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The journey, down three floors in the elevator, was
stifling.
Selina
was
standing
outside
her
own
apartment door.
“Tell me,” Emma said. Was she mad to believe in
this woman wearing a purple turban and magician’s
robes?
“Sugar, you tell your mother-in-law to leave. You
heard me. Subtlety isn’t something she understands.
She won’t up and out until she’s been sufficiently
insulted. That way she can go tell her kindred spirits
what a hellish time she’s had of it.”
Emma became her old self again. Each problem to
its own solution, one need only look for the answer in
the right column. How could she have been so
slow-witted?
113
“Thank
you,
Selina.
And
do
convey
my
appreciation to the professor. When she was alive,
Mildred’s visits always ended in her slamming out of
the apartment. She would accuse us of kicking her
out. And nothing else about her has changed. She still
has a mouth like a sewer, is insatiably jealous of my
family. Excuse me, I must hurry ...”
The elevator would not hurry. It stopped at each
floor, then took its time opening its door. Emma
hurried along the hallway, opened the apartment door,
and then, slowing her pace and breathing, headed for
the guestroom. She was determined not to feel sorry
for Mildred. This bon voyage must be final.
The guestroom was empty. The bedspread neat
and smooth. The pillow plumped up. The jar of cold
cream and the bottle of aspirin gone from the
nightstand ... as was the pink shower cap from the
hook behind the bathroom door. Emma stood in the
hallway. This was perfect. She must telephone Selina
with the good news. Mildred had already been
sufficiently insulted.
Not a whiff of cigarette smoke. As for the whiff of ...
regret, Emma did ask herself: If she had known her
mother-in-law’s visit was to be so short, would she
have been a little more welcoming?
Too late now, and if she did not hurry, she would
be late for Kathleen’s feeding.
She entered the nursery, her heart lifting at the
sight of the geometric mobile spinning above the crib.
An empty crib. Pinned to the quilt was a note:
Dear Em,
Guess I’m not cut to be a backseat driver. Never
thought to ask me to go to Ruth’s, did you? Well, two
can play at that game. I’m taking my redheaded
granddaughter, Mildred, Junior, to show off to my side
of the family. Howie will know she’s in excellent hands.
Mom
Fetch
“I’m sorry, old bean, but every once in a donkey’s
age a husband has to take a stand, and what it comes
right down to–putting the matter in the proverbial
114
nutshell, so to speak—is that I will not have a notorious thief
under this roof.” Mr. Richard Ambleforth, aged twenty-five, but
looking more like an earnest six former home for the hols, felt
rather good about this masterful speech addressed to his bride of
two days.
“Honestly, Dickie! How can you be so stuffy!” The
former Lady Felicity Entwhistle, known to her intimate
circle as Foof, tossed her silky black bob, stamped her
dainty foot, and flounced over to the window seat.
There
she
sat
hatefully
eyeing
the
ceiling
and
addressed the crown molding. “Your mother was right.
You should never have married me; I was bound to let
on sooner rather than later that I prefer hobnobbing
with criminals to having afternoon tea with the vicar.”
“I say.” Dickie glanced nervously over his shoulder
as if expecting his formidable parent to materialize and
clasp him to the maternal bosom. “Shouldn’t bring the
mater into this, tempting fate, don’t you know! Before
we can duck behind the curtains there’ll be a knock at
the door. And in she’ll march with a list of all the foods
I’m not supposed to eat on the honeymoon.”
“Oh, more the merrier!” Foof gave a hollow laugh.
“After all, we are taking Woodcock with us. Heaven
forbid he should be left behind looking sadly at his
bucket and spade!”
At this less than propitious moment a large man
with iron gray hair, in unequivocal butler’s garb,
entered the book-lined sitting room of what had been
Dickie’s London bachelor digs. Despite his size he
moved with a lightness of step that verged on the
ethereal as he placed a silver tray with a decanter and
two glasses on the table behind the worn leather sofa.
“Oh, jolly good fun! It’s time for sherry!” Foof sat
swinging her lengthy rope of pearls in an arc that
threatened to lasso the clock off the mantelpiece. “How
about a toast, Dickie? To life on the streets for that
miserable miscreant I so regrettably brought home
because”—her
voice
broke—“I’m
sure
Woodcock
followed your orders and turfed the poor fellow out
onto the fire escape.”
“I must confess to having fallen short in that
regard.” The butler addressed the sherry glass he
handed to her. “After forty years in the service of Mr.
Ambleforth’s family I am wont to take the occasional
liberty
of
making
certain
modifications
to
the
instructions bestowed upon me, when I deem it in the
115
best
interest
of
continued
harmony
within
the
household. If in so doing on this occasion I have
transgressed beyond the bounds of leniency, then I
shall respectfully hand in my notice and repair to my
room to pack my travel bag.”
“I
thought
it
was
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