God’s good name —and they both believe that ginger ale alone doesn’t count.
They bring the flutes into the seldom-used dining room, where the table is set in a precise imitation of an article from Good Housekeeping entitled “Spice Up a Special Occasion.”
“What are all these tags for, Father?” asks Claire. Such a pretty, solid girl, whom Will Cleary, God bless him, cannot stop gazing at. She has glossy black hair and dimples.
“I’m learning French,” Lizzy explains, lifting a tag from the curtain that reads le rideau.
“Say ‘good evening’ to Claire,” he tells Lizzy.
“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle,” Lizzy says. He can’t help but smile; she sounds exactly like Vivienne.
“Wow,” says Claire.
He has a good feeling about this couple. Their children will be smart and rosy and profoundly loved. Claire is a student nurse; Will’s applying to law school. They want two children, but not for five years. Their plans are perhaps too exact, but he believes they will weather surprise or disappointment gracefully. They each placed “friendship” at the top of their priority list. They will not be back in his office nineteen months hence looking for a way out.
“She can read all these?” Claire asks, moving lightly around the room, picking up tags at random: le mur taped to the wall; le tableau stuck to the framed print of a babbling brook that Vivienne gave Lizzy last Christmas; la fenêtre lying loose on the windowsill. The tags make the room look festive, fluttering like confetti.
“She’s picked up a lot from the neighbors,” he explains. “We’re working mainly on her accent.”
It’s the one thing that annoys Vivienne: You’re a snob, Father, and God knows it , she tells him, only halfway joking. True enough, but in one of his many daydreams of Lizzy as a grown woman, she is captivating a roomful of Parisians with her formal, melodious French. In another she sits in a brocade armchair witha view of the Seine, singing “Fais Dodo” to her newborn baby as a smitten husband looks in from their grand, tiled kitchen.
“Aren’t you, like, seven?” Will asks, exchanging a quick look with Claire: Jeez, I hope we end up with a kid like this.
“She was reading at four,” he tells them, which is a tiny stretch. “Now she’s the top second-grader in the county,” which is either true or should be. Lizzy grins, either believing him or delighting in his slippery facts.
Lizzy has her mother’s face, pliant and rubbery, her grin reaching all the way up to her eyes. He doesn’t spend enough time with her. She comes to the weddings but not the funerals. She accompanies him to the Saturday five o’clock Mass and the Sunday ten-thirty, but not the Saturday six-thirty or the Sunday nine. She seems to enjoy her duties—passing out the church bulletin, collecting the hymnals after Mass, arranging donuts on paper plates—and would happily attend four Masses per weekend, but how much time must a normal child be expected to spend in church? She likes Mrs. Hanson well enough, loves Vivienne, spends every spare moment with Mariette. He’s never left her alone. Is this enough? Can the thing he provides be called a happy childhood?
Vivienne taps at the back door and slips into the kitchen, surprised to find a crowd in the dining room.
“Sorry!” she calls lightly, draping Lizzy’s red sweater over a chair back. “Lizzy, you left this.” She makes to leave but he stops her. Claire and Will come out to say hello—Vivienne knows Claire’s mother.
“We’re just about to toast the engaged couple,” he tells her, offering her his glass. “Join us”
“A toast,” Vivienne says, delighted. “I don’t remember the last time I lifted the glass.”
He rushes to get another flute, fizzing champagne into it without spilling a drop, then gathers with the others, whowind up thronged between the narrow archway that separates the dining room from the kitchen. One side of the wall reads la cuisine ,
They bring the flutes into the seldom-used dining room, where the table is set in a precise imitation of an article from Good Housekeeping entitled “Spice Up a Special Occasion.”
“What are all these tags for, Father?” asks Claire. Such a pretty, solid girl, whom Will Cleary, God bless him, cannot stop gazing at. She has glossy black hair and dimples.
“I’m learning French,” Lizzy explains, lifting a tag from the curtain that reads le rideau.
“Say ‘good evening’ to Claire,” he tells Lizzy.
“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle,” Lizzy says. He can’t help but smile; she sounds exactly like Vivienne.
“Wow,” says Claire.
He has a good feeling about this couple. Their children will be smart and rosy and profoundly loved. Claire is a student nurse; Will’s applying to law school. They want two children, but not for five years. Their plans are perhaps too exact, but he believes they will weather surprise or disappointment gracefully. They each placed “friendship” at the top of their priority list. They will not be back in his office nineteen months hence looking for a way out.
“She can read all these?” Claire asks, moving lightly around the room, picking up tags at random: le mur taped to the wall; le tableau stuck to the framed print of a babbling brook that Vivienne gave Lizzy last Christmas; la fenêtre lying loose on the windowsill. The tags make the room look festive, fluttering like confetti.
“She’s picked up a lot from the neighbors,” he explains. “We’re working mainly on her accent.”
It’s the one thing that annoys Vivienne: You’re a snob, Father, and God knows it , she tells him, only halfway joking. True enough, but in one of his many daydreams of Lizzy as a grown woman, she is captivating a roomful of Parisians with her formal, melodious French. In another she sits in a brocade armchair witha view of the Seine, singing “Fais Dodo” to her newborn baby as a smitten husband looks in from their grand, tiled kitchen.
“Aren’t you, like, seven?” Will asks, exchanging a quick look with Claire: Jeez, I hope we end up with a kid like this.
“She was reading at four,” he tells them, which is a tiny stretch. “Now she’s the top second-grader in the county,” which is either true or should be. Lizzy grins, either believing him or delighting in his slippery facts.
Lizzy has her mother’s face, pliant and rubbery, her grin reaching all the way up to her eyes. He doesn’t spend enough time with her. She comes to the weddings but not the funerals. She accompanies him to the Saturday five o’clock Mass and the Sunday ten-thirty, but not the Saturday six-thirty or the Sunday nine. She seems to enjoy her duties—passing out the church bulletin, collecting the hymnals after Mass, arranging donuts on paper plates—and would happily attend four Masses per weekend, but how much time must a normal child be expected to spend in church? She likes Mrs. Hanson well enough, loves Vivienne, spends every spare moment with Mariette. He’s never left her alone. Is this enough? Can the thing he provides be called a happy childhood?
Vivienne taps at the back door and slips into the kitchen, surprised to find a crowd in the dining room.
“Sorry!” she calls lightly, draping Lizzy’s red sweater over a chair back. “Lizzy, you left this.” She makes to leave but he stops her. Claire and Will come out to say hello—Vivienne knows Claire’s mother.
“We’re just about to toast the engaged couple,” he tells her, offering her his glass. “Join us”
“A toast,” Vivienne says, delighted. “I don’t remember the last time I lifted the glass.”
He rushes to get another flute, fizzing champagne into it without spilling a drop, then gathers with the others, whowind up thronged between the narrow archway that separates the dining room from the kitchen. One side of the wall reads la cuisine ,
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