The Four Seasons. Mary Monroe Alice

ask!” Birdie swooped up the bags from the counter and proceeded out the door. “I’ll take them back—but I still think I’m right,” she called over her shoulder.

      Dennis shrugged, shook his head and followed.

      Jilly met Rose’s gaze and smiled as the mood shot skyward.

      

      Outside the garage Birdie paused to take a deep breath and stare at the yard. The sun shone brilliantly in a clear blue sky. Cheery heads of crocuses were emerging through the sparkling snow, valiantly promising spring would come, even if a bit late. Beyond, in the side yard, the hot sun had melted the snow on the rectangle of sidewalk that bordered a forty-foot expanse. That space had been an in-ground swimming pool, long ago.

      She saw in her mind’s eye the brilliant blue of the pool’s water. Bahama Blue, it was called. Every other summer the girls had to help paint that color on the sloping cement walls, looking like Smurfs when the job was done. The pool was the family’s playground. In happier times, Dad would come home from work and jump in like a “bomb,” splashing his girls while they squealed with delight. They’d take turns being hurled from his shoulders, pretending to be mermaids diving off a cliff. One more time, Dad!

      They’d spend the day playing mermaids in the pool and wouldn’t come out until their fingers were pruned and their lips were blue. Especially Birdie. She loved to swim and was a natural, able to hold her breath longer than anyone she knew.

      Mermaids…Birdie’s lips turned up in a smile. She hadn’t thought of that in, oh, so many years. It was their favorite game. Jilly made it up, of course, though she herself had thought up most of the game’s rules, like holding their breaths under Iceland and being dead if they ever touched the drain. That’s how things worked between her and Jilly. Imagination and rules. Right brain and left. They were a good team. They were best friends. Rose had loved the game, too. And Merry.

      Birdie cringed at the vision of a girl’s small limbs kicking beneath Bahama Blue water. She blinked it away and looking out, saw again the rectangle of earth in the yard that was once the swimming pool. Snow piled high over it, creating a mound. It occurred to Birdie with a shudder how much it looked like a gravesite.

      5

      THE “MAY BALL” FUNERAL LUNCHEON, as it was known in later years, succeeded in dispelling the usual gloom and doom Birdie dreaded at such occasions, even if it did rouse the ridicule she’d predicted. She overheard a few smirking comments on the pink damask tablecloths and the yards of lace trim. But overall, Birdie was moved by how many people really loved Merry. Though her sister hadn’t seen people often, the impression she’d made was deep and permanent. Perhaps it was her innocence, or perhaps it was her joy that elicited devotion from everyone she met. All in all, Merry’s memory had been properly honored, even if in pink and lace.

      The final stragglers were clustered in the foyer, gathering their coats and saying their goodbyes. With her red hair pulled severely back in a chignon at the neck, Jilly stood at the door with the poise and straight shoulders of a dancer, sending off strangers and family alike with a grace that Birdie both envied and was proud of. Birdie might have attributed her skill to her training as a model and actress, except that she knew better. Jilly always was the swan in the pond.

      In contrast, she hardly saw Rose all afternoon. Her shy sister had skirted through the rooms like Jeeves, quietly attending the buffet, discreetly collecting dishes and scurrying them off to wash. To the guests, she undoubtedly appeared the perfect hostess, but Birdie knew her sister would rather scrub the floor with her tongue than wag it in small talk with all these people.

      As the last of the guests were leaving, Mrs. Kasparov, the real estate agent she’d selected, came forward to discreetly hand her a sales portfolio. She was a diminutive woman with gray-and-black hair and an overbite. With her aggressive manner, she reminded Birdie of a terrier.

      “Here is the list of sales comps and the other information you requested.”

      “Thank you. I should imagine we’ll put the house on the market right away, to take advantage of the spring market. We’ll call you,” Birdie said, nudging her toward the door. Blessedly, Mrs. Kasparov nodded then signaled her husband, who sighed in relief and rose with a cumbersome effort. The couple shook Jilly’s hand warmly at the door, then, after her gaze took a final, hawklike sweep of the room, Mrs. Kasparov left.

      The whole house seemed to sigh when the door clicked shut. Birdie rubbed her neck, thinking she’d love nothing more than to prop her feet up and collapse. She caught Jilly’s eye and they shared a commiserating smile. Their lawyer, Mr. Collins, who had been sitting patiently in a wing chair by the front window, rose on cue.

      “I think we’re all ready now,” she announced. “Mr. Collins, thank you for your patience. Shall we move to the dining room?”

      Reaching out her arm, she placed it around Rose’s shoulder as she passed, and together they went to sit at the dining room table which had been cleared of the luncheon, linen and lace.

      Mother’s mahogany table gleamed under the crystal chandelier. As Birdie sat, she idly wondered who would get the dining room furniture. The table would look lovely in her Tudor house. And who else would need such a big set? Jilly wouldn’t want to lug it to France and Rose would probably get a small condo.

      Jilly took a seat at one end of the table, directly across from Mr. Collins, who was busy laying out papers. Her hands were folded neatly and she sat straight, her green eyes wide and alert, as though on stage. They waited patiently for Rose to take her seat. Her face stilled pensively when she caught sight of Mrs. Kasparov’s real estate portfolio on the table.

      When at last they were all settled, Mr. Collins folded his hands on the table and smiled benignly at them. He was a tall, dignified gentleman who had been their father’s best friend. “Uncle George,” they’d once called him, though only Merry continued calling him that into adulthood. Today was a formal setting, however, and as he was acting as their legal adviser, he maintained a respectful reserve. Adjusting his eyeglasses, he proceeded.

      “Your sister was a very special person to me, and your father was a dear friend. It was my pleasure, and my honor, to act as the co-executor of your father’s will and Meredith’s trust fund, as it has been to serve the interests of the entire Season family throughout the years.” He glanced briefly at Jilly, who met his eyes with equal reserve.

      “You are all well aware of how your father wished his property handled and distributed after his death?”

      The three sisters nodded to indicate their understanding.

      “At the time he wrote his will, back in August of 1977, his chief concern was for the care and welfare of his youngest daughter, Meredith, once it became established that she would not be capable of providing for herself after he and your mother were gone. Your mother willingly chose to accept one-third of the estate for her own support, thus leaving the bulk of their joint estate in a trust fund in Meredith’s name. If you recall, after her death in 1990, what little was left of your mother’s estate was distributed equally to all four daughters. I believe the amount was forty thousand dollars?”

      Jilly’s face remained impassive as she nodded. Birdie recalled her phone call from Europe, full of doubt and disappointment to learn how little was left from their mother’s estate. Birdie had been filled with resentment and her attitude toward her sister had changed that day.

      Mr. Collins adjusted his glasses as he checked a figure on the paper. “It was also stipulated that, upon the occasion of Meredith’s death, the residue of the estate should be distributed equally among the remaining Season issue. As of this date, that would be Jillian, Beatrice and Rose Season. The estate includes all remaining monies, assets and real property, or in this case, this house, the summer home in Indiana having been sold in 1984. I’ve frozen the bank accounts and sold the few remaining stocks, and after the estimated taxes and funeral expenses, excluding the sale of the house, of course, I’m calculating approximately twenty thousand dollars will be left in the trust fund to be dispersed.”