Page 62 of One of Them

A nne got out of the taxi in front of Main Gate and walked through it onto campus.

It was late September, and some of the trees had just started to turn; star-shaped golden leaves glittered the lawn.

What a lovely place this was; in a way she could appreciate it even more now that her official time here had ended.

She checked her watch; it was just one o’ clock, the time she and Delia had agreed to meet.

After Professor Grayson had written to tell Anne that Delia was returning to Vassar, Anne had immediately written to her.

In her letter, Anne said she wanted to visit and go walk through Sophie’s show with her.

She also wanted to see Delia back at Vassar; it was brave of her to return, and Anne wanted to witness her triumph.

But Delia’s response, though cordial, had not been overly enthusiastic, and Anne was hurt. She’d wanted something more effusive, more encouraging. Yet Delia had agreed to this meeting, which was something. Now Anne had to hope she would keep her word.

Looking around, she saw girls—singly, in pairs, or sometimes in groups—walking along the paths, most likely coming from their classes, on their way to lunch.

She remembered that first lunch she’d had with Delia at the diner in town and wondered if she should suggest they go there after seeing the show.

But no; Delia wasn’t as apt to be nostalgic about that day as Anne was.

She looked at her watch again. Now it was a quarter past the hour.

It was possible, of course, that Delia wouldn’t come, and then Anne would have made the trip for nothing.

She’d been back in the city after several weeks in Maine with Elizabeth, and what a wonderful, restorative time that had been.

She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed not just Elizabeth, but her whole family.

She and Elizabeth had been able to pick up where they left off, and the Hunnewells took her seamlessly back into the fold.

By the end of those weeks, she and Elizabeth had decided to rent an apartment together; they had just moved into a two-bedroom on East Seventy-Fourth Street between Park and Lexington Avenues.

The bedrooms were small, and both faced the back, but the living room faced the tree-lined street and had a working fireplace besides.

Elizabeth had just started a job as a secretary at McCall’s magazine, and Anne would be starting as an assistant in decorative arts at the Parke-Bernet auction house.

“Look at us,” Elizabeth had said, sitting in their nearly empty apartment as they unpacked the boxes all around them. “Two working girls.”

“No,” Anne said. “Two career women.” Because that’s how she felt—a young woman, making her way, mapping out a path for herself.

She had snagged this job—how proud her father would have been—and now this apartment; she’d gone to the warehouse and picked out pieces that had been in storage for the last four years to bring to her new home; they would be delivered next week.

It wouldn’t replicate the apartment where she’d grown up, but that was all right.

No, more than all right. She was building a new life, not trying to climb back into the old one.

And part of that new life did include Drew Gilchrist again.

They were seeing each other now, navigating the physical distance between them—he was still based in Boston, and traveled frequently for work—as well as the less tangible but more significant emotional distance.

Mrs. Gilchrist still didn’t approve of her; that made Anne resentful, and that in turn made Drew feel torn—he loved his mother, he loved Anne.

They’d fought about it more than once. There had been harsh words, and plenty of them.

Anne remembered how naive she’d been boarding that train to Poughkeepsie, how she’d actually thought that simply disavowing her Jewishness would solve everything.

She had no such illusions now. Through all this, the silver ring remained in her top bureau drawer, nestled in its box.

She wasn’t ready to wear it, but she wasn’t ready to give it back either.

Now it was 1:25—Delia was almost thirty minutes late, and Anne was annoyed.

Why agree to meet if she was only going to stand Anne up?

But still, Anne didn’t want to leave yet.

Maybe she could go upstairs and see if Professor Grayson was in her office.

She could tell her about the new job; Miss Grayson would be pleased about that.

And she could see the show she had curated one final time and Sophie Rossner’s sculptures would be sent back to New York.

So much for Delia. Anne turned and went into Taylor Hall.

Delia walked briskly across the quad toward Taylor Hall.

She was living in Lathrop, on the quad, having decided against Main; too many memories.

Even though she’d agreed to this meeting with Anne, when the day actually came, she found herself ambivalent.

But then, being back at Vassar was filled with ambivalence.

Had she thought she’d just resume her old life here?

After all, that life had hardly been smooth.

She’d always been a bit of a loner—set apart, not fully woven into the social fabric.

And this time around, the added distinction—or notoriety—of her past was part of the experience.

She recognized girls who’d been underclassmen back then giving her covert but still discernible looks.

She was aware of their judgment, and the concomitant chill.

But on the brighter side—and there was a bright side, most days— she’d made friends with two freshmen in her dorm, Rachel Rosen and Theodora Day.

Rachel was Jewish and a fellow New Yorker; she, like Delia, had been snubbed, sometimes subtly, sometimes openly.

But because she and Delia were able to commiserate—and even laugh—about it, those snubs felt less wounding.

Theodora was Rachel’s roommate, and she’d been horribly homesick—and horribly embarrassed by it—when she first got to school.

Rachel had listened and consoled and as a result, they had become close.

Both of them looked up to Delia—now a junior—admiring her style, her French je ne sais quoi.

Neither of them knew about Ian McQuaid; he wasn’t on campus any longer.

The three of them formed a little group of their own, sitting together at meals, going to the library, casual visits to one another’s dorm rooms late at night.

Then there were her classes: a survey of ancient history, and another on epic poetry.

She was also taking a seminar on the pre-Raphaelites, as well as a seminar with Miss Grayson on the Italian neoclassical sculptor Antonio Canova.

And a first-level class in Spanish. She was fluent in French and thought it wouldn’t be too difficult to achieve some proficiency in another Romance language.

All in all, it was a rich smorgasbord of intellectual pursuits, demanding but rewarding.

And it meant she could graduate in two years.

Miss Grayson’s class was her favorite; Delia loved both the smooth, polished surfaces of Canova’s marble statues and the professor’s way of talking about them and placing them in both artistic and historical context.

Had Sophie been at all inspired by Canova’s work?

His Cupid and Psyche —a miracle of intertwined limbs and tender gestures—was in the Louvre, and so would have been easy for her to have seen.

She had been writing to Sophie, and she would ask in her next letter.

Yet despite her feelings about the class, and her gratitude for Miss Grayson’s role in her return to Vassar and in getting Sophie’s sculpture there, she had still not been to see the exhibition.

She knew the statues were there, waiting for her.

Maybe she was waiting too—waiting for Anne.

After all, it was Anne who had found them.

But when she got to Taylor Hall, Anne wasn’t there.

How strange. She had been the one to campaign for this meeting, and now she failed to show up?

Delia felt something it took her a moment to identify: disappointment.

She remained waiting in the cool, almost fall air as five, and then ten minutes went by.

Her watch had said it was 12:45 when she arrived.

When she checked again, the two hands were still in the same place—it must have stopped.

She opened the door and stepped into the vestibule outside the gallery.

Maybe Anne was waiting inside? But no, the vestibule was empty.

Well, she wouldn’t wait any longer, she’d see the show by herself.

Then she heard footsteps and turned. Someone had just come through the corridor that linked Taylor Hall to the art gallery.

That someone was Anne. Delia almost didn’t recognize her.

She was not the timid, uncertain girl Delia had first seen in the hallway of Main.

Now everything about her—hair, neatly tailored brown-and-cream tweed jacket, cream-colored leather gloves—was stylish and projected confidence.

The transformation Delia had seen starting in Paris was complete.

“Delia!” Anne said. “There you are. I was afraid you weren’t going to show up.” She looked so happy, so relieved , that something stubborn in Delia thawed.

“Sorry I kept you waiting. My watch stopped.” Delia held up her wrist.

“That’s all right. We found each other, didn’t we?”

Together, they went into the exhibition of her mother’s work.

Delia paused, wanting to let the immediate impression settle over her before she started moving around.

Here were the works she remembered from childhood, along with at least two or three she’d never seen.

These pieces reflected not only the trajectory of Sophie’s career but also Delia’s own history.

There was the mermaid from that day when she’d gone to Sophie’s studio; here was another pregnant woman in gleaming black marble that she’d never seen before.

Delia wove in and out between them, stepping in for a close-up view and then back to see how the pieces read from a distance.

Anne stayed nearby the entire time, saying nothing.

Delia realized that Anne wasn’t going to say anything until Delia spoke first.

“You’ve done a wonderful job,” she said at last. “Such an interesting, intelligent arrangement. I honestly didn’t know what to expect. But this”—she gestured around the gallery—“this is even better than what I could have imagined.”

“Thank you.” Anne felt satisfaction and pride sifting down lightly, sweet as a dusting of powdered sugar. “Does that mean there’s a chance we might be friends again?”

Delia said nothing. Anne had done a terrible thing.

But so many people did terrible things and walked away, too ashamed to own up to what they had done.

Anne was different. She’d done her best to make amends.

And she made it possible for Delia to come back to Vassar.

Delia hadn’t understood how much she’d wanted this until she was here again.

“I think we already are.” As Delia linked her arm through Anne’s she realized that yes, it was true.

Anne smiled—no, beamed—and she was still beaming as, arm in arm, she and Delia took a final turn around the gallery.

By the time they left the building, the day had turned cloudy, yet against the gray of the sky, the just-starting-to-turn leaves were stunningly, shockingly bright.

The two girls walked toward Main. Anne looked at the imposing brick edifice and said, “They’re about to start serving tea. Should we go upstairs?”

“Tea in the Rose Parlor...” Delia said. “You know, I’ve never actually gone.”

“Well, then,” Anne said. “Maybe it’s time for you to give it a try.”