she thought it a clever joke that I was now a hunter, and she kept me up until three one morning, debating why my mother had chosen to call me that. Leydon was sure the choice had an unconscious effect on my career decision, and her chat had veered off into topics I couldn’t follow, such as the Lacanian unconscious. (“Victoria Iphigenia, this proves that you absorbed the Greek avatar in your preconscious Italian mind, where it’s hovered all these years!”)
Our favorite spot, far from the prying eyes of men: that was a good example of an irritating riddle. Leydon might be thinking of almost any place, and I was supposed to unravel the code, or end up feeling responsible for the meltdown that would lie on the other side of a missed meeting.
I smacked my espresso pot down hard enough to splash coffee across the countertop and across my torso. Fortunately I was still in my T-shirt and cutoffs.
I wiped a sponge across the counter and went off to dress for work, choosing something sleeveless because of the heat. Not a sundress, since I was seeing clients today, but a severely tailored dress in gold cotton with big black buttons, cut for me by Joseph Parecki. He was an old friend of my parents’ who’d made my mother’s concert gowns.
Parecki was eighty-three now and didn’t sew much anymore, but he’d had a crush on Gabriella, and he liked to cut for me because I looked like her—“Only you are much bigger, Victoria, not that I mean to insult you. Your mother was a small woman, but her voice—that was the size of Mount Everest. You, you are tall like the mountain but with a smaller voice—Mother Nature has a sense of humor.”
While I dressed, I turned to channel 12 so I could watch Rachel Lyle’s interview with Chaim Salanter’s granddaughter.
“Here with me in the studio today are a couple of America’s most significant women: Dr. Sophy Durango, president of the University of Illinois and a candidate for Illinois Senator. Also with us is Julia Salanter, director of the Malina Foundation. The women have brought their daughters with them to the studio today, and if Helen Kendrick, Durango’s opponent, sells a moisturizer that produces those complexions, I want it, no matter what it costs!”
Her last sentence was a light reference to the skin-care products and drugstore chain that made up a big part of the Kendrick fortune.
The camera moved in close on Nia Durango and Arielle Zitter, who were sitting side by side on a couch. Lyle had placed herself at the end of the couch, sitting with her profile to the camera so she could look at the girls, who were dressed in pink sundresses that made them appear young, innocent, guileless.
The two mothers watched their daughters from armchairs at either end of the couch. The whole tableau looked like a set for a Victorian charade: anxious, doting mothers dressed in prim summer suits, hair carefully coiffed. “We drink tea and do good works,” the stage set proclaimed. “We support old-fashioned family values. We may run gigantic enterprises, but at heart we are just women who long to stay at home with our daughters, baking chocolate-chip cookies.”
Lyle talked with the girls about their fondness for the Carmilla books, and whether they’d ever expected to have adventures like the ones the girls in the series faced.
“Every kid wants adventure, as long as it isn’t scary,” Nia said gravely. “We thought going into the cemetery would be an adventure. It was sort of like the Carmilla books, but it seemed more like Huck Finn, when he goes to the cemetery with Tom Sawyer.”
The comparison felt like a PR clunker—it was meant to make the girls seem all-American, but it was hard to believe kids that age would make the leap on their own. If I’d been Rachel Lyle, I would have pushed Nia to see when she’d read Tom Sawyer.
“Only then it got really scary,” Arielle chimed in. “A man was killed where we were having our Carmilla club meeting. We were
Our favorite spot, far from the prying eyes of men: that was a good example of an irritating riddle. Leydon might be thinking of almost any place, and I was supposed to unravel the code, or end up feeling responsible for the meltdown that would lie on the other side of a missed meeting.
I smacked my espresso pot down hard enough to splash coffee across the countertop and across my torso. Fortunately I was still in my T-shirt and cutoffs.
I wiped a sponge across the counter and went off to dress for work, choosing something sleeveless because of the heat. Not a sundress, since I was seeing clients today, but a severely tailored dress in gold cotton with big black buttons, cut for me by Joseph Parecki. He was an old friend of my parents’ who’d made my mother’s concert gowns.
Parecki was eighty-three now and didn’t sew much anymore, but he’d had a crush on Gabriella, and he liked to cut for me because I looked like her—“Only you are much bigger, Victoria, not that I mean to insult you. Your mother was a small woman, but her voice—that was the size of Mount Everest. You, you are tall like the mountain but with a smaller voice—Mother Nature has a sense of humor.”
While I dressed, I turned to channel 12 so I could watch Rachel Lyle’s interview with Chaim Salanter’s granddaughter.
“Here with me in the studio today are a couple of America’s most significant women: Dr. Sophy Durango, president of the University of Illinois and a candidate for Illinois Senator. Also with us is Julia Salanter, director of the Malina Foundation. The women have brought their daughters with them to the studio today, and if Helen Kendrick, Durango’s opponent, sells a moisturizer that produces those complexions, I want it, no matter what it costs!”
Her last sentence was a light reference to the skin-care products and drugstore chain that made up a big part of the Kendrick fortune.
The camera moved in close on Nia Durango and Arielle Zitter, who were sitting side by side on a couch. Lyle had placed herself at the end of the couch, sitting with her profile to the camera so she could look at the girls, who were dressed in pink sundresses that made them appear young, innocent, guileless.
The two mothers watched their daughters from armchairs at either end of the couch. The whole tableau looked like a set for a Victorian charade: anxious, doting mothers dressed in prim summer suits, hair carefully coiffed. “We drink tea and do good works,” the stage set proclaimed. “We support old-fashioned family values. We may run gigantic enterprises, but at heart we are just women who long to stay at home with our daughters, baking chocolate-chip cookies.”
Lyle talked with the girls about their fondness for the Carmilla books, and whether they’d ever expected to have adventures like the ones the girls in the series faced.
“Every kid wants adventure, as long as it isn’t scary,” Nia said gravely. “We thought going into the cemetery would be an adventure. It was sort of like the Carmilla books, but it seemed more like Huck Finn, when he goes to the cemetery with Tom Sawyer.”
The comparison felt like a PR clunker—it was meant to make the girls seem all-American, but it was hard to believe kids that age would make the leap on their own. If I’d been Rachel Lyle, I would have pushed Nia to see when she’d read Tom Sawyer.
“Only then it got really scary,” Arielle chimed in. “A man was killed where we were having our Carmilla club meeting. We were
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