clothing, her wide-set eyes were fixed on her husband. Sensing our approach, her gaze shifted, lighting up as she saw Dee.
Cued by the change in his wife’s expression, V-V pivoted and faced us as well. Dee had not been exaggerating. A tall, well-built man in his early forties, V-V was ruggedly handsome with a strong chin, a long nose, faintly arched, and a precise mustache, like Clark Gable’s. Relinquishing the battle over the book, he came toward us.
“Dee, my darr-ling,” he said, drawing out the words, his rich accent resonating with warmth and charm. He spread his arms and drew Dee into his embrace.
Behind the desk, Kiki opened a side drawer. The small volume the twosome had been tussling over disappeared inside.
Dee introduced me to the couple, then began recapping the bird program. While the trio exchanged barbs about the women in attendance and assessed the event’s political ramifications, I used the opportunity to observe the sisters. Physically, they were a close match: medium in height, with trim figures. They also shared the oval shape of their faces and the wide set of their eyes. Both women had black hair. But that was where the similarities ended. Kiki’s dark tresses gleamed with the underlying blue sheen of a tint; Dee’s dark color was natural. It was interesting. The hallmark patch of white I’d thought so flatteringly dramatic on Dee earlier, sent a different message when she stood next to her sister. It made her look like the elder of the two when the truth was just the opposite. Dee’s tight chignon also added years while Kiki’s contemporary bob, cut sharply at a diagonal across her cheeks, erased time.
Eventually, the conversation returned to me, and Dee acted as an unexpected advocate. First, she provided an excellent overview of the series I was writing, and then hinted I had an idea concerning the Book Faire, imploring Kiki to discuss it with me.
Kiki bristled visibly at hearing I was a reporter. She responded with a thoughtful, “Hmmm,” seeming to consider the suggestion, but then did not bother pursuing it. A paper stack caught her eye. She dropped into her chair and began weeding it.
V-V bridged the awkward moment. “Ahh, you are a writer,” he said, facing me. “Does this mean you are an avid reader as well?”
“Why, yes.”
He displayed a second book he had been holding at his side. “Do you know E.T.A. Hoffmann?”
I tapped the index of my memory, spinning through authors’ names, attempting to trace where I had heard of Hoffmann. I drew a blank.
“This one is
Tales of Hoffmann
,” V-V said. “A rare edition and a memento from my past. Kiki brought it to the club thinking I had left it out as a donation for her Faire.” He gave a deep-throated laugh. “A mistake. I would never willingly part with this.”
I frowned. The volume had a foreign title.
“It is a German edition,” he said.
“German?”
Kiki looked up. “We have a fine collection of works by international authors,” she said, sounding somewhat defensive. She gestured to a section of shelving labeled
Foreign Works
. “Detroit is an industrial capital. Executives in our plants collaborate with business leaders from around the world. Our members often put them up here as guests. Also, many of our local leaders, or their wives, are direct descendants of immigrants. We have ladies who are fluent in German, French, Hungarian, Polish, Italian, Czechoslovakian…the list goes on and on. Some members, or individuals in their families, know several languages”—she smiled hesitantly at V-V—“like my husband.”
The new point of discussion seemed to thaw Kiki’s cool demeanor. “During our Book Faire, we hope to capitalize on this very same cross-section by offering foreign-language books in our sale.” She shook her head and regarded V-V’s keepsake. “Too bad you won’t part with it, dear. Such a rare edition would spike up our profits.”
“But that wasn’t the book on the desk
Cued by the change in his wife’s expression, V-V pivoted and faced us as well. Dee had not been exaggerating. A tall, well-built man in his early forties, V-V was ruggedly handsome with a strong chin, a long nose, faintly arched, and a precise mustache, like Clark Gable’s. Relinquishing the battle over the book, he came toward us.
“Dee, my darr-ling,” he said, drawing out the words, his rich accent resonating with warmth and charm. He spread his arms and drew Dee into his embrace.
Behind the desk, Kiki opened a side drawer. The small volume the twosome had been tussling over disappeared inside.
Dee introduced me to the couple, then began recapping the bird program. While the trio exchanged barbs about the women in attendance and assessed the event’s political ramifications, I used the opportunity to observe the sisters. Physically, they were a close match: medium in height, with trim figures. They also shared the oval shape of their faces and the wide set of their eyes. Both women had black hair. But that was where the similarities ended. Kiki’s dark tresses gleamed with the underlying blue sheen of a tint; Dee’s dark color was natural. It was interesting. The hallmark patch of white I’d thought so flatteringly dramatic on Dee earlier, sent a different message when she stood next to her sister. It made her look like the elder of the two when the truth was just the opposite. Dee’s tight chignon also added years while Kiki’s contemporary bob, cut sharply at a diagonal across her cheeks, erased time.
Eventually, the conversation returned to me, and Dee acted as an unexpected advocate. First, she provided an excellent overview of the series I was writing, and then hinted I had an idea concerning the Book Faire, imploring Kiki to discuss it with me.
Kiki bristled visibly at hearing I was a reporter. She responded with a thoughtful, “Hmmm,” seeming to consider the suggestion, but then did not bother pursuing it. A paper stack caught her eye. She dropped into her chair and began weeding it.
V-V bridged the awkward moment. “Ahh, you are a writer,” he said, facing me. “Does this mean you are an avid reader as well?”
“Why, yes.”
He displayed a second book he had been holding at his side. “Do you know E.T.A. Hoffmann?”
I tapped the index of my memory, spinning through authors’ names, attempting to trace where I had heard of Hoffmann. I drew a blank.
“This one is
Tales of Hoffmann
,” V-V said. “A rare edition and a memento from my past. Kiki brought it to the club thinking I had left it out as a donation for her Faire.” He gave a deep-throated laugh. “A mistake. I would never willingly part with this.”
I frowned. The volume had a foreign title.
“It is a German edition,” he said.
“German?”
Kiki looked up. “We have a fine collection of works by international authors,” she said, sounding somewhat defensive. She gestured to a section of shelving labeled
Foreign Works
. “Detroit is an industrial capital. Executives in our plants collaborate with business leaders from around the world. Our members often put them up here as guests. Also, many of our local leaders, or their wives, are direct descendants of immigrants. We have ladies who are fluent in German, French, Hungarian, Polish, Italian, Czechoslovakian…the list goes on and on. Some members, or individuals in their families, know several languages”—she smiled hesitantly at V-V—“like my husband.”
The new point of discussion seemed to thaw Kiki’s cool demeanor. “During our Book Faire, we hope to capitalize on this very same cross-section by offering foreign-language books in our sale.” She shook her head and regarded V-V’s keepsake. “Too bad you won’t part with it, dear. Such a rare edition would spike up our profits.”
“But that wasn’t the book on the desk
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