2. Mothers and Daughters
2
MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS
PRENTICE
“How was your mini reunion last night, dear?”
My mother was disassembling a lovely floral arrangement. She’d never been able to find a florist who matched her skills, so the large console table in the front hall was slowly being littered with long strands of white alstroemerias.
“It was fun. I saw Cassidy and Mary Lou. And Billy Batson and?—”
“—did Johnston Furneau find you?”
She had that “butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth, I’m so cool” look going on, fully disinterested in anything other than rebuilding a monochromatic flower display to suit herself. But she didn’t fool me.
I sat on the stairs, grateful for the mug of coffee. The air was early–April-morning cool, and the heat felt nice on my hands.
“So that’s how he found me,” I said. “You told him where I was.”
“Well, dear, I thought he’d like to go to the reunion.”
I shook my head, aware that she wasn’t looking at me. She could see me in the antique bull’s-eye mirror if she cared. “Mum, Johnston didn’t go to Caumsett.”
“Oh. Didn’t he, dear? I’m sorry.”
The idea of Johnston Furneau going to a public high school was so ludicrous that I couldn’t even face her blatant lie.
My father thundered down the stairs, and I leaned to the side to let him pass. “I’m off, ladies,” he said happily. “Charlie and I have a ten thirty tee time. Bye, princess.” He turned back to kiss my cheek.
“Have a good game, Daddy.”
“I always do. Even when I don’t. Bitsy, what are you doing to those flowers?”
“Go on with you, Thomas. Remember we’ve got the Meyers at five thirty for cocktails.”
They exchanged one of those kisses that made me smile. My parents still loved each other after all those years. It was nice.
He was gone in a rush of golf excitement.
“I like to see you two together,” I said.
Mom arched an elegant eyebrow. “Compatible spirits. I want nothing less for you.”
“I know. Which brings me back to my point. In the future, I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t help Johnston keep tabs on me.”
“Why?” She put down her shears and turned to me, resting her hands on trim hips. “He’s the perfect match for you. The Furneau family has a better lineage than even ours. They’re our kind of people, Prentice.”
I snorted into my mug. “ ‘Our kind of people.’ Are you serious, Mum?”
“What? Is it so wrong that I want you to marry into a nice family?”
“Mother, I can’t count the number of times I’ve told you this. Johnston Furneau has tormented and teased me my entire life. He’s a bully. We are not ‘compatible spirits,’ and I’m never going to marry him. I don’t even like him.”
“Of course you do. His father is a dear. And now that they’re finally unloading that gold digger, all the better.”
In my mother’s eyes, Gigi Furneau had committed two unpardonable sins. First, she wasn’t from what my mother referred to as old money , meaning the great-grandchildren of robber barons who’d scraped gross profits from the misery of others around the turn of the last century.
Gigi’s other sin was that she was a second wife, which automatically conferred on her the title of “money-grubbing gold digger.”
“She lasted for thirty years. That doesn’t sound like she was after his fortune all along,” I said.
“Psht.” My mother was dismissive. “For an estate that size, thirty years is nothing. She was born trash, and she’ll still be trash when she’s worth seventy million.”
This view was particularly harsh, given that Gigi, like most of the wives of the wealthy on Long Island’s North Shore, thought my mother hung the moon. Poor Gigi craved my mother’s approval, all in vain. If Jack Furneau was the king of our insular, inbred little community, then Bitsy Luce—my mother—was its queen.
And the queen had now finished dismantling the flowers. She stood back and looked at the sterling bowl they had been in. Her lips pursed, an expression that shouted silently, No, this will not do . “Millie?” she called. “Millie, bring me the silver polish, will you?”
A head popped out of the dining room. “Miss Millie has gone to the grocery store. May I help you?” Sara had only been working for my mother as a maid for a few weeks—long enough to be afraid of the high standards expected of her, but not long enough to feel my mother’s intense loyalty and charm.
“Ah, yes, Sara. In the butler’s pantry. Find me the silver polish. Round like this. Gray package marked twinkle . You know where to look? Good. Dampen the sponge inside before you bring it.” No longer having anything to do, my mother turned to me, her eternal project. “Johnston mentioned your blue gown for Saturday night. Wasn’t that thoughtful of him?”
If I hadn’t had a similar conversation with her two or three times a month for most of my life, I would have been more frustrated. “He wants the blue gown to match his new blue car, for god’s sake. I’ll wear what I want. Besides, he’s not taking me.”
I swear I hid my smile of satisfaction, but she must have heard it in my voice. She came to the foot of the stairs to examine me closely. “Prentice, you’re on the gala committee. You’re expected to uphold certain standards. Johnston is an ideal escort. Why aren’t you going with him?”
None of the other answers would make a dent in her determination to see Johnston as the only and best prize to be won—not that he was a bully, not that he was arrogant and incredibly stuck-up, not that he thought he owned me. “Because I’m going with Malcolm Becker,” I said calmly.
Just another day. Not at all as if my childhood hero hadn’t ridden in on a white horse, his gorgeous blue eyes gleaming, his cap of unruly, curly dark hair framing a face that now had an enticing hint of a five-o’clock shadow, his many muscles bulging. No. Just another day. I was calm. It was no big deal.
“Malcolm Becker? Now, who is that? Do I know him?” She accepted the silver polish from the new maid, who practically curtseyed as she backed away to the dining room. “Not one of your strays, I hope. It’s enough that you’re working in such an unsuitable job. You don’t have to dance with those people.”
“Mal is a friend from school.”
“Which school? Shield Academy? Dartmouth?”
“Caumsett High.”
Her back was to me as she polished the luster on the bowl, but I didn’t need to see her face to know she’d winced. She’d hated it when I’d insisted on transferring to the local public high school, but my dad had backed me up, and she’d finally surrendered. “Oh. So he is one of your strays.”
“He’s a very nice guy. You’ll meet him at the gala.”
“If I have to. What does he do, your stray?”
She was going to love this. “He’s the drummer in a great rock band. They’re getting really popular too.”
She turned to me, her mouth holding that tight, pursed shape again. Then she cleared it from her mind. I could see her do it—scrubbing away something she didn’t want to see. “A drummer,” she muttered. “Sara! Come and wash this bowl for me now.”
She waited for the bowl’s return, and I had some more coffee. She was a busy person, and so was I. We didn’t have many overlaps in our schedules, so Sunday mornings were our time together. I thought she liked it as much as I did. I loved my mother, and we got along very well, as long as we avoided some sensitive subjects.
All politics, for example.
Or any kind of philanthropy, other than writing large checks and then forgetting any problems existed.
Or who I was supposed to date, marry, and eventually reproduce with.
Other than that, we did very well together. And because our time was precious, we both worked around those topics when we could. She inhaled deeply and then reached out a gentle hand to tug softly at my hair. “I love this pixie cut on you. Zephyrs did a wonderful job.”
“Thanks. I think so too. And it’s so easy to care for.”
“Don’t I wish I could say the same.” Bitsy Luce’s hair was always perfect, but her style wasn’t what I’d call low-maintenance. She was very well-groomed, and I knew from personal experience that her look required the commitment of both time and determination. “You look fresh and modern. You’ve turned into quite a beauty. Oh, thank you, Sara.”
The bowl now up to her standards, she began arranging the flowers again. By the time she was done, they would look better than the version the florist had sent over. “Is your foundation pleased to be one of the recipients of our fundraiser this year? The gala is attracting quite a few very wealthy donors and potential donors.”
“Absolutely thrilled. Kimmy is nervous about coming to the gala, but she’s really looking forward to it too.”
“No more than five minutes for her presentation. She knows, right?”
“She knows. I helped her with it myself. It’s really good. You’ll like it.”
“Well, encouraging children to get involved with after-school arts programs is a wonderful mission. I’d rather you helped out in one of those boutique art galleries like Roberta’s daughter, Elizabeth, but if you must take on a nonprofit, then encouraging an interest in the arts is a good one. Maybe your mission will help turn a few future street thugs into decent citizens. That’s certainly something I’d support.”
The pilot program I was running was taking place in a solidly middle-class neighborhood about forty minutes from where the queen of Long Island was doing her flower arranging. We weren’t going into mythical battle zones in the inner city, but why point that out? So much more fun for Bitsy to roll her eyes at anyone with the bad taste not to be born into old money.
“A drummer.” She sighed as she stood back to look at her arrangement “Like Ringo. I suppose he was the funniest. That’s something.” She tweaked a spray of flowers. “That’s better, isn’t it? All right, your father won’t be back from his golf game for hours. Let’s go organize his study whether he wants it or not!”
She and I both loved to create order out of chaos. I giggled, filled with love for her. We’d have a wonderful Sunday morning.
But I was pretty sure she wouldn’t like Mal nearly as much as I did.