The Light of Paris. Элеонора Браун

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СКАЧАТЬ like, people eating and drinking and being happy? I can see how that would be a major bummer to have around.”

      “Don’t be sarcastic.”

      “Sarcasm’s all I’ve got, Mother.” I had slept on the plane, but I was tired and my emotions were still jagged and thin.

      “Well, it’s nice of you to come. Isn’t Phillip missing you?”

      I neatly sidestepped the question. “Phillip has a business trip to New York this week.” This was true, but not the whole truth.

      “Why didn’t you go with him? You could have gone shopping while he was working! That’s what I always used to do when your father had business in New York.” My mother clasped her hands together joyfully, like a little girl who had been given a new doll. I should have sent her to New York with Phillip. The two of them had always liked each other better than either of them seemed to like me.

      “Well, there’s the fact that I hate shopping.” The idea of being stuck in a store—or, even worse, a mall—for hours at a time, with nothing to do other than try on clothes made me want to gnaw my own arm off. When I’d been younger and my mother had made me go shopping for clothes, I’d always taken a book, and while she swanned around the Juniors department, I’d crawl under a clothes rack and read until she’d reached critical dressing room mass and I had to go try things on so she could criticize me in public, the way Mother Nature had intended.

      “So you’re staying the whole week?”

      “That was the plan,” I said. Unless Phillip had been serious, and we really were getting a divorce. A fist twisted my guts at the thought. But I wasn’t going to get into that now. I clumsily changed the subject. “Sharon said you have something to tell me?”

      “Well, I have some news.” Way-ull. Two syllables. Though she had been born and raised in Washington, D.C., a Southern accent had grown on her like wisteria. I had excised mine when I moved, taking on the bland, regionless diction of a newscaster, tired of people, including my husband, mentally docking me two dozen IQ points whenever they heard me speak.

      “What’s wrong?”

      “Nothing’s wrong, Madeleine. You are so dramatic. I just wanted to tell you I’ve decided to sell the house.”

      Sharon had been gracefully backing away into the front room, and when I turned to her quickly, my eyes wide open, she all but bolted like a rabbit. I whirled back to my mother. “This house? Our house?”

      “Of course this house. Who else’s house would I sell? It’s too big for me, really. Lydia Endicott has the loveliest condominium not far from here, and something like that would be so much easier to take care of.”

      Because my mother never admitted to any weakness, I was instantly on alert. She woke up every morning and had dry toast and coffee for breakfast, while torturing whichever housekeeper was unfortunate enough to be in her employ at that time. She dressed (perfectly), she gardened (beautifully), she went to some luncheon function (elegantly), she played bridge (competitively), she had dinner at the club with a single glass of wine (socially), and she came home and went to bed. Her skin was luminous, probably due to the truly staggering amount of money she spent on moisturizers and facials and the vague promises of rejuvenating treatments, and though she was almost seventy-five, she didn’t look a day over sixty. Not even a silver hair on her head, though that may have been due to the ministrations of her hairdresser and not entirely to genetics.

      “Are you okay?” I asked, bracing myself for some admission of illness.

      She sighed in irritation, turned to the floral arrangement on the front table, and began to fuss with it. “Didn’t I already tell you I was fine?”

      “You did, it’s just … what about … your garden?” I asked. It wasn’t the most intelligent question, but the idea of my mother moving someplace where she couldn’t have a garden was strange. She had always had a garden. Multiple gardens, in fact: the front garden, the herb garden, the rose garden, the back garden, the ornamental garden, and the side garden. Oh, and the kitchen garden, for the growing of vegetables she never seemed to eat. And there was also what was affectionately known as “the orchard,” which was actually a somewhat confusing collection of two apple trees, a pear tree, a plum tree, and a handful of raspberry bushes that had lost their way.

      “There’s a community garden. Lydia has a plot. And I can have window boxes and planters on the balcony, of course. I mean, I’ll be left off the garden tour, but if it means I don’t have to manage three floors by myself, it will be worth it. I’ve been run off my feet with no housekeeper since Renata left. Honestly. Who gets married during planting season? That girl doesn’t have the sense God gave little green apples.”

      “Mother!” I said sharply, interrupting what I knew was bound to be a detailed recounting of how much work the house was to keep up and how terribly busy she was all the time, interspersed with (and I am not kidding here) exegeses on how hard it was to find good help these days. No normal person would consider the housekeeper’s not planning her wedding around my mother’s gardening schedule a selfish act, but my mother was not normal. She was the star of her own movie. “When are you selling the house?”

      “That’s why Sharon’s here. She’s a real estate agent. Her mother and I are on the Garden Society board.”

      The mind boggled at the idea of Sharon’s having an actual job. We’d had geometry together first period sophomore year and she had regularly stumbled in late, smelling of cigarettes and coffee, asking to borrow a pencil. And now she was going to sell my mother’s house?

      “You can’t sell it now! It’s too soon!” My emotions were already off-kilter, and the idea of her selling the house struck me with dumb terror.

      “Too soon for what? If you had to take care of this place all on your own, you wouldn’t be saying that. Why, just last week the wiring in the living room was going absolutely haywire …”

      My mother launched into a lengthy complaint about finding an electrician, and I tuned her out, trying to get my emotions under control. I hadn’t lived in my parents’ house for years. I went back to visit once a year and spent the entire time arguing with my mother and bumping into the enormous antique furniture that always seemed to be lurking around corners, waiting to surprise me. I had never had any particular feelings toward the house, but right then it seemed like the most important place in the whole world, as if it were a monument slated for demolition, to be replaced by a shopping mall.

      “Mother, you’ve lived in this house for over fifty years! How can you sell it?”

      “Don’t yell, Madeleine.” My mother flipped her hands into the air, her balletic fingers waving me away. “I’m right here.”

      “I’m not yelling,” I said, even though I was.

      “Sharon is here to go through the house with me, and I’d appreciate it if you’d stop with your hysterics long enough for us to do that.”

      “I’m hardly hysterical,” I said, and that, at least, was true.

      On cue, Sharon reappeared at the doorway and my mother turned to her as though she were an enormous relief, which she probably was, for all kinds of reasons. The two of them walked into the front room and I followed, mostly because I didn’t have anything better to do. As my mother guided Sharon around as though they were on the Parade of Homes tour, and Sharon took pictures and made notes СКАЧАТЬ