The Memory of Us: A Novel by Camille Di Maio Page B

between the seats were reflective enough to see my face.
    My stomach rumbled as I wandered to the adjacent dining car, which proved even more stunning than the first-class compartment. The starched ivory napkins were folded into perfect peaks, and the crystal goblets were spotless. The leather seats were adorned with beaded brass trim, and the lacquered wood paneling featured etchings of Greek gods. Mother would have loved this, and I let a little smile escape.
    I slipped into a chair by a window and was met immediately by a steward who seemed to appear out of nowhere.
    “Good afternoon, Miss. What may I get for you?”
    “Some tea and roast with pudding, please.”
    “The kitchen will not be ready for hot food until a few minutes before we leave. But we may have some cold items already prepared.”
    “That will do. Whatever you have. Thank you.”
    He left as silently as he had entered, and then returned with a plate of egg salad sandwiches cut into triangles. I must have looked dejected, because he apologized.
    “I’m sorry, Miss. I had hoped that the cucumbers would have been delivered by now, but as they were not, I brought these. If you are able to wait for half an hour, I will be able to bring something different.”
    “No, this is fine.”
    “Good, then. I’ll have your tea out shortly.”
    I had not cared for egg salad sandwiches since I was about seven years old and had become sick after eating one at my grandmother’s house. I’d successfully avoided them until just a few weeks ago at the picnic at Reynolds Park. I sighed and recalled the day for which my mother had harbored such high hopes.
    Mother had been fidgety leading up to my outing with Roger Kline. She’d muss my hair as she walked by me, brush it back with her fingers, and frown. She took me to her jewelry cabinet and made me try several combinations of earrings and brooches until she was satisfied. When Roger arrived to pick me up, she stood and watched from the turret window, holding a handkerchief in front of her face to conceal the thin smile that I knew was there.
    Mother had bought for me a blue dress with white polka dots, green buttons, and trim. My wide-rimmed white hat was banded with a matching blue fabric. As the day was warm and breezeless, there seemed no danger of it blowing away.
    The drive was short, and my conversation with Roger was limited to the kinds of polite inquiries that flow like a report on the facts of a person’s life. What do you think of the weather? Where did you go to school? What did you think of the festival? Do you have any siblings?
    Thankfully, we arrived just as Roger asked that one, as it pained me every time I denied the existence of my brother. But neither could I think of including him in the secret that only Lucille and Kyle knew.
    Once out of the Packard, I led us on to safer pleasantries. “My, it is already crowded.”
    Roger took a basket out of the backseat. “Yes. The weather is good for it. I hope you don’t mind, but I told some fellows that we’d meet them in front of the mansion.”
    “That would be lovely.” I forced a smile and took a blanket from the car.
    We strolled past children playing ball and sweethearts getting close on benches. I turned my head to hide the tear that was trying to escape. At last, we passed the roundabout tulip garden and found most of the people who had been at the festival.
    “Jules!”
    “Anne!” It was good to see a familiar face. In fact, I recognized most of the girls, if not from personal acquaintance, then at least by the memory of the frantic primping that had preceded the auction.
    “Golly, Jules—just everyone is talking about how much money you raised.” She leaned in to me conspiratorially. “And what a catch—Roger Kline! We’re all just swooning with jealousy! He’s going to make something of himself someday, you just wait and see.”
    My smile was becoming more practiced, and I found it easier to put on. “Yes. How fortunate that