting into unnecessary weeds here, I’m getting around to this: Liz Donnelly has asked me to speak at the service, and although I do not, like most, relish retracing old paths (better to leave the past in the past where it belongs, if you ask me), I’ve agreed, so I’ll need something to WEAR. I’ve now stood before my closet on three occasions and leafed through what I own, and the only black anything I have anymore is a dress I was probably wearing in the 1990s, which dips down to the uppermost part of what used to be my cleavage, but which now resembles the skin of a raw plucked chicken. That won’t do. I feel I need to present myself with a certain measure of command, some self-respect. I don’t think I told you yet, but I’ve gone fully gray. Fortunately, it’s turning out to have a bit of that luxurious shine some women get, and it’s smooth, but I do look OLD. Do you have any thoughts on this matter? It was always at these sorts of events when I wished for a bit of height—how I loathe my height—and it’s not a miracle I’m asking for! I don’t need to be six feet tall like yourself, but five foot five or six would’ve been nice. Five feet one inch is embarrassing for things like public speaking (which I loathe to begin with) and no self-respecting septuagenarian is going to wear pumps, though I will say I do miss wearing them.

It’s been raining for a week straight and the yard is mud. I am reading Murder on the Orient Express (Agatha Christie; third time). What are you reading? Do you hear from Daan?

Sending love, (WRITE TO ME),

Syb