Custody by Nancy Thayer

of material, wools imported from Scotland, England, and Ireland, silks from Japan and China, accessories from Italy and France. Their home on Flora Street, within walking distance of the shop, furnished in sharp-cornered angular teak, reflected their stern sense of economy. They had only the necessary furnishings, and those were spartan and clean. Like Jason’s mother, their favorite adage seemed to be: “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.” They could make a chicken last a week, and even at their most prosperous chose to have soup made from old bones and leftover vegetables rather than throw anything out.
    Hardworking Presbyterians, they frowned on drinking, dancing, and card playing. Because they did not easily touch, kiss, or compliment, Kelly was always shy around her grandparents, but as the years went on, she came to appreciate their sensible reliability and the tranquil orderliness of their days, the logic by which they lived their lives.
    For Ingrid it was different. For the first few years her relationship with her daughter sufficed, but she was a young and beautiful woman who could not help yearning for more adult embraces.
    When she finally did fall in love, she changed everything in Kelly’s life. She betrayed Kelly. She ruined Kelly’s life. She broke Kelly’s heart.
    In a way, Kelly thought, her grandparents were returned to her, through Eloise. The same self-restraint, the same cool facade hiding a steady heart.

    On Sundays Eloise’s housekeeper had the entire day off, so Eloise prepared the meal, set the table, and served the dinner: lamb chops, wild rice, asparagus.
    “Will you pour the wine?” Eloise asked her son.
    “May I help?” Kelly offered, as always—and as always, Eloise refused.
    A bowl of roses sat between the candles in their twisted silver sticks. The silverware was luxuriously heavy. Eloise sat at the head of the table, her posture magnificently straight. Conversation passed among them with the measured solemnity of a pavane.
    “I attended the Symphony Friday night,” Eloise told them. “They performed Ned Rorem’s new song cycle, Evidence of Things Not Seen .”
    Jason cut into his chop, chewed a piece, swallowed. “Did you like it?”
    “Very much.”
    After enjoying chocolate eclairs from a bakery, they rose, leaving everything for the housekeeper to deal with the next day, to take coffee in the living room.
    “I’ve agreed to chair the committee for the renovations at the Sadler Museum,” Eloise told them, stirring cream into her cup with a heavy silver spoon. “I wonder, Kelly, if you would be kind enough to serve on the committee.”
    Kelly hesitated. “I won’t have much free time, with my new duties—”
    “I wouldn’t expect you to do much,” Eloise countered.
    Kelly paused. The Sadler was established to collect and display portraits by lesser-known Boston painters of the Boston aristocracy during the past three centuries.
    “Come on,” Jason urged. “It’s an honor to be asked to serve on anything to do with the Sadler. It’s prestigious.”
    I don’t care about prestige, Kelly thought. And I’m not even slightly interested in the Sadler. I want to spend my time on serious causes. She fastened her gaze on Jason, hoping he would read her mind. You ought to know that much about me by now, she thought.
    Kelly turned to Eloise. “May I have some time to think about it? I don’t know what my schedule will be like yet, how much free time I’ll have.”
    “Of course, dear. I understand.” Eloise turned to her son. “Are you going to the Holmes girl’s wedding on the Vineyard this Saturday?”
    “Absolutely,” Jason replied.
    “And Kelly?”
    “I’m afraid I can’t come. I’ve got so much to do …” Kelly had met Muffy Holmes and her fiancé, Buster Bendigen. They were a yacht club, sailing, tennis, skiing, martini-swilling couple just like their parents, without even the pretense of half a social conscience between them. They