her, “How’s business?”
She replied, “Not too bad, considering the stock market has gone to hell, and people have been putting their money into hazmat suits and freeze-dried rations since 9/11 and the anthrax thing.” She smiled and continued, “Maybe I should carry designer gas masks.”
I smiled in return. I don’t usually notice women’s clothing, unless it’s really outrageous, but I recalled that Elizabeth used to dress conservatively, despite some of the weird stuff I’d seen in her shops years ago when Susan had dragged me into them. Today, however, Elizabeth had left her severely tailored business suits in the closet—or perhaps Tom took them—and she was wearing a frilly pink blouse that accentuated her tan, and a black silk skirt that didn’t reach her knees. Maybe she felt that her formerly mannish attire had been the reason that Tom . . . well, I shouldn’t speculate on that, but—
She interrupted my train of thought and said, apropos of her statement about hazmat suits and gas masks, “People are such wimps.” She asked, “What’s wrong with this country?”
“I don’t know. I just got here.”
I should also mention that Elizabeth was a local Republican activist, to the extent that Republicans around here engaged in
any
activity other than golf and drinking.
In any case, her politics, like her membership in The Creek Country Club and the Locust Valley Chamber of Commerce, may have been driven more by business than conviction. Nevertheless, Elizabeth’s affiliations had caused Ethel no end of grief and bewilderment, and I could imagine Ethel crying to George, “How could a child of mine be a
Republican
?” Adding, “It’s
your
fault, George!”
Elizabeth asked me, “What are they saying in London?”
“They’re saying they’re next.”
She nodded.
Elizabeth Allard Corbet, by the way, had wavy chestnut hair that she wore shoulder length, nice big brown eyes, a nose with slightly flared nostrils (like George’s), and lush lips that, now and then, flashed a slightly amused smile. Bottom line, she was a good-looking woman with a cultured voice and manner—the result of being an estate brat.
Men, of course, found her attractive, though she never rang my bell (and apparently not Tom’s), and women, too, seemed to like her. Susan, I remembered, liked her.
On that subject, against my better judgment, I said, “I assume you know that Susan is back.”
She replied, without any silly pretense of ignorance, “Yes. I’ve seen her here a few times. We actually had lunch once.” She asked me, “Have you seen her?”
“No.”
“Do you plan to?”
“I don’t—but I probably will.”
There was a lot more to talk about on that subject, if I cared to, and I was sure Elizabeth, like her mother, had things to tell me about Susan. But the last thing I wanted was for people to be carrying messages and information back and forth between the estranged parties. So I dropped the subject and asked, “How are your children?”
“Fine. Tom Junior is a senior at Brown, and Betsy graduated Smith and is in an MFA program at Penn.”
“You must be very proud of them.”
“I am.” She smiled. “Except for their politics. I think bleeding-heart liberalism skips a generation. Mom, however, is delighted.”
I smiled in return.
She informed me, “Susan has filled me in on Edward and Carolyn.”
“Good.”
On the subject of genes versus environment, Elizabeth could be a little severe and strong-willed at times, like her mother, but mostly she was quietly pleasant and straightforward, like her father, with her father’s strong work ethic. And did I mention that she’d gone to Bryn Mawr, all expenses paid by her secret and perhaps reluctant godfather, Augustus Stanhope? Augustus’ rolls in the hay barn with Ethel had cost him a few more bucks than he’d figured, and possibly a few sleepless nights.
Things were different then, of course, in regard to social and sexual rules of
She replied, “Not too bad, considering the stock market has gone to hell, and people have been putting their money into hazmat suits and freeze-dried rations since 9/11 and the anthrax thing.” She smiled and continued, “Maybe I should carry designer gas masks.”
I smiled in return. I don’t usually notice women’s clothing, unless it’s really outrageous, but I recalled that Elizabeth used to dress conservatively, despite some of the weird stuff I’d seen in her shops years ago when Susan had dragged me into them. Today, however, Elizabeth had left her severely tailored business suits in the closet—or perhaps Tom took them—and she was wearing a frilly pink blouse that accentuated her tan, and a black silk skirt that didn’t reach her knees. Maybe she felt that her formerly mannish attire had been the reason that Tom . . . well, I shouldn’t speculate on that, but—
She interrupted my train of thought and said, apropos of her statement about hazmat suits and gas masks, “People are such wimps.” She asked, “What’s wrong with this country?”
“I don’t know. I just got here.”
I should also mention that Elizabeth was a local Republican activist, to the extent that Republicans around here engaged in
any
activity other than golf and drinking.
In any case, her politics, like her membership in The Creek Country Club and the Locust Valley Chamber of Commerce, may have been driven more by business than conviction. Nevertheless, Elizabeth’s affiliations had caused Ethel no end of grief and bewilderment, and I could imagine Ethel crying to George, “How could a child of mine be a
Republican
?” Adding, “It’s
your
fault, George!”
Elizabeth asked me, “What are they saying in London?”
“They’re saying they’re next.”
She nodded.
Elizabeth Allard Corbet, by the way, had wavy chestnut hair that she wore shoulder length, nice big brown eyes, a nose with slightly flared nostrils (like George’s), and lush lips that, now and then, flashed a slightly amused smile. Bottom line, she was a good-looking woman with a cultured voice and manner—the result of being an estate brat.
Men, of course, found her attractive, though she never rang my bell (and apparently not Tom’s), and women, too, seemed to like her. Susan, I remembered, liked her.
On that subject, against my better judgment, I said, “I assume you know that Susan is back.”
She replied, without any silly pretense of ignorance, “Yes. I’ve seen her here a few times. We actually had lunch once.” She asked me, “Have you seen her?”
“No.”
“Do you plan to?”
“I don’t—but I probably will.”
There was a lot more to talk about on that subject, if I cared to, and I was sure Elizabeth, like her mother, had things to tell me about Susan. But the last thing I wanted was for people to be carrying messages and information back and forth between the estranged parties. So I dropped the subject and asked, “How are your children?”
“Fine. Tom Junior is a senior at Brown, and Betsy graduated Smith and is in an MFA program at Penn.”
“You must be very proud of them.”
“I am.” She smiled. “Except for their politics. I think bleeding-heart liberalism skips a generation. Mom, however, is delighted.”
I smiled in return.
She informed me, “Susan has filled me in on Edward and Carolyn.”
“Good.”
On the subject of genes versus environment, Elizabeth could be a little severe and strong-willed at times, like her mother, but mostly she was quietly pleasant and straightforward, like her father, with her father’s strong work ethic. And did I mention that she’d gone to Bryn Mawr, all expenses paid by her secret and perhaps reluctant godfather, Augustus Stanhope? Augustus’ rolls in the hay barn with Ethel had cost him a few more bucks than he’d figured, and possibly a few sleepless nights.
Things were different then, of course, in regard to social and sexual rules of
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