The Body in the Gazebo by Katherine Hall Page Page B

agreed on—and on what a great man the new President, Herbert Hoover, was. Father had replied, “That’s all very well, but you have to be a college man, son. You have to be a Harvard man, like all the Lyman men.” Theo had answered that he knew that, although from the amount of money his barber on Dunster Street was making on the stock market, maybe college wasn’t so important these days. In the next breath, he’d said he was kidding and his father had laughed. Told him to get some tips. “He shaves some pretty wealthy faces and my broker’s is one of them, I’ll have you know.”
    Ursula had hoped the talking-to would end on this cheerful note. Maybe Theo would have time to take her to the new Marx brothers movie, but Father got agitated about Theo’s grades again and her brother rushed by her so fast she couldn’t wiggle out in time to stop him.
    She hoped he could wiggle out of the trouble he was in and make it a good summer. He just had to. Suddenly Ursula felt trapped by the big vase and struggled to slip out. Tossing her hair back over her shoulders and away from her flushed face, she decided she was too old for this kind of behavior and wished she could get back the talismans she’d placed in the jars that even now she could barely reach—a pearl button she’d found on the street, a British sixpence, the ticket from the first symphony concert she’d attended, and all those lines of poetry she’d written on tiny scraps of paper—offerings to oblivion. It would be impossible to retrieve them now without tipping the vases over.
    The front door banged shut. Theo was gone. Her eyes filled with tears.
    P ix looked at her nails. She vaguely remembered that it was supposed to mean something if you looked at them with your fingers stretched out or curled into the palm—like wearing your circle pin on the correct side of your blouse collar. Somehow the manicurist had transformed them into perfect pink shells—and the same with her toes. She really should have them done more often.
    And now she knew why people loved getting massages. She’d been so relaxed she’d dozed off. And that facial! Last night as she carefully applied her makeup—mouth and eyes—the glowing face in the mirror looked five, no ten, years younger. She felt positively sybaritic. And not at all like herself. Well, there was a reason for that . . .
    She picked up her phone and, conscious of her nails, carefully dialed Faith.
    “I was just going to call you! Your mother is doing so well. We had a nice, long visit this afternoon, and when I left Dora said she was going to get her up longer tomorrow and into her big chair after they do their constitutionals in the hallway. How was the massage? And the in-laws?”
    “It’s been wonderful. Cissy is the planner and she seems to have thought of everything. Yesterday was fun—and the massage was terrific. We’d all been together almost constantly since we arrived, and she was sensitive enough to tell everyone that for last night, we’d all go our own ways.”
    “Smart lady. This bodes well for the future, especially when it comes to sharing grandchildren. What did you and Sam do?”
    “Absolutely nothing. Long walk on the beach and then a room service dinner on the patio we have right outside our room.”
    “This doesn’t sound like the Sam and Pix Miller I know. Are you sure you didn’t squeeze in something educational or strenuous?” Faith laughed. “Sounds romantic, however, so perhaps there was some exercise after all? I know you’re blushing, Pix.”
    Pix was.
    Faith continued. “But what was it you wanted to tell me? Your mysterious bigger-than-a-breadbox item.”
    “Oh Faith, you know that line from Casablanca when Bogart says, ‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine’?”
    “Of course.”
    “Well, of all the weddings in all the towns in all the world, Dr. Stephen Cohen has walked into mine.”
    “What on earth are you talking