and I have no desire to know how to reach you.”
She groped under the table and, at one point, grabbed my ankle.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s gotten wedged—” And then she pulled out a pocketbook that might have been a briefcase, or was both things.
It had pockets and flaps and zipper compartments, but nonetheless, as she lifted it, the contents spilled onto the table, the floor, and me.
Vicky Baer looked crestfallen. Her façade of professionalism wasn’t quite as smooth at the moment, and she seemed profoundly stunned. I, on the other hand, am so used to my mask of competency shattering that I can almost take it in my stride, apply emotional bandages, and put myself back together. Vicky, however, lowered her lids, shutting out the sight of her possessions, then she opened her eyes up again and, lips tight, carefully replaced a lipstick, a small bottle of aspirin, a telephone, electronic calendar, and compact, while I transferred a miniature staple gun, a roll of quarters, a vaporizer, a tin of breath mints, a small unopened packet of tissues, a black felt-tip pen, and an unused packet of plastic file tabs.
“There are times you’re really relieved that no men are around, aren’t there?” Beth asked from the other side of me.
“I didn’t want to carry an actual briefcase tonight,” Vicky Baer mumbled. “I thought this would hold it all, but I forgot to zip the top when I sat down.”
I wanted to tell her that it was all right. That everybody on earth had upended a purse, and nobody cared.
“Oh, God, even this. How did this get in there?” She lifted a rawhide dog chew—used—off the floor and, frowning, dropped it back into her purse along with a white plastic square I recognized as containing floss. Then she smoothed her skirt and sat up straight. “My dog,” she said, glancing at her watch. “That was a good reminder, I guess. I’ll have to go see to him in a few minutes.”
81
GILLIAN ROBERTS
I looked around and she shook her head. “Poor Bruno’s in the car,” she said. “All safe, windows open, in case you’re worrying.
His joy in life is the car, and he’s a well-behaved creature, so, since he needs regular medication, it’s easiest to take him with me when possible.”
Beth made sympathetic noises.
And then, Vicky Baer remembered her original mission and un-snapped a comparment of the bag and handed me one of her cards, satiny and impressively embossed V. S. BAER, INC., IDEAS UNLIMITED, and underneath, ECONOMIC CONSULTATION TO NONPROFIT
INSTITUTIONS. The card was clipped to an equally lush, heavy-stock brochure.
“I’ll pass this on,” I said. “My school’s fund-raising efforts are pretty lame.”
“Could I see your brochure?” Beth asked, and Vicky Baer, recovered from her faux pas and, recognizing interest, perked up.
“Here, have your own. You don’t have to share.”
Then I, too, remembered my original purpose. “That private school you attended—was it one of ours? I mean here, in the city?”
“Eventually. I lived in Ohio,” she said. “Till eleventh grade, and then I was here, at Shipley.”
A prestigious school on the Main Line, but Emmie Cade hadn’t lived in these parts till now, as far as we knew. Cleveland, however, had been a stop along the corporate route. “Good school,” I said.
“A lucky move, although I suppose that’s provincial of me. Your Ohio school might have been just as good.”
She shrugged and nibbled a leaf of frisée.
“Did your family move around a lot? I’ve had students whose parents relocate almost every year, and sometimes it creates problems. Any advice?”
The salad was crisp and deliciously dressed, and after a moment, when Ms. Baer appeared to have decided against speaking again, I turned to Beth to congratulate her. “This is terrific,” I said. “Pretty room and tables and great salad.”
Beth beamed when Vicky came out of her silence to agree that 82
CLAIRE AND PRESENT DANGER
this was indeed a
She groped under the table and, at one point, grabbed my ankle.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s gotten wedged—” And then she pulled out a pocketbook that might have been a briefcase, or was both things.
It had pockets and flaps and zipper compartments, but nonetheless, as she lifted it, the contents spilled onto the table, the floor, and me.
Vicky Baer looked crestfallen. Her façade of professionalism wasn’t quite as smooth at the moment, and she seemed profoundly stunned. I, on the other hand, am so used to my mask of competency shattering that I can almost take it in my stride, apply emotional bandages, and put myself back together. Vicky, however, lowered her lids, shutting out the sight of her possessions, then she opened her eyes up again and, lips tight, carefully replaced a lipstick, a small bottle of aspirin, a telephone, electronic calendar, and compact, while I transferred a miniature staple gun, a roll of quarters, a vaporizer, a tin of breath mints, a small unopened packet of tissues, a black felt-tip pen, and an unused packet of plastic file tabs.
“There are times you’re really relieved that no men are around, aren’t there?” Beth asked from the other side of me.
“I didn’t want to carry an actual briefcase tonight,” Vicky Baer mumbled. “I thought this would hold it all, but I forgot to zip the top when I sat down.”
I wanted to tell her that it was all right. That everybody on earth had upended a purse, and nobody cared.
“Oh, God, even this. How did this get in there?” She lifted a rawhide dog chew—used—off the floor and, frowning, dropped it back into her purse along with a white plastic square I recognized as containing floss. Then she smoothed her skirt and sat up straight. “My dog,” she said, glancing at her watch. “That was a good reminder, I guess. I’ll have to go see to him in a few minutes.”
81
GILLIAN ROBERTS
I looked around and she shook her head. “Poor Bruno’s in the car,” she said. “All safe, windows open, in case you’re worrying.
His joy in life is the car, and he’s a well-behaved creature, so, since he needs regular medication, it’s easiest to take him with me when possible.”
Beth made sympathetic noises.
And then, Vicky Baer remembered her original mission and un-snapped a comparment of the bag and handed me one of her cards, satiny and impressively embossed V. S. BAER, INC., IDEAS UNLIMITED, and underneath, ECONOMIC CONSULTATION TO NONPROFIT
INSTITUTIONS. The card was clipped to an equally lush, heavy-stock brochure.
“I’ll pass this on,” I said. “My school’s fund-raising efforts are pretty lame.”
“Could I see your brochure?” Beth asked, and Vicky Baer, recovered from her faux pas and, recognizing interest, perked up.
“Here, have your own. You don’t have to share.”
Then I, too, remembered my original purpose. “That private school you attended—was it one of ours? I mean here, in the city?”
“Eventually. I lived in Ohio,” she said. “Till eleventh grade, and then I was here, at Shipley.”
A prestigious school on the Main Line, but Emmie Cade hadn’t lived in these parts till now, as far as we knew. Cleveland, however, had been a stop along the corporate route. “Good school,” I said.
“A lucky move, although I suppose that’s provincial of me. Your Ohio school might have been just as good.”
She shrugged and nibbled a leaf of frisée.
“Did your family move around a lot? I’ve had students whose parents relocate almost every year, and sometimes it creates problems. Any advice?”
The salad was crisp and deliciously dressed, and after a moment, when Ms. Baer appeared to have decided against speaking again, I turned to Beth to congratulate her. “This is terrific,” I said. “Pretty room and tables and great salad.”
Beth beamed when Vicky came out of her silence to agree that 82
CLAIRE AND PRESENT DANGER
this was indeed a
Similar Books
