A small picture loaded: Dorothy, in her twenties or thirties. She looked lovely, head thrown back a bit, like the lady in the moon, even had the necklace. Dark hair, dark lipstick. Then the copy appeared.
Dorothy Charlotte Peacock was born on December 6, 1911(?) in Springfield, CT, to Walter and Sarah Peacock. Attended Miss Porter's School in Farmington, CT, where she studied Latin, French, German, algebra, trigonometry, geometry, chemistry, history, geography, music, and natural philosophy. In 1928, she entered Wellesley College. Upon her graduation, she embarked on a Grand Tour of Europe, eventually settling in Italy to study art history at Florence's Villa Merced. In 1933, she was joined by her younger sister, Renata (nee Rose).
The sisters were forced to return from Florence in 1934 when their parents were tragically killed in a fire aboard the cruise liner
After her return, Dorothy emerged as a significant patron of many of New En gland's rising artists of the time, hosting salons, exhibiting their works, and sponsoring numerous study trips abroad. At times, her home, Halcyon, was used as an art studio, and Dorothy herself gave drawing lessons to William and other talented local children.
In addition to Miss Peacock's cultural pursuits, she was a vocal and generous supporter of various feminist and community organizations—among them the Maternal Health Center, Connecticut's first birth control clinic, and the Farmington Lodge Society, founded by Miss Sarah Porter, of Miss Porter's School fame, which brought 'tired and overworked' girls to Farmington for their summer vacations.
Although their home was unscathed, the hurricane of 1938 destroyed the famous Peacock gardens and toppled the giant 'Olivia' elm that had graced its entrance. The two sisters spent many years redesigning the gardens, introducing an Italian influence, which reflected on their happy days in that country. With the help of landscape designer and herbalist Beatrix Shippington, the garden regained its place as one of Connecticut's most notable.
In the years that followed, Dorothy's activities were severely curtailed by the declining health of her sister, to whom she was devoted. Together they made numerous trips to specialists all over the country, but Renata's health was poor for the rest of her life.
Despite the fact that Dorothy Peacock was a renowned beauty, she never married, remaining her sister's constant companion until Renata's death in 1997. There are no known survivors.
Well heeled, well-educated, and with quite the bohemian lifestyle for a single woman in the 1930s. And my friend at the Historical Society was right: there was a brother. But all that glamour, travel, Wellesley, the Villa whatsit, and then she stays tethered to Halcyon for much of the next fifty years. Trips to medical specialists were no substitute for spending the season on the Italian Riviera.
The Miss Porter's Web site didn't give me much except its endless athletic schedule and a recipe for an icebox cake that Jackie Kennedy supposedly liked. Wellesley's was a bit more promising—friends' names, clubs, and the mildly interesting factoid that Dorothy was the hoop-rolling winner of her senior class; that's something to put on the old resume. Back then, it was supposed to mean she'd be the first of her graduating class to marry. Guess again. I made a note of the friends' names but doubted any of them were still alive.
I keyed in William Peacock's name, entered a search, and went upstairs to refuel while the computer chugged away. When I returned, the screen was full of William Peacocks. Apparently, this name was right up there in popularity with John Smith and Bob Potter. Assuming Inez at the thrift shop was right again, and he was on the West Coast, Google found no fewer than thirty who were about the right age. Eighteen in California, six in Oregon, two in Washington, two in Texas, and two in Alaska.
It was also possible that
Beatrix Shippington, the landscape architect who advised her friends, had hundreds of references. Most were for her gardens but many linked her to her famous clients, including an acid-tongued New York playwright reputed to be her lover.
I was bleary-eyed from too long at the computer, and while this background information was interesting, it wasn't helping me decide what to plant in Halcyon's many empty beds. I hit print again, and went upstairs to dress.
I had one other client to see before returning to Halcyon, a real estate chain whose seasonal planters I looked after. Three offices, six planters. This early in the year I had to go with annuals—boring but reliable. And the company paid its bills on time. That would take two hours, tops. On my way out, I grabbed all the pages that had printed out and stuffed them in my backpack. Just as I was signing off, I heard Hugh again, but didn't bother to check my mailbox. I had pansies to plant, and Hugh would still be there when I got home.
CHAPTER 9
After two more days of hard labor digging up dead shrubs, I was looking forward to the weekend. I packed it in, said good-bye to the guys, and left for the train station. In a sea of sweaty, gray commuters, it was not hard to find Lucy Cavanaugh. Wearing dark aviator sunglasses and a large straw hat, her glossy ponytail swinging behind her, she might have been off to chat up her new film on the Croisette. If I didn't know her, I would have hated her on sight. I stuck my grubby hand through the moonroof to signal to Lucy, and she sashayed over in impossibly high sandals, with a train case and a collection of tiny shopping bags bouncing on either side.
She leaned in the passenger-side window.
'I brought my entire medicine cabinet. What ever you need, I've got.'
'Hop in first. The natives get restless at any breach of train-station etiquette.'
She did a brief show-and-tell of her pharmacopoeia and saved the strongest medicine for last—Belgian chocolates, which I pronounced too beautiful to eat.
'We'll see, Miss Holier-Than-Thou Health Freak,' Lucy said. 'You manage to squeeze booze and coffee into your diet. How big a leap can it be to the really hard stuff?'
A blast from somebody's horn broke up the girl talk.
'The light was green for two seconds.' Lucy turned around and gave the driver one of her best withering looks.
'As someone told me recently, we have everything here they have in the big city.'
The car behind us passed on the right, and the driver flipped Lucy the bird. 'Including assholes, apparently,' she said.
She dug through her shopping bags until she found the item she was looking for. 'This you're gonna love . . . and it has zero calories.'
I was dubious.
'It's a watch with a heart-rate monitor. I saw it and it screamed Paula. I bought one, too. I've been addicted to it since I bought them. You can even see how many calories you burn while you're having sex.'
'That must come in handy when your mind wanders.'
On the way back to my place we caught up. Mostly gossip about former colleagues—who's changed jobs, who's sleeping with whom, who's getting fat injections.
'Make yourself comfortable,' I said, unloading bags in the hallway. 'I'm gonna take a quick shower.'
'Good idea,' Lucy said. 'I thought it smelled a little horsey in the car.'
Fifteen minutes later, I'd changed, but my tiny deck was positively transformed. Filled with candles, pillows, and two artfully thrown pieces of Provencal fabric Lucy had bought on her last trip to Cannes, it looked like a scene from the
'You're gonna make somebody a damn fine little wife one day.'
