A Quiche Before Dying

the State Department. Jane knew the story, of course, how her mother lost her charm bracelet, and it was returned by messenger the next day with a new charm attached—a silver heart engraved MHG.

Naturally her mother's story started with meeting her father.

The chapter was well written, spritely, and, in technical terms, as well groomed, tactful, and self-controlled as her mother. It ended: 'It was as if my life before that night had been a long preparation for meeting Michael....' Nice, Jane thought. A good transition to first person and going back to the beginning in the second chapter to come. And yet, the sentiment left her feeling grouchy, and guilty about feeling grouchy. This was an old, old problem between them. Jane, you're nearly forty, she told herself, you ought to be over it by now.

Maybe Shelley was right. Having mothers visit wasn't easy or natural. That thought took her back to Mrs. General Pryce. Just imagine having a mother like that turn up on your doorstep with her suitcases. It was the stuff of which nightmares were made.

Jane sat looking at the pile of manuscripts, thinking guiltily that she ought to be participating in the class if she was going to take it. But she didn't want to write an autobiography. Her own life, while certainly not ordinary, had no dramatic high points—except a few that were much too personal to share with strangers.

So if she wasn't going to write her own life, that didn't mean she couldn't participate in some way. Just for the fun of it, she decided to invent a person to write about.

She sat thinking for a moment, then pulled a legal pad and pencil from the kitchen 'everything' drawer and started writing:

“They say I was born in London to the woman I learned to call Mother, but when I was seventeen I learned that my origins were quite different. The woman who actually gave birth to me—in the rude colonial town of Boston—would not have dared darken the doors of the mansion I grew up calling home.”

Jane sat back and reread this, smiling. 'Where in the world did that come from?' she asked herself aloud. It was funny—and a little bit scary, how easilythat had gone onto the paper. She hadn't really thought it out until she was actually writing it.

An image of a person was forming in her mind. She bent over the paper again.

Priscilla.

3

  Cecily Grant arrived at three in a cab. Jane was writing at the kitchen table, where she could see the driveway, and rushed out to help bring her mother's luggage in, but there was only one medium-sized suitcase. Jane should have realized. Her mother always, of necessity, traveled light. During the whole of her married life, Cecily Grant had never had an actual home, only a long series of residences supplied by the State Department. A few were hovels and glorified tents, most were luxurious houses, a couple had been modest castles.

Jane's father was a cultured, handsome man who had an uncanny gift for languages, being able to pick up the most obscure dialects in a matter of days. Sometimes he used these languages overtly in helping arrange treaties and trade agreements. More often he was sent in to look decorative and mildly perplexed, all the time eavesdropping like mad. Neither his wife nor his children had acquired a smidgen of this language gift, so they made a terrific cover for his more covert activities. In fact, it wasn't until Jane was an adult that she understood what her father's job really was and how important it was.

“Mother! I'm so glad to see you!' Jane said, embracing the older woman. Now that Cecily was actually here, it was true. Cecily carried with her anenveloping air of competence. People in her presence sensed that nothing could go wrong that she couldn't cope with. It was very comforting, even when nothing was wrong.

Cecily held her daughter at arm's length, appraisingly. 'Jane, you look wonderful. Your hair's longer. It's very flattering!'

“You look terrific, too.' Cecily always looked great. She had naturally curly hair that she kept short and fluffy. She never had it set and had let it go gray so that she didn't have to worry about having roots touched up in odd corners of the globe where such amenities might not be available. Her figure was still slim and faintly athletic. She used no makeup but lipstick, and—thanks to an expert plastic surgeon in London whom she visited at regular five- year intervals—she had no unsightly wrinkles or sags in her face or neck. Every time she saw her mother, Jane found herself offering up silent prayers that she would hold up against age as well as Cecily. Unfortunately, Jane's genes didn't run to curls, nor her budget to cosmetic surgery.

“I wish you'd let me pick you up at the airport,' Jane said, taking the one suitcase into the house.

“Oh, Jane, you know I just get shoved onto whatever plane has an empty spot. I'd feel awful if I thought you were camped out at a dreary old airport waiting for me. How are the children? Is Todd enjoying his trip with his other grandmother?' She said it brightly, but there was the slightest hint of jealousy. A tiny chink in the perfect armor, Jane was glad to realize.

“He's having a great time. Mother, you know his trip was planned before I knew you were coming this week. I'd have changed it if I could.'

“No, no. I wouldn't want anybody's schedule altered. And Mike? Are he and his friend Scott having a wonderful time looking at colleges?' If Michael Grant had a gift for languages, Cecily had cornered the world market on remembering people and their names. Jane could hardly keep track of her kids' friends, but her mother remembered all of them.

“Wonderful, but terrifying to me. I don't want to lose him, but I don't want him to know that.'

“Of course you don't, darling,' Cecily said, taking her daughter's hands in her own cool, well-manicured ones. 'You're not worried about the cost, are you?'

“Not too much. You know I put all Steve's life insurance money into trusts for the kids. Then I get a third of the Jeffry family pharmacies' profits. I put half of that into the trusts and live on the rest. As long as the kids stay away from the ultraexpensive places like Stanford and Northwestern, I can probably afford it. The only thing I resent is that there isn't enough for any extras.'

“You know we'd be happy to help.'

“I know, Mom. So would Thelma, but I want to do it myself.'

“How is 'dear' Thelma?'

“As awful as ever,' Jane answered. Cecily laughed.

“Still trying to steal the children,' Jane went on. 'There are days I'm tempted to let her. Good news, though. Dixie Lee is pregnant, and she's an even more unsuitable daughter-in-law than I am. Thelma's gearing up for a new grandchild to spoil and bribe. Poor Dixie Lee.'

“Is Katie home?'

“No, she's working at the pool this afternoon.'

“What fun this is going to be, just the three of us girls.”

They were still standing in the kitchen doorway, and a pair of cats suddenly shot between their legs. 'Where's the cowardly lion?' Cecily asked.

“Oh, he's probably identified you as a terrorist who has come to kidnap him and hold him for an enormous ransom. He's been expecting it for years,' Jane said. 'Willard? Willard!”

The basement door squeaked open and a wet nose appeared, hesitated for a long, analytical sniff, and was followed slowly by the rest of the dog. He crept cautiously to Cecily, smelled her knees approvingly, and then lovingly leaned against her so hard, she nearly toppled over.

“Willard!' Jane exclaimed, shoving him away. 'I'll take your things upstairs, Mom. Help yourself to some coffee if you want. It's decaf. You better start looking over the class work. The first meeting is tonight. This pile is yours,' Jane said, patting the stack of manuscripts on the counter.

When Jane came back downstairs, her mother had poured them both coffee and was sitting at the kitchen table, examining the manuscripts. 'I'm so glad you agreed to take this class with me. I see the awful Agnes Pryce is in the class.'

“You know Mrs. Pryce?'

“I knew her once, to my sorrow. Portugal, I think. Her husband was involved with the embassy for a mercifully short time. They were both terrible people. Mean-spirited and very superior-acting, without any good reason. He was quite the old lech, as I recall.'

“Portugal? Was I there?'

“No, it was a year or so after you got married. Your father and I hosted a party once that they came to. Some