The Edge of Dreams by Rhys Bowen Page A

by men who fear that women are encroaching on their jobs and don’t want us in the workplace.”
    “Well, good for you, I say,” the other older woman said loudly. She was rounder and jollier looking, like a friendly grandmother. “It warms my heart to see young women taking up such varied positions. When we can add lawyer and senator to that list, I’ll be well satisfied.”
    “Not in your lifetime, I fear, Mrs. Mitchum,” Sid said.
    “Mrs. Sullivan was a detective, if I remember correctly,” the earnest, dark-haired young woman said. I tried to remember her name.
    They all looked at me in astonishment, making my cheeks turn red. “That’s right,” I said. “I ran my own detective agency until I married.”
    “And her husband forced her to give it up,” Sid added, with a sideways glance at me.
    “Isn’t that always the way,” one of them muttered. “Men can’t abide the thought of a woman with a career, especially a successful one.”
    “To be fair to Daniel,” I answered, “he is a captain in the police department, and a wife who worked as a private investigator would not be tolerated. Besides, he wants to protect me and keep me safe. It’s a natural male instinct.”
    “Not all of us want to be protected,” the dark-haired girl said. “I’m perfectly capable of standing on my own two feet.”
    “How about you, Mrs. Hamilton?” Gus asked as she came in with a tray of sandwiches. “Sid and I remember you as a rather terrifying senior in our dorm. We always tiptoed past your room.”
    “You were at school together?” Mrs. Mitchum asked.
    “At Vassar. We have several alumnae in this group.” Gus indicated the redhead and two others.
    “Yes, I was a senior when these two were obnoxious little freshmen,” Mrs. Hamilton laughed. “Always trying to sneak out of the dorm at night, I remember. How wonderful that your friendship has lasted all this time.”
    “Yes, it is wonderful,” Gus said, glancing across at Sid.
    “And neither of you has married?”
    “No. Neither of us has married,” Gus replied evenly. “Another cucumber sandwich, Mrs. Hamilton?”
    “Sometimes I think we all would have been wiser not to,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “I find the raising of four sons quite taxing, and I have almost no time for my own pursuits. And now I have the care of my young niece as well, which is not easy. But it is the path I have chosen, I suppose.” She pushed back an imaginary strand of hair from her face, as if in annoyance. Then she turned back to Gus. “Did I not hear that you spent the summer in Paris?”
    “We did,” Sid said. “Miss Walcott pursued her art. Her painting was much admired.”
    This was a slight exaggeration, and Gus had the grace to blush, muttering, “Oh, no, not really.”
    “I hope your painting was of pleasant subjects, and not this dreadful rubbish that is being produced in Paris these days,” Mrs. Mitchum said. “How they have the nerve to call it art. Flying cats and blue faces, indeed. Whatever next?”
    “I envy you being able to spend a whole summer in Paris.” Mrs. Hamilton sighed. “It was always my dream to travel. But I said yes to Joseph and next thing I knew I was the mother of four boys.” She laughed.
    “We were also in Vienna,” Sid said. “Miss Walcott was studying with Professor Freud.”
    “Freud?” Mrs. Mitchum exclaimed. “Isn’t he that dreadful man who claims that we are entirely driven by sexual impulses?” And she fanned herself with her gloves.
    “I’m afraid he does,” Gus admitted. “But he has done wonderful work in unlocking the subconscious of the human mind and in treating mental illness. And he has written a brilliant treatise on the interpretation of dreams.”
    “Dreams?” one of the women asked. “Can dreams be interpreted? Surely dreams are just our minds wandering aimlessly when we are not present to direct our thoughts.”
    “Some dreams are just that,” Gus said, “but Dr. Freud and his colleagues have