“She is well?” Jennifer asked, wishing Sydney would magically disappear from her life. Milan, Italy, wasn’t far enough away for the girl who’d made Jennifer’s life a misery until she’d left home for Harvard at age seventeen.
“She and her husband will be flying to San Francisco sometime during the fall. We’ll have a dinner party for them, don’t you think, Mother? Small, perhaps only one hundred guests or so.”
“Naturally, that would be appropriate. How is Sydney adapting to Italy and Italians?”
Royce took his time chewing a bite of sirloin. He shrugged then, not looking at his mother directly. “She is happy, of course. She and Alessandro just returned from a month’s honeymoon in Turkey and some of the islands in the Aegean. She mentions that the Contini villa is very old and needs modernizing, which she will undertake very soon. She mentions also that her mother-in-law appears to be reasonable and that her sister-in-law is a slut.”
Gates made appropriate noises as her son continued his panegyric on Sydney. She heard the word “slut” but wasn’t really interested. Gates chanced to look up to see Lindsay staring toward her father. There was hunger in the girl’s eyes and a strange sort of sad acceptance. Gates quickly turned away. It wasn’t right, but then again, she’d never found life particularly right or fair or just. The girls’ school was an excellent idea. Lindsay would make friends there. She’d finally belong. Remaining here would be disastrous for all of them. Sydney had always been the only child he’d loved. Yes, it was better that the girl leave San Francisco, at least until she’d grown enough armor to defend herself against her father—armor that she would need until the day he died.
That evening Jennifer followed Lindsay to her bedroom and looked over the new wardrobe she’d bought her for her school, particularly warm things for the cold Connecticut winters.
“Do you like this, Lindsay?” It was a beautiful cable-knit sweater in pale blue. Lindsay gave her that silent nod that aggravated Jennifer no end.
“If you didn’t like it, then why did you let me buy it for you?”
“I do like it, Mother. It’s just that it makes me look even taller and even skinnier.”
“No it doesn’t.” She paused, knowing Lindsay wouldn’t argue with her. “Are you excited?” she asked finally.
“I think so. I will like the school, I hope.”
“Yes, you should. Your grandmother selected the school for you personally. You will be happy there.”
Lindsay nodded at the ultimatum. Her mother was trying, Lindsay knew. But she was antsy; she wished her mother would leave her and just go to bed. Lindsay was fiddling with a particularly ugly ring on the third finger of her right hand, the kind of thing one would find in a cereal box. It drew her mother’s attention. “Where did you get that thing?”
“A friend gave it to me.”
“What friend? A boy?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what’s his name, this boy?”
“Allen.”
“Allen what?”
“Carstairs. His family lives on Filbert. He’s in my class at school.”
“The ring is cheap and disgusting.” Jennifer held out her hand. “Give it to me. I will dispose of it.”
For the first time in all her sixteen years, Lindsay said, “No. It’s mine. It’s a gift and I’m going to keep it.” She whipped her hand behind her back.
Jennifer felt like a fool with her hand stuck out, palm up, expecting to be obeyed. She knew Lindsay wouldn’t give up the foolish ring. God, she hoped the stupid girl hadn’t had sex with this Allen Carstairs. That would be all they’d need, a pregnant Lindsay who couldn’t even coordinate herself walking down the stairs.
Irritated, she said, “Very well. Keep the junky thing, but it makes your knuckles look even bigger. Just see that you don’t allow this Allen Carstairs to get under your dress, any part of him. Your father wouldn’t stand for it if you got pregnant.”
Lindsay stared at her mother, who had, strangely to Lindsay, lost at least five pounds since Sydney’s wedding. “I wouldn’t do that, Mom. You know I wouldn’t do that.”
“See that you don’t.” Jennifer realized she was being a bitch and absurd. No boy could possibly be interested in Lindsay for sex. This Allen Carstairs was probably gay and saw Lindsay as a friend, nothing more. She felt guilty. She quickly hugged her daughter. “You’ll enjoy the school, Lindsay, I know you will. You’re a good girl.”
Lindsay loved the nose-biting cold. She loved the snow and the absolute silence and the white-laden branches of the pine-tree forests. She’d become an excellent skier and every weekend she and her friends were at Elk Mountain in Vermont. Strange, but she was no longer as awkward as she had been six months before. She moved smoothly and sleekly, particularly on skis. She felt graceful. She said as much to Gayle Werth, her very best friend, as they rode in the lift to the top of the advanced slope called Moron Mountain by the initiated.
Gayle, a knockout blonde, was fiddling with her braces, which had just been tightened and would hurt her for at least another week. “Of course you’re not clumsy, Lindsay, not anymore. Your hair still looks a fright, but if you’ll just come home with me next weekend, my mom will know what to do with it.”
Lindsay was wearing a red ski cap. She pulled it off and turned to face Gayle. “Stiff friz,” she said, trying to make light of the bane of her life. “She’ll know what to do with this?”
“Yeah, she’ll know. Just come, okay?”
“I don’t have anything else to do. Why not? I’d like to meet your mom, The Wizard.”
“You know, Lind, it isn’t all that frizzy anymore. And all those waves are really nice, and so thick. You don’t know how to tame it down. Mom will fix it.”
“Race you down!” Lindsay yelled as they slipped off the lift chair.
It was that downhill run that ended Lindsay’s skiing for the season. She broke her leg halfway down the slope, a clean break that left her white and shaking and nauseated. The guy who had slammed into her was a beginner who’d lost control. He was quite unhurt, which Gayle said was par for the course. It never occurred to Lindsay to call her parents until the doctor, a young woman with bright turquoise contact lenses, mentioned it.
“Why don’t I do it for you, Lindsay? You’re a bit woozy on the painkiller I gave you, and it might scare them even more. You know how parents are.”
“Nothing scares my father,” Lindsay said.
“Well, then, your mother.”
“Nothing scares my mother either. Don’t bother, Doctor, all right? It isn’t important, really. I’m here and they’re in San Francisco, and I don’t want them told.”
“Nonsense,” Dr. Baines said.
To Lindsay’s astonishment, it was her grandmother, seventy-seven years old and vital, stylishly dressed in a Givenchy pink wool suit with matching cloche hat, who came to see her in her dormitory some three days after her accident.
“You didn’t come home for Christmas,” Gates said as she came to a halt beside Lindsay’s bed. Her casted leg was up on a chair and she’d been laughing with three girlfriends. Gates looked around at the wadded-up Fritos bag, two empty tortilla-chip bags, and more empty soda cans than she could count at a glance. The place was a mess, and after Lindsay had quickly introduced Gates to her friends, the girls were out of the room within fifteen seconds. Gayle grabbed the empty bag of Fritos on her way, her contribution, Gates supposed, to lessening the chaos. She tried to remember if she’d ever acted this way. She couldn’t imagine it. No, she’d always worn a girdle and a slip and nylons. She’d always worn gloves. She’d rarely cursed, but the good Lord knew she’d swallowed many curses in her lifetime.
“Please sit down, Grandmother.”
Gates leaned over and allowed Lindsay to kiss her cheek. As she straightened, she smiled, saying, “I suppose I must have done this once upon a time. My mouth has just started watering. Are there any tortilla chips left in either of those bags?”
“I think so, but they’re kind of old now and ground down to crumbs. I don’t think you’d like them. Let me call Gayle. She can get some more.”
