Felix Stone7 Rue de la Papillon
84211 Gordes
FRANCE
June 2, 2012
Felix, my dear brother,
Thank you for the birthday card, the fountain pen, and the book, which I started the day it arrived (Thursday) and finished today. It was exactly as you described. Unlikely and electric, inventive, and right up my alley. Seventy-three feels the same as seventy-two for what it’s worth, arthritis, constipation, and trouble sleeping, and I’ve decided to stop dyeing my hair. I don’t care much for my birthday, as you know, though it’s always nice of you to acknowledge it. Trudy and Millie of course came for appetizers and cards. The children both contacted me—Bruce had a strawberry tart delivered from a bakery (he’ll be up next weekend to clean out my gutters anyway), and it was awful, so I threw it out. Probably cost him a fortune. Fiona called from London. She said she won’t come home again until Christmas because work is keeping her jumping and now she is designing something in Sydney, for heaven’s sake, so she’ll spend a month in Australia. She assured me Walt doesn’t mind how often she is gone, but I’ll tell you, I don’t know how their marriage will make it. She’ll certainly never be able to have children at this point. (They’re not even trying. At least she hasn’t told me if they are. When I bring it up she chastises me.) Theodore Lubeck down the street brought me cut roses from his bushes, as he does every year, which is good of him, even if he is a renegade from the lawless fringe of the American West.
How is France? How is Stewart? What are you writing? Thank you for the invitation to visit, you’re always good to refresh it. Yes, I loved The Chateau, but that was a novel, and as much as I would love to see your new house, no, I’ll not come. Just as a summer afternoon is gorgeous from inside air-conditioning, and you step into the day, hot, muggy, miserable, a postcard of France with all the lavender and sunflowers, I imagine, is far more alluring than the place itself. It’s such a hassle to fly these days with the security and all the regulations about the size of bag and transferring the creams and contact lens solution into the small bottles. Honestly, it doesn’t appeal to me in the least, and I made it clear when you moved continents I wouldn’t be coming.
I was going through boxes and found this photograph (encl.) from the day they brought you home from the Sisters. Your little trousers and absolutely bald head. You’ve come full circle. Mother looks gorgeous here and I’ve never seen another photo of her in this green skirt suit, but I remember it clearly. I remember that day as clearly as if it were yesterday. I remember there had been a bad storm, no rain, but a strange wind and warm temperatures and there was a tree down in the yard and branches and sticks, and I remember the neighbor, Mrs. Curry, had made a dinner of pot roast and a chocolate pie and I’d been waiting all afternoon for the car to pull up and bring you. Mitsy hadn’t been able to get there for the morning chores because the storm had downed the lines on the Canton bridge, so I had dusted, made the beds, drawn the drapes. Can you think of who it would have been taking the photo? Mother’s sister Heloise was there looking after me, but I can’t imagine Heloise taking photographs. I suppose this is our first family portrait. I’m giving it to you, as I have my own photo of the day they brought me in.
My regards to Stewart, of course, from your loving sister,
Sybil
Postscript: Felix, I got into a little scrape last night. It was nothing, really, I’m fine, but the Cadillac is in the shop. More of an inconvenience than anything else, honestly.
June 2, 2012
Dear Mr. Lubeck,
Thank you for the exquisite white roses you left on my porch on my birthday, May 29. Furthermore, I received your voice message this morning. I was delivered home by taxi last night due to a minor car accident, but everything is being taken care of.
Regards,
Sybil Van Antwerp
Ms. Ann Patchett
c/o Parnassus Books
3900 Hillsboro Pike
#14
Nashville, TN 37215
June 2, 2012
Dear Ann,
I am writing to congratulate you on your most recent novel, State of Wonder, which was given to me for my birthday by my brother. I finished reading it this morning. Today is Saturday and I only started the book Thursday, which says something in itself, though you wouldn’t know that as we are strangers, though not utter strangers, as we have exchanged letters on one previous occasion, and that was when I read your first big smash Bel Canto in the very early part of the millennium and you sent a reply, remarking on my penmanship and encouraging me to address you by your first name. You might, though perhaps not, depending on the volume of letters you receive and read on a regular basis, recall from that letter that I enjoyed Bel Canto very much, but this new book is even better. (I should add, for clarity’s sake, that I did write to you when I finished reading the book before this one, Run, but I never heard back, but that’s just fine, so don’t give it a second thought.)
It typically takes me four days to read a novel of standard length, but I was flying through the pages of State of Wonder, that exotic Amazonian backdrop and those smart, tremendously complex women Drs. Singh and Swenson. How did you come to be so knowledgeable about these things—the details about the Amazon, all the science—? Did you travel there? I found myself wondering about the balance of fact and fiction with the matter of the tree bark. The scene when the behemoth snake comes up from the water onto the boat and wraps its muscular snake body around the child Easter with the Americans looking on in horror, the silence of that scene was positively cinematic. I didn’t take a breath for what was it then, five pages or more. And of course, the matter of Dr. Swenson, at her age (my age! Dr. Swenson is seventy-three, and so am I) being pregnant. I can’t imagine. When they retrieve the baby there near the end, well that sent a chill right down my spine, but it was wonderful to read such a complex woman of her vintage, bold with her intelligence and dignity as well as her errors, and the layers upon layers of her. I am not a scientist; my own career was in law, but I saw some reflection of myself in her. The agonizing ethical questions for which the reader puts her on trial. That amazement one feels at this stage of life—a sort of astonishment that is also confusion, which leads to a sort of worry, or a sort of fear, I guess. How did we get here? How can it be? My sister-in-law Rosalie and I exchange books, and I am positive she’ll love this one, so that’s perfect.
Please keep in mind if you ever visit Annapolis, I’d be glad to host you. I have a small house, tucked away in a charming old neighborhood where the homes are well spaced and with massive old trees, you know. It faces the water on a point, and the upstairs is a nice big guest room with its own lavatory and a dormer window that looks toward the Severn River so you can see the boats and the large homes across the way and my garden, which I tend meticulously, there below the window. I live alone, and furthermore, I only ever go upstairs to clean after I’ve had company, so it’s completely private and I think you would be very comfortable there. I am not a writer, but if I was I think it would be a nice place to write a book, so again, you are very welcome if you ever visit. Just a stone’s throw from DC.
Until the next book, or your visit, and with warm regards I write,
Sybil Van Antwerp
(cont. June 2, 2012, previous pages remaining UNSENT)
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