Chatham Square

"Perhaps. I've been told of one, yes."

"How he was jilted—spurned by his intended while he was overseas fighting for his country?"

"Yes. Yes, that's essentially what I heard."

"Well, would it surprise you to know I was the intended who was said to have spurned him?"

"You?" The surprise was just too complete and sudden. Ginny couldn't hold back the gasp.

"Yes me, funny, isn't it? A gasp is the best response. I quite agree. This old wreck was once a beauty who launched a thousand love poems." Rose's accompanying laugh was deep, melodic—but it also had an edge of irony and bitterness to it.

"Oh, Rose. I didn't know. I don't know what—"

"It was bad, sticky, yes. But I'm not quite that monster. At least I was trying not to be. Here, read this, please."

Ginny took the folded paper from Rose's hand and opened it and read, the revelation of what it revealed nearly taking her breath away.

"Why. Why, Rose. This is a death notice."

"Yep. An official one from the president of the United States himself. Can you see the name of the deceased?"

"Yes. It says 'Clayton Winthrop.'"

It took a moment for the significance of the letter to sink in, and Rose just sat there, fiddling with her swatches of cloth and eying Ginny's reaction as she watch it all get processed in Ginny's mind.

"So . . . so . . . they notified you he was dead . . . in combat."

"Not me. His mother. But she gave it to me. It killed her. So, when Clay came back from war, he came back not only to a mother's grave—his father had died long before that—but to a woman who was married to another man. And not just to another man, but to Clay's best friend."

"He didn't . . . he didn't know about the letter? That he had been declared dead?"

"No. Not then, and not now."

"But, why didn't you—?"

"By then I'd married Clay's best friend. We'd all come up together. Attended the same arts school. Clay with his poetry, and Stephen his painting. It had been the three of us, twisted together, for years. Important, formative years. Stephen didn't declare his love until after we thought Clay was gone. And I liked Stephen a lot, and we had even more in common after this letter—a shared grief. And I can't say I didn't fall in love with Stephen—just watching the effect of Clay's supposed death on Stephen and how he comforted me was enough for me to fall in love with Stephen. I didn't fall out of love with Clay. But he was dead. And then when he wasn't dead, there wasn't really anything we could do to go back—to erase what we'd all become. It wasn't Clay's fault, and it certainly wasn't Stephen's fault. The best I could do was to make it my fault. So I did. And that is that. After Stephen died, both Clay and I were too old to bring it up again. And I was . . . well you can see for yourself what I have become."

"And you've never—?"

"No. Some things are best left to lie."

"I suppose," Ginny said. But, in fact, she supposed nothing of the sort. Rose had taken the letter back and buried it in the valise under bits of cloth. But when she wasn't looking, Ginny fished it out and hid it in her sewing basket. She had experienced the havoc that one letter from a war zone had done in her life. She saw no reason why one should do the same in Rose's life forever.

She'd met Clayton Winthrop now. He was a very nice man—just with an edge of bitterness. Ginny may not be able to put these two together again, but even though Rose had apparently come to an accommodation to this kick in the stomach from life, there was no reason Clayton Winthrop needed to live in perpetual falsely based bitterness. Ginny decided she would Xerox the death notice and slip the original back in Rose's valise by tomorrow. And someday. Ginny didn't know how or when or under what circumstances. But someday, Clayton Winthrop would get an answer to questions that had been eating away at him far too long.

Rose's propensity to flit from topic to topic pulled Ginny out of her scheming thoughts. "I'm hungry. You wouldn't happen to have another half of a sandwich in there, would you?"

Ginny jerked, startled in guilt by Rose pawing at the sewing basket where she'd just hidden the death notice.

"No, I don't. But, if you'd like we could go over there to William's Café."

"Your treat?" Rose asked. And then when Ginny looked at her sharply, Rose let loose a delighted "gotcha" cackle.

"Sure," Ginny answered. "But maybe someone else will come along who we can stick the bill with."

Rose cackled again.

Chapter Seven

Ginny was amazed. She'd only lived in Chatham Square for two months now. And she'd started off so lonely and wondered where all the friendly people of Savannah were. And here she was now, sitting in the open air of William's Café—amid an abundance of fast friends. And a pleasantly motley crew it was. She couldn't have asked for a more interesting collection of characters. All residents of—or at least working full time in—the square; a small, tight community within a fascinating southern city.

Even Rose was here. Not only Rose, but Clayton Winthrop was here as well. They were sitting as far away from each other as possible at the two wrought-iron tables the others had dragged together—and they didn't speak directly to each other. But they weren't throwing up tension into the air either. They were being as comfortable as the rest of the little community that had come together.

Tom and Arnie were there, of course, and even Tony had pulled up a chair. They were practically the only ones in the café at this time of afternoon—in the waning sunlight, just before twilight set in. Ginny's favorite time of the day. And it had been unseasonably warm today. Today a sweater was enough, and Ginny found she didn't even have to snuggle deep into it to stay comfortable. Just the proximity of her new friends provided all the warmth she needed. There was, miraculously, another waiter on duty—the first time Ginny had seen anyone working here other than Tony. And Tony had said he'd take care of this table if the other waiter took care of any other business that showed up.

They weren't all there. The whole community wasn't there. Samantha Johnson wasn't there. But Samantha was nearby—out in the park, sitting primly on Rose's bench and making a doll—not from anything Ginny had given her. But she was making a doll from what she'd found herself. Ginny had seen it up close earlier in the day, though, and she could have sworn she'd seen some of that material in what Rose had been shuffling about the previous day.

Even though Samantha wasn't there, in person, among them, Samantha was very much in the center of this community that had gathered—not by appointment, but by slowly coalescing circumstance—around Ginny and Rose. The two had been coming out of the park here now for several days after feeding the birds, with Ginny making sure that Rose had something to eat before she went in to her own dinner—and on this afternoon, all of the others just naturally drifted in and sat down. One of the nice things about the café's outside tables was that the area could be seen from anywhere else in the square.

"Really something should be done. As I was telling Ginny and Tom the other day, I know a surgeon who I'm sure would donate his services—he's done that before. That wouldn't come close to covering it—but it's a start. And you have to start somewhere." It was Arnie who said that, and Ginny was pleased at his mention of starting from somewhere. Tom had told Arnie the same thing about dreams the other day. Arnie had brushed that aside then, but obviously he had been doing some thinking about it—even if he didn't consciously realize he had.

"That was nice of you to say what you did about Samantha in the interview the newspaper did on your doll exhibit yesterday, Ginny." That was Clayton Winthrop. His voice was warm with praise, and Ginny didn't know why she'd ever thought of him as a grumpy old man.

"Yes, you made it sound like she'd practically made the Marie Antoinette doll all by herself," Tom chimed in.

"Well, she did help," Ginny said. "I always thought that getting the pupil of the eyes just right was what brought the dolls to life—and she's the one who could see that the original face would be a disaster. But, I agree. I do wish there was something we . . . I could do about that."

"Let's stick with the 'we,'" Arnie put in, and Ginny harkened back to the same statement she'd heard days ago. It struck her that she'd been talking about this but not really doing anything, and she was resolved that today, here, was where something would start being done about this. Arnie was still talking, though, so she didn't declare her intent. In fact, she didn't have a chance to. "A 'we' can do far more than an 'I,' if they stick together."

"I've been thinking about that," Tony said, a serious tone to his voice that arrested the attention of all. "I think Club One would be willing to do a special performance with all the proceeds going to an operation for Samantha. Again, it wouldn't do all that was needed, but this is Savannah. It loves its impersonation revues. I'm sure the publicity alone would bring in money if we established a fund."

The group broke into murmurs of side conversation until Tom's voice rang out over the hubbub. "I've been thinking too." As he said this, he pulled that letter out of the inside pocket of his jacket that Ginny had seen him nervously fingering for months.

Everyone looked at him in expectation and curiosity. He was looking even more serious than Tony had.

"I've had this letter for a while, and I've had no idea what to do about it. It's from a publisher. I helped a man write a book—well, I pretty much ghosted it. I provide books to the prison and go along and have a discussion group with some of the prisoners. There was an interesting man there, a man who started into the prison system many years ago from being arrested and beaten for civil rights activity. From there, though, he went deeper into a life of crime. And then, in prison, he turned all that around and started helping other inmates change their perspectives on the world too. Well, I found what he had to say about that inspirational. And I encouraged him to write a book about it. And he did—or, rather, it turned out that we did. And then he died, without leaving anyone behind—or anything behind but this manuscript, which he willed to me. So I sent it to a publisher. And he's publishing it and tells me it should do well in the marketplace."

"That sounds wonderful, Tom," Ginny said. "But I don't know what the problem is—how that fits—"

"I don't feel right profiting from that. I helped him get it written because of the message he had to give, not because I was looking to profit from it financially. I've thought that whatever came out of it should go to helping someone out, helping them rise above what that man wasn't able to, wasn't given the opportunity to. And now we have this possibility with Samantha. It seems like more a blessing than any sort of loss for me. I'd like to put whatever comes out of that book to Samantha's needs."

Silence reigned for several minutes before Rose broke the spell. "That's a marvelous thing for you to do, Tom. And I like Tony's special performance idea too. As he said, it's not just what can be made off the event. The publicity off it can add even more. I think I can get the Armstrong Inn here on the square to do a special dinner and donate the proceeds as well."

Ginny looked at Rose in surprise. "You think you can get the Armstrong Inn to do that?"

Tony laughed. "Girl, I don't think you know the half of what our Rose here can do."

Before Ginny could speak up again, Arnie was speaking. "It's not much, and not directly of help. But . . . as well as trying to get my surgeon friend on board, I could let Samantha and her mother move over to the basement apartment under me, rent free. That would free up some of their cash flow."

"Arnie!" Ginny said sharply.

"Sorry, Ginny. You moved in during my niggardly phase. Sorry I didn't tell you I owned the apartment—that I picked it up on the foreclosure sale. I'll pay another share for those repairs too."

Ginny laughed and Arnie ducked back into the background again, grateful to escape without a reprimand.

Everyone settled down again. Tony had gone back into the restaurant and reappeared with a gaggle of wine bottles. The other waiter swam along in his wake juggling a tray of wine glasses. "And by my own leave," Tony sang out gaily, "I declare that William's Café will contribute its mite in the form of refreshments for the planning committee."

"I guess that leaves me," Ginny said. "Strangely enough I've been giving it thought too—I just needed a fire lit under me to get it going. The publicity for my doll exhibition has been good—and it was nice of them to mention Samantha. It seems natural, taking advantage of this, that I sell off Marie Antoinette and another doll or two—maybe at auction—and contribute that to the cause."

"But that could be thousands of dollars," Tom said with a gasp.

"If your book does well, that will be thousands of dollars too—as would most of the other ideas that have been offered up, all of which we can do as a team. But I think of Marie Antoinette as Samantha's doll now anyway, and I have loads of materials. Most of the expense is in what I put into them with my time and effort. And I love the work. It would even be good publicity for orders for dolls. I've been thinking. If Tom let us put them in the window of the bookstore and we got some publicity and someone to handle a silent auction, I think it would work."

"Sounds lovely to me," said Tony. "I only wish I could bid on Marie Antoinette. May I suggest that if you auction another doll too, that it be Paula Deen. You could get top dollar for her in Savannah—probably more than anywhere else in the country—and maybe some good publicity from the non-porcelain Paula."

"Good idea," Ginny said.

"No problem with putting them in the shop window," Tom chimed in. "They'll help bring in business."

"That leaves me too, though," Clayton said. He'd been sitting in the shadows. "I have some ideas I'll work on myself, but I'd be happy to see that it all gets publicized well—and I'll write a couple of little ditties to go along with the dolls. And I can arrange for an auctioneer."

Business satisfactorily concluded, the group sank into the wine and the crackers and cheese that were just now appearing. Slowly, as dark settled in, the members of the motley Chatham Square community started drifting off—until there was only Ginny and Rose sitting at their table once more.

"What a nice group of people," Ginny said.

"Yes. They all come together well," Rose answered. "I think we are becoming again what we once were before your Aunt Marie passed on. This is just the sort of thing that would happen when she was here. And she'd just float through it all. You wouldn't even have known what she'd done until it all blossomed forth into something wonderful."

"I wish I had known her better."

"I get the impression she knew you pretty well."

"I don't . . . I don't know what that means, Rose."

"Someday I think you will. But it's not something you can be told. It's something you have to realize for yourself. Give it time, dear. We have plenty of that here. This is Savannah; we move to our own clock—and calendar here."

"Rose."

"Yes, dear?"

"I wish you'd come home with me tonight and sleep in my workroom. It has a very nice studio bed."

"What sort of cover does it have on it?"

"Cover? Oh, I don't know. I think it's some sort of madras Indian cotton I picked up somewhere."

"Maybe when it has a nice quilt or something on it, Ginny. No, sorry, I'm teasing you. And that's not nice. Thank you again, but I can manage."

Ginny sighed. "OK, I guess we can't solve all of life's little problems in a day. I guess I should be satisfied that we have made a start with Samantha."

"You'll never solve all of life's problems, Ginny, or even see that all of its little mysteries are neatly worked out. For all its fairytale presence, Chatham Square is no different from the rest of the world. Life's mysteries just keep rolling on, and as old problems get solved, new ones arise. And wouldn't it be a dull world if it were otherwise?"

"Yes, I guess," Ginny answered, hoping her tone wasn't too petulant.

"You suffer from being too young, my dear. When you are my age, you will see it clearly. But then maybe not. Your Aunt Marie never let it slow her down. She was a dreamer of big dreams to the end."

* * * *

All of the events dedicated to Samantha's surgery were a huge success, and the surgeon Arnie enlisted busied himself with plans for what lay ahead. Savannah had responded to the call as cultured, caring southern cities were known to do. Ginny's dolls alone had brought in a bundle, Marie Antoinette having gone for nearly $10,000 and the Paula Deen doll taken away for a whopping $15,000. Neither of the buyers had been identified.

The leaves were falling from the trees in Chatham Square on a cool afternoon, as they do even in Savannah, as Rose and Ginny sat out on their bench, each contentedly working on their own specialties.

Ginny had managed to copy the death notice for the still-living Clayton Winthrop and had slipped it back in Rose's valise. Rose had said nothing about it in the interim, so Ginny felt she was safe on that score. She had no idea when or how she would make sure that Clayton saw the Xerox of that letter and at least start to see the issue from Rose's perspective. But Ginny knew she would do that someday, even if Rose couldn't forgive her for doing it.

As Rose hummed and rocked away and played with her swatches, Ginny watched a car slowly drive around the street bordering the square and stop in front of Clayton's house. Ginny recognized the car and then the driver who emerged from it. It was the auctioneer who had handled the sales of her two dolls. As he moved up the walk to Clayton's front door, Ginny recognized the box he was carrying under his arm. It was the box she had put Marie Antoinette in when she had given the dolls to the auctioneer for delivery to their secret buyers. Ginny now knew what other "little ideas" Clayton Winthrop had had in mind concerning what he could do to contribute to the cause.

She shivered—but only partly from the delicious revelation that made her heart swell. She realized also that it was getting distinctively chilly out here.

"I think I'd best go in, Rose. And you too."

"I'll be in shortly, child," Rose said. "I have a bit more work to do here."

Arnie was waiting for her—not too patiently either—when Ginny climbed the front steps to the co-op and entered their shared foyer.

"This came for you," he said, hardly able to stifle a big grin. He was holding out a bulking bundle not too expertly covered in brown paper. "And this letter came with it."

Ginny opened the envelope and pulled out a noticeably expensive-feeling sheet of letter paper, written in an elegant hand:

I hope this will suit for a "perfectly fine" studio bed.

I feel I deserve only the finest, you know.

I call this design Chatham Square. Because it's just like our community. Each part is an individual, with a mixture of the good and the bad, but always an interesting mixture adding up to someone valuable, someone worth knowing and cherishing. And all fitting together in a whole that is even more valuable and interesting than the sum of its parts.

Dazzled, but perplexed, tears already forming in her eyes, Ginny took up the bundle and tore at the wrapping. And then she sank into the straight chair by the side table in the foyer and laughed and laughed—and cried.

Inside the package was a patchwork quilt. A lovely, intricately and expertly sewn patchwork quilt, with all of the intricate swaths of material seemingly disproportionate and wildly unique—but somehow all fitting into a perfect, lovely whole. And each of the pieces of material were something she recognized from Rose's mad collection of bits and pieces.