The Correspondent: A Novel by Virginia Evans - 2

Felix Stone

7 Rue de la Papillon

84220 Gordes

FRANCE

June 2, 2012

Felix, my dear brother,

Thank you for the birthday card, the fountain pen, and the book, which I started the day it arrived (Thursday) and finished today. It was exactly as you described. Unlikely and electric, inventive, and right up my alley. Seventy-three feels the same as seventy-two for what it’s worth, arthritis, constipation, and trouble sleeping, and I’ve decided to stop dyeing my hair. I don’t care much for my birthday, as you know, though it’s always nice of you to acknowledge it. Trudy and Millie of course came for appetizers and cards. The children both contacted me—Bruce had a strawberry tart delivered from a bakery (he’ll be up next weekend to clean out my gutters anyway), and it was awful, so I threw it out. Probably cost him a fortune. Fiona called from London. She said she won’t come home again until Christmas because work is keeping her jumping and now she is designing something in Sydney, for heaven’s sake, so she’ll spend a month in Australia. She assured me Walt doesn’t mind how often she is gone, but I’ll tell you, I don’t know how their marriage will make it. She’ll certainly never be able to have children at this point. (They’re not even trying. At least she hasn’t told me if they are. When I bring it up she chastises me.) Theodore Lübeck down the street brought me cut roses from his bushes, as he does every year, which is good of him, even if he is a renegade from the lawless fringe of the American West.

How is France? How is Stewart? What are you writing? Thank you for the invitation to visit, you’re always good to refresh it. Yes, I loved The Château , but that was a novel, and as much as I would love to see your new house, no, I’ll not come. Just as a summer afternoon is gorgeous from inside air-conditioning, and you step into the day, hot, muggy, miserable, a postcard of France with all the lavender and sunflowers, I imagine, is far more alluring than the place itself. It’s such a hassle to fly these days with the security and all the regulations about the size of bag and transferring the creams and contact lens solution into the small bottles. Honestly, it doesn’t appeal to me in the least, and I made it clear when you moved continents I wouldn’t be coming.

I was going through boxes and found this photograph (encl.) from the day they brought you home from the Sisters. Your little trousers and absolutely bald head. You’ve come full circle. Mother looks gorgeous here and I’ve never seen another photo of her in this green skirt suit, but I remember it clearly. I remember that day as clearly as if it were yesterday. I remember there had been a bad storm, no rain, but a strange wind and warm temperatures and there was a tree down in the yard and branches and sticks, and I remember the neighbor, Mrs. Curry, had made a dinner of pot roast and a chocolate pie and I’d been waiting all afternoon for the car to pull up and bring you. Mitsy hadn’t been able to get there for the morning chores because the storm had downed the lines on the Canton bridge, so I had dusted, made the beds, drawn the drapes. Can you think of who it would have been taking the photo? Mother’s sister Heloise was there looking after me, but I can’t imagine Heloise taking photographs. I suppose this is our first family portrait. I’m giving it to you, as I have my own photo of the day they brought me in.

My regards to Stewart, of course, from your loving sister,

Sybil

Postscript: Felix, I got into a little scrape last night. It was nothing, really, I’m fine, but the Cadillac is in the shop. More of an inconvenience than anything else, honestly.