always too long.
She had tried for years to help Gwen feminize her appearance. Her height confused people; that couldn't be helped. But why make matters worse by dressing like a boy? Makeup and a flattering hairstyle would signal to the world that Gwen was a grown woman; and then, perhaps, she would be treated accordingly. Each year at Christmas, Paulette prepared similar speeches in her head. But like her arguments with Frank, they were never articulated. One look at Gwen's small, stubborn face, the grim set of her mouth, and Paulette lost the heart to criticize. Gwen was still her baby. She was doing the best she could.
She was standing in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Be Billy , she thought.
(Yes, she did have a preference. Mothers did.)
She hurried to the foyer and glanced out the window. An unfamiliar car was parked in the driveway: Gwen's rental, then. She took a deep breath and opened the door. Gwen stood on the doorstep in a ghastly purple ski jacket, hands jammed into her pockets.
"Darling!" Paulette embraced her."Merry Christmas."
"You too. Mother, just so you know—"
Paulette released her abruptly, stunned to see Frank coming down the sidewalk.
"Paulette," he boomed, the false heartiness she hated."Look what the cat dragged in." He wore dungarees and an MIT sweatshirt and carried Gwen's suitcase.
They stood there a moment, staring at each other. The snow was still flying; at first glance Frank's head seemed dusted with it, as though he'd hiked all the way from Cambridge. How curious, what aging did to redheads. Sprinkled with silver strands, his hair looked slightly pink.
"Hello, Frank," she said lightly, as though she'd run into him at a party."Goodness. What are you doing here?"
"Don't mind me," he said."I'm just the taxi service."
Next door the Marshes' porch light came on. Well, naturally: Barbara Marsh was a shameless gossip, and Frank's voice was loud enough to be heard in Lexington.
"Please come in," she said—quietly, hoping he would take the cue.
Inside he stamped his shoes vigorously, though they looked perfectly clean. "Sorry to barge in on you, Paulette. Avis muffed up Gwen's reservation, so I figured I'd give her a lift."
Gwen looked anxiously from one parent to the other, as though expecting the worst.
Frank eyed Paulette from top to bottom. She'd forgotten the way he looked at her—looked at every woman, in fact, who crossed his path."You look good," he said.
Paulette flushed. "You too." Then corrected herself: "You're looking well." In fact he looked exhausted, his skin drooping around the eyes, as though he'd been sleeping poorly. Or maybe he—like herself, like everybody—had simply aged.
"Where is everybody?" he barked. (Was he hard of hearing? Was that the problem?) "No Billy yet?"
"I expect him at any moment," Paulette said.
There was an awkward silence. Frank looked around the room, at the Christmas tree in the parlor, the crackling fire, the champagne flutes waiting on the sideboard.
"Well, thanks for bringing Gwen," she said.
"None needed."
Do you have plans for dinner? she nearly asked, but Frank spoke first.
"I should get back on the road, I guess. I'm meeting someone downtown."
Of course: he had a woman waiting. Didn't he always? "All right, then," she said briskly. She opened the front door. In the distance she heard a crackling noise, tires on gravel. The roads had just been cindered.
"That must be Billy now," Paulette said.
Frank turned to look. A car was approaching, a silver Mercedes with New York plates. At the entrance to the driveway, it slowed and signaled. Then it accelerated suddenly and roared down the street.
"What the hell is he doing?" said Frank.
"It isn't Billy," said Gwen, who'd followed them outside."It can't be. Somebody had the wrong house."At the corner, the red taillights turned and were gone.
They sat at the kitchen table, the wind howling at the windowpanes. Paulette had drained her second glass of champagne. Gwen had
She had tried for years to help Gwen feminize her appearance. Her height confused people; that couldn't be helped. But why make matters worse by dressing like a boy? Makeup and a flattering hairstyle would signal to the world that Gwen was a grown woman; and then, perhaps, she would be treated accordingly. Each year at Christmas, Paulette prepared similar speeches in her head. But like her arguments with Frank, they were never articulated. One look at Gwen's small, stubborn face, the grim set of her mouth, and Paulette lost the heart to criticize. Gwen was still her baby. She was doing the best she could.
She was standing in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Be Billy , she thought.
(Yes, she did have a preference. Mothers did.)
She hurried to the foyer and glanced out the window. An unfamiliar car was parked in the driveway: Gwen's rental, then. She took a deep breath and opened the door. Gwen stood on the doorstep in a ghastly purple ski jacket, hands jammed into her pockets.
"Darling!" Paulette embraced her."Merry Christmas."
"You too. Mother, just so you know—"
Paulette released her abruptly, stunned to see Frank coming down the sidewalk.
"Paulette," he boomed, the false heartiness she hated."Look what the cat dragged in." He wore dungarees and an MIT sweatshirt and carried Gwen's suitcase.
They stood there a moment, staring at each other. The snow was still flying; at first glance Frank's head seemed dusted with it, as though he'd hiked all the way from Cambridge. How curious, what aging did to redheads. Sprinkled with silver strands, his hair looked slightly pink.
"Hello, Frank," she said lightly, as though she'd run into him at a party."Goodness. What are you doing here?"
"Don't mind me," he said."I'm just the taxi service."
Next door the Marshes' porch light came on. Well, naturally: Barbara Marsh was a shameless gossip, and Frank's voice was loud enough to be heard in Lexington.
"Please come in," she said—quietly, hoping he would take the cue.
Inside he stamped his shoes vigorously, though they looked perfectly clean. "Sorry to barge in on you, Paulette. Avis muffed up Gwen's reservation, so I figured I'd give her a lift."
Gwen looked anxiously from one parent to the other, as though expecting the worst.
Frank eyed Paulette from top to bottom. She'd forgotten the way he looked at her—looked at every woman, in fact, who crossed his path."You look good," he said.
Paulette flushed. "You too." Then corrected herself: "You're looking well." In fact he looked exhausted, his skin drooping around the eyes, as though he'd been sleeping poorly. Or maybe he—like herself, like everybody—had simply aged.
"Where is everybody?" he barked. (Was he hard of hearing? Was that the problem?) "No Billy yet?"
"I expect him at any moment," Paulette said.
There was an awkward silence. Frank looked around the room, at the Christmas tree in the parlor, the crackling fire, the champagne flutes waiting on the sideboard.
"Well, thanks for bringing Gwen," she said.
"None needed."
Do you have plans for dinner? she nearly asked, but Frank spoke first.
"I should get back on the road, I guess. I'm meeting someone downtown."
Of course: he had a woman waiting. Didn't he always? "All right, then," she said briskly. She opened the front door. In the distance she heard a crackling noise, tires on gravel. The roads had just been cindered.
"That must be Billy now," Paulette said.
Frank turned to look. A car was approaching, a silver Mercedes with New York plates. At the entrance to the driveway, it slowed and signaled. Then it accelerated suddenly and roared down the street.
"What the hell is he doing?" said Frank.
"It isn't Billy," said Gwen, who'd followed them outside."It can't be. Somebody had the wrong house."At the corner, the red taillights turned and were gone.
They sat at the kitchen table, the wind howling at the windowpanes. Paulette had drained her second glass of champagne. Gwen had
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