“The house is sending us off in style, I see.” He shook his head and put the car in drive.
“Don’t worry. It won’t be able to keep the song going once we leave the property.”
We drove down the long driveway toward the road, the bumps all but imperceptible thanks to the Range Rover’s shock absorbers.
I twisted in the seat when Matthew flicked on the turn signal to leave the Bishop farm, but the last words of the song made me face forward again. “Don’t look back,” I whispered.
Sol in Virgo
When the sun is in Virgo, send children to school.
This sign signifieth a change of place.
—Anonymous English Commonplace Book, c. 1590, Gon?alves MS 4890, f. 12v
15
“More tea, Professor Bishop?”
“Hmm?” I looked up at the preppy young man with the expectant expression. “Oh. Yes. Of course.
Thank you.”
“Right away.” He whisked the white porcelain teapot from the table.
I looked toward the door, but there was still no sign of Matthew. He was at Human Resources getting his identification badge while I waited for him in the rarefied atmosphere of the nearby New Haven Lawn Club. The hushed confines of the main building dampened the distinctive plonk of tennis balls and the screaming children enjoying the pool during the last week of summer vacation. Three brides-to-be and their mothers had been escorted through the room where I was sitting to view the facilities they would enjoy should they be married here.
This might be New Haven, but it was not my New Haven.
“Here you are, Professor.” My attentive waiter was back, accompanied by the fresh scent of mint leaves. “Peppermint tea.”
Living in New Haven with Matthew was going to require some adjustment. My little row house on the tree-lined, pedestrians-only stretch of Court Street was far more spartan than any of the residences we’d occupied over the last year, whether in the present or the past. It was furnished simply with flea market finds, cheap pine furniture left over from my graduate-student days, and shelf upon shelf of books and journals. My bed didn’t have a footboard or a headboard, never mind a canopy. But the mattress was wide and welcoming, and at the end of our long drive from Madison the two of us had collapsed into it with groans of relief. We’d spent most of the weekend stocking the house with essentials like any normal New Haven couple: wine from the store on Whitney Avenue for Matthew, groceries for me, and enough electronics to outfit a computer lab. Matthew was horrified that I owned only a laptop. We left the computer store on Broadway with two of everything—one for him and one for me. Afterward we strolled the paths of the residential colleges while the carillon played in Harkness Tower. College and town were just beginning to swell with returning students who shouted greetings across the quad and shared complaints about reading lists and class schedules.
“It’s good to be back,” I had whispered, my hand hooked through his arm. It felt like we were embarking on a new adventure, just the two of us.
But today was different. I felt out of step and out of sorts.
“There you are.” Matthew appeared at my elbow and gave me a lingering kiss. “I missed you.”
I laughed. “We’ve been apart for an hour and a half.”
“Exactly. Far too long.” His attention wandered over the table, taking in the untouched pot of tea, my blank yellow legal pad, and the unopened copy of the latest American Historical Review that we’d rescued from my overstuffed department mailbox on our way to Science Hill. “How was your morning?”
“They’ve taken very good care of me.”
“So they should.” On our way into the grand brick building, Matthew had explained that Marcus was one of the founding members of the private club and that the facility was built on land he’d once owned.