you?”
Vivian’s jaw clenched as she leafed through an issue of London Life. “Good grief, Mother. We have a whole week.” When it came to her parents’ marriage, she had never witnessed the slightest spark of passion. But given the current crisis, the woman could at least feign concern.
“Yes, and a week will be here before we know it. Dear, sit up, or you’ll ruin your posture before its time.”
Vivian obeyed from force of habit. When her mother crossed the room and opened the armoire, she deliberately slouched in her chair.
“You really don’t need half of these dresses. A single trunk should be sufficient.”
“Most of those are my work dresses. And yes, I will need them.” Vivian had resigned from the store solely to aid Mr. Harrington’s budgetary needs. It wasn’t a sign of her conforming to the dull aspirations of a housewife.
Her mother’s mouth sank into its standard frown. Smoke from her cigarette plumed past her hair, a brown swoop of proper style. Exasperated, she closed the wardrobe.
“So be it,” she murmured. For now, her tone affirmed. “I’ll be at Mrs. Jewett’s for an early lunch. Please, at the very least, pack up your winter clothes before I return.”
“You’re leaving now?”
“Very shortly, yes. I’d invite you to come along, but the last time I took you there, all you did was pout through their tea and crumpets.”
Vivian knew there was relief to be found, not having to craft an excuse to slip out. But it was difficult to celebrate when being treated like a child. More than that, she hated how often in her mother’s presence she reverted to exactly that.
“I did not pout.”
“You scarcely said two words, Vivian.”
“I just didn’t have anything to contribute to their snooty gossip.” The truth of it was, her mother’s desperate attempts to fit in always made for a disquieting visit. Presumably the woman’s pretenses could be traced all the way back to New Hampshire, where a suitable marriage had raised her from mediocrity. The family of Vivian’s father was far from the Vanderbilts, but enough successful investments and political ties had lent notable prestige. Then the Crash of ’29 took a decent bite out of those funds and, seemingly, out of the love between Vivian’s parents.
“Be that as it may,” her mother said, “I am in no mood to watch you scowl over lunch, as you did at breakfast and then at church. Heavens. For months after moving here all you could talk about was going home.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Yes, yes,” she replied tiredly. “Mothers never do.” When she turned to leave, Vivian’s frustration sharpened, an arrow of unsaid words. She could hold them in no longer.
“Aren’t you worried at all about Father staying here? Or are you secretly hoping something will happen to him?”
Her mother froze, facing the doorway.
Vivian girded herself for a glare, a reprimand. Perhaps even a slap, partly aware she deserved it. Instead, a sheet of silence erected, so brittle it could shatter from a single tap.
When the woman eventually spoke, she did so over her shoulder in a tone cool as steel.
“I was once your age, Vivian. Believed I knew everything about life and love, how the world worked.” After a pause, a wrenching mournfulness entered her voice: “Enjoy it while you can.”
Vivian did her best to shake off the remark. She realized how greatly she had failed while ascending from the Underground, having little recollection of the trip.
On the sidewalk, someone bumped her from behind and shot forward to pass her. No apology. Such rudeness was more typical of a kid in knickers than a gentleman in a suit. Her gaze trailed him to a barbershop, where a group had assembled outside. The presence of women made it clear that something other than a free cut and shave had beckoned the crowd.
Vivian warily approached. The people held in place, still as stone, listening. The stout barber in a white apron adjusted the
Vivian’s jaw clenched as she leafed through an issue of London Life. “Good grief, Mother. We have a whole week.” When it came to her parents’ marriage, she had never witnessed the slightest spark of passion. But given the current crisis, the woman could at least feign concern.
“Yes, and a week will be here before we know it. Dear, sit up, or you’ll ruin your posture before its time.”
Vivian obeyed from force of habit. When her mother crossed the room and opened the armoire, she deliberately slouched in her chair.
“You really don’t need half of these dresses. A single trunk should be sufficient.”
“Most of those are my work dresses. And yes, I will need them.” Vivian had resigned from the store solely to aid Mr. Harrington’s budgetary needs. It wasn’t a sign of her conforming to the dull aspirations of a housewife.
Her mother’s mouth sank into its standard frown. Smoke from her cigarette plumed past her hair, a brown swoop of proper style. Exasperated, she closed the wardrobe.
“So be it,” she murmured. For now, her tone affirmed. “I’ll be at Mrs. Jewett’s for an early lunch. Please, at the very least, pack up your winter clothes before I return.”
“You’re leaving now?”
“Very shortly, yes. I’d invite you to come along, but the last time I took you there, all you did was pout through their tea and crumpets.”
Vivian knew there was relief to be found, not having to craft an excuse to slip out. But it was difficult to celebrate when being treated like a child. More than that, she hated how often in her mother’s presence she reverted to exactly that.
“I did not pout.”
“You scarcely said two words, Vivian.”
“I just didn’t have anything to contribute to their snooty gossip.” The truth of it was, her mother’s desperate attempts to fit in always made for a disquieting visit. Presumably the woman’s pretenses could be traced all the way back to New Hampshire, where a suitable marriage had raised her from mediocrity. The family of Vivian’s father was far from the Vanderbilts, but enough successful investments and political ties had lent notable prestige. Then the Crash of ’29 took a decent bite out of those funds and, seemingly, out of the love between Vivian’s parents.
“Be that as it may,” her mother said, “I am in no mood to watch you scowl over lunch, as you did at breakfast and then at church. Heavens. For months after moving here all you could talk about was going home.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Yes, yes,” she replied tiredly. “Mothers never do.” When she turned to leave, Vivian’s frustration sharpened, an arrow of unsaid words. She could hold them in no longer.
“Aren’t you worried at all about Father staying here? Or are you secretly hoping something will happen to him?”
Her mother froze, facing the doorway.
Vivian girded herself for a glare, a reprimand. Perhaps even a slap, partly aware she deserved it. Instead, a sheet of silence erected, so brittle it could shatter from a single tap.
When the woman eventually spoke, she did so over her shoulder in a tone cool as steel.
“I was once your age, Vivian. Believed I knew everything about life and love, how the world worked.” After a pause, a wrenching mournfulness entered her voice: “Enjoy it while you can.”
Vivian did her best to shake off the remark. She realized how greatly she had failed while ascending from the Underground, having little recollection of the trip.
On the sidewalk, someone bumped her from behind and shot forward to pass her. No apology. Such rudeness was more typical of a kid in knickers than a gentleman in a suit. Her gaze trailed him to a barbershop, where a group had assembled outside. The presence of women made it clear that something other than a free cut and shave had beckoned the crowd.
Vivian warily approached. The people held in place, still as stone, listening. The stout barber in a white apron adjusted the
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