One•XXVIII•2

    Moments later, as if prompted by his having looked at it, Rennie’s cell phone vibrated three times.  Although he knew there was no rational foundation for his certainty, he could always tell, by the especially insistent quality of its buzzing, when it was indicating that Arden had called.  Without bothering to listen to the message  (he could imagine well enough the irritation in her voice), he turned the key in the ignition—

With each word your tenderness grows,
Tearing my fear apart… 

—and headed home.

Part One•Section XXVIII•Paragraph 1

     Stopping at the corner of Aimée and Morris’ street before making the right turn that would take him, in a few short blocks, to his own house, Rennie realized that he didn’t much want to go home.  He hesitated, spontaneously turned left and, just as suddenly, jogged right onto a little cul-de-sac.  He pulled the car over beside a small overgrown parkette, gave the key in the ignition a half turn, and switched on the CD player. Sinatra crooned,

Some day, when I’m awfully low,
When the world is cold,
I will feel a glow just thinking of you….

Rennie drank some flat coke from an opened bottle that he had left in the car, glanced at himself in the rearview mirror, checked his cell phone (it had been set to vibrate) for messages, then shut his eyes.

Part One•Section XXVII•Paragraphs 1&2

     Rennie was, Arden decided,  as she snapped off the woody ends of fresh local asparagus, constitutionally tardy.  In all the time they’d been together, he had never come home—or, for that matter, done anything—when he had said he would.  Snap.

     She gave the garlic and onions, which were sautéing in an All-Clad saucepan that her mother had given them for Easter (even Jessamyn had, with palpable envy, called it ‘a classic’), a quick stir, took a sip of wine, scanned the receipe and then returned to preparing the asparagus for the Crème D’asperges.  Snap.  Snap.  She had to do everything herself: shoulder the full financial burden of the family; keep the house in perfect order (who else could be counted on to do it?);  make a decent dinner every night; deal with the foul dog (Talisker had followed her downstairs into the kitchen, hoping—in vain—that something delectable would be tossed her way); and try, without much success, to manage their seemingly ungovernable daughters. Snap.  Snap.  It was no wonder that Skye (who was, admittedly, looking trimmer and fitter) was, having recently fallen into the habit of disappearing into her room every night before dinner, becoming a recluse.  And that Aran was becoming a slut.  Snap.  If things were falling apart—she poured herself another glass of wine—it was…Snap…certainly not her fault.

Part One•Section XXVI•Paragraphs 1&2

    Standing on the front stoop, Aimée chatted with Rennie about nothing in particular: a card he had noticed, on the hall table, for an upcoming art exhibit; his daughters; Pierrot; the cold April light.  She watched as he crossed the street, unlocked his car door and drove away.  

    Back inside, she appraised the empty living room.  It was, she concluded, too quiet and dim.  She plumped the pillows on the sofa, rearranged the lilacs in one of the cut glass vases and shifted the heavy canterbury—on which Rennie had left (intentionally?  she’d have to call him) a worn leather-bound book of music—to the corner of the room.  Then she sat down, buffeted by a sudden updraft of…what? dissatisfaction? hopelessless? something more like vanity or futility (she had wondered, fleetingly, on noticing a slight brown tinge to the frill of the convallaria, why she bothered at all).  And now sadness—remote yet familiar—settled mote by mote, like a fine dust, on her consciousness.  Aimée looked around.  What had Larkin written?

           Books; china; a life
          Reprehensibly perfect.

Was that it? Her fingers brushed some crumbs from the little celadon saucer onto the polished tray. She was pleased to see, anyway, that the petit fours were gone. She hoped that Rennie had liked them.

One•XXV•4, 5&6

  In the bathroom, Aran unzipped the little nylon bag and rifled through its contents.  She selected a compact of Super Orgasm Blush and, with a soft brush, applied a shimmering pink flush to her cheeks.  Pleased with the result, she dedicated herself to the task of choosing an eyeshadow from the assorted jelly-bird-egg powders: Seafoam, Lavender 9, Tatiana, Lagoon, Jolie Poupée….  She decided on Primer Potion, gently smoothed it on her lids, then carefully brushed some Graffiti Deluxe eyeshadow over it.  She was about to start lining her upper lashes with Covet 24/7 when she was startled by the sudden opening of the door, which she had (out of a habitual yearning for privacy) left barely ajar.  It was, mercifully, just Talisker. 

       “Want me to polish your paw nails, Tali?” She asked.  The dog licked her arm appreciatively.  “Let’s see…” she continued talking to her attentive companion.  “I think we’ll use the Vert next.  What do you say, girl?”  Turning to the mirror, she was taken aback to see another face, behind her own, reflected in the glass.   At first, Aran thought that she was looking at Skye’s contemptuously cocked eyebrow and derisive smirk.  But then she recognized her mother’s voice.

   “You might as well write ‘MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT’ on your forehead while you’re at it,” Arden sneered, then pivoted abruptly and walked away.

One•XXV•3

     Funny, she had thought that Skye would be so impressed by her cleverness in squirreling away the treats, but, instead, her sister had called her a ‘pathetic, fat cheater.’ Skye was probably out running with their mother now and would come home and go directly to bed, saying that she was too tired to have dinner. Aran unwrapped a KitKat bar, snapped it in two, scrutinized both of the chocolate batons with the skilled eye of a younger sibling to determine which was the choicer and, having made her assessment, took a bite from the better half.

One•XXV•2

     She eased up the board and spied the small, zippered, black nylon pouch that she was looking for. Beside it were a few chocolate bars and two small bags of Doritos that she had cached when her mother had announced, at a particularly unpleasant family meeting in December, the inauguration of Junkless January—to be succeeded by Fit February, Meatless March, Abstinent April (dubbed by Rennie, to Aran’s delight and Arden’s outrage, Joyless January, Foodless February, Meal-less March and Anorexic April).

Part One•Section XXV•Paragraph 1

     Aran was certain that it was only a matter of time before Rosa Klebb (Skye and her name for their mother, derived from Arden’s proclivity for—and horrifying prowess at—routing out their innermost secrets) found the stash of make-up that was hidden beneath a loose board at the bottom of the armoire.  She checked her parents’ bedroom and the study, just to be sure that Arden had gone out for a run, then she opened the closet door and removed the paired shoes that were carefully lined up in perfect rows (her mother’s doing).  

One•XXIV•3,4&5

   “Well, actually,” Rennie paused to carefully select one of the cubes of sugar—they had rounded corners and were, he thought, the color of the sand at Jetties Beach, where he had spent holidays as a boy—”I have been insanely busy.”

   Why, Morris wondered, did he find Rennie so irritating: he was too tall, too lithe, too handsome, with the nonchalant ease of a matinée idol.  As he half-listened to the younger man’s inane chatter (some nonsense about playing his flute in derelict spaces), Morris—who had picked up the pink sweet and popped it, whole, into his mouth—studied Rennie: his cinnamon bark hair already, although it was barely spring, was streaked with saffron; his skin was flushed apricot; his nutmeg eyes were close set beneath straight brows; his nose was long, but it, too, was straight.  It was, Morris decided (now choosing the mauve petit fours), unquestionably an attractive, if not a particularly intelligent, face.

     “Here you go, Punch,”  Morris proffered the remaining, mint green, confection to the dog.  ”Savor it.”

Part One•XXIV•Paragraphs 1&2

      Punch roused himself from his post on the living room carpet, where he had been keeping vigil over the three pastel mignardises, and, with one last wistful glance at his little fondant charges, went to greet Morris, who, after fiddling with the key in the lock (hadn’t he just paid a small fortune to have it fixed?), had entered the house.  

    ”Hey,” a voice called from the next room.

     Morris set his laptop case down amidst the jumble of shoes, draped his Barbour over the newel post and braced himself.  

     “Working hard, I see,” he said to Rennie, who was pouring coffee into one of the mazagrands that Aimeé had found at the Marché Serpette one blistering hot afternoon in August (when most of the vendors were closed)…fifteen—or could it have been almost twenty?—years ago. She had bought it, Morris thought (stung by a quick prickle of resentment), as a birthday present for him.