The Rose Garden Read Online Free Page B

Clara, to deprive her, even if it was only for a minute, of her eternal self-satisfaction. Sometimes she lay awake in bed andgritted her teeth in the struggle to bring forth some scheme that would crack that natural armor. Now she was not disturbed at the invitation to bridge; she had often been to bridge at Clara’s house. It was the tone of the invitation that had unsettled her. Always before, in speaking to her, Clara’s manner and her amused tone of voice had implied an awareness that Liza was a person —a possible adversary, even. This time, she was merely casual, as if she had forgotten that Liza was in any way different from the others. Liza wondered distractedly if perhaps they were all beginning to take her for granted. After all, she had done nothing extraordinary for a year—not since she had torn out the whole riverside wall of her house to install those two outsize picture windows. At night, from the opposite bank of the river, her house appeared to be a glittering sheet of white light—the most spectacular establishment in the community, whether you admired it or not. Even that, which had outraged all the rest of them (they said that, like her furniture, it was alien to the spirit of Herbert’s Retreat), had drawn only an amused smile from Clara. Liza had always felt that Clara’s amusement might mask a touch of chagrin, enough to make a small victory for herself. This time Clara’s voice had been casual and friendly, but that was all. I will not be patronized by her, Liza thought wildly. I must show her.
    She went to the bridge party in a scattered, anxious frame of mind. Clara had also asked Arabelle Burton and Margaret Slade. They all come running when Clara rings the bell, Liza thought.
    As they were adding up their scores at the end of the afternoon, Clara asked, “Aren’t you and Tom having an anniversary soon, Liza?”
    â€œNot till February,” Liza said.
    â€œI know it’s February,” Clara said. “How could any of us forget the month of your arrival, Liza? We had all just settled downafter Christmas when you charged in to rouse us out of our lethargy. How many years is it?”
    â€œSeven,” Liza said, and wondered if Clara was laughing at her secretly. They don’t dare laugh at me to my face, she thought. I’m too quick for them.
    â€œSeven is a very special anniversary in most marriages, isn’t it?” Margaret Slade said indistinctly. As usual, she had a cold in her head. “I mean isn’t it the most crucial year after the first, or something?”
    â€œIs it?” Clara said. “Look, Liza, I’d like to give a party for you on your anniversary. Seven years is a long time. We should have a celebration. Will you let me?” She sounded perfectly sincere, and friendly, and Liza stared at her, baffled, not knowing what to say. Surely Clara was being patronizing?
    â€œThat’s a wonderful idea—a seventh-anniversary party for Liza!” Margaret Slade cried. “We’ll all bring appropriate presents. What is the seventh anniversary, anyway? Arabelle, you always know about things like that. What’s the seventh anniversary—leather? paper?”
    â€œBrass and copper,” Arabelle said.
    â€œWell, then, that’s settled,” Clara said. “It’s a brass-and-copper party. That should be easy enough, but I’m afraid you’re going to find yourself with a lot of ashtrays and hand bells.”
    â€œYou’ll have to tell us what you’d really like, Liza,” Arabelle said. “Your house is so special I’m afraid anything I’d pick out would be an anachronism.”
    â€œDon’t worry about that, Arabelle,” Margaret said, blowing her nose heartily. “We’re all in the same boat there. It would be hard not to bring an anachronism into Liza’s house. We’ll probably end up settling for the least anachronistic thing