Perish. That was the type of word Clover used. I could tell from the way she spoke that she had learned a lot from Aunt Theo. In some ways they were really quite different, but they had this striking way of expressing themselves. Even though I’d never met Aunt Theo in person, I could tell exactly how she spoke from the tone of her letters.
“What do you think Clover will be like?” I had asked Valentine, back when we were still in San Francisco.
“I don’t know, I’m just glad she’s not old.”
“Twenty-eight’s pretty old.”
“Not old old, silly.”
It was, to me. Old enough that I could not quite imagine being it myself someday. When I thought about it, I only ever got to twenty-one or twenty-two. I could imagine going away to college, but not graduating from college. I couldn’t figure out what one would have to look forward to after that.
Back in San Francisco, Dad had made the mistake of asking Aunt Theo if she could send us a picture of Clover. Theo dashed off a brisk little postcard admonishing him:
No pictures. This summer let mystery prevail. Basta!
XXX
Theo
Valentine said, “I hope she’s very beautiful.”
I was doubtful that there was so much beauty in the world, what with us already knowing Theo the former Avedon model and all.
“Maybe.”
“Well, you have to be good-looking to live in New York City. And thin! That too.”
Clover, as it turned out when we finally met her, was small. She had the same shape figure Valentine’s getting, with the boobs and the tiny waist and all, but she was short: I could tell she’d have to watch it a bit, say if she ate too many pastries. Valentine’s five foot nine now and I’m five foot seven, and it’s funny because we both towered over her even though she was supposed to be our chaperone. Also, she didn’t look anywhere near twenty-eight. And because Valentine’s so tall and can look quite glamorous all of a sudden, say if she’s wearing makeup, there were times you might have thought that Valentine and not Clover was the grownup.
Still, there was just something so cute about Clover. She made me think of a plump little bluebird. Her voice was very high for a grown woman’s, and she talked and moved very fast and kind of fluttered around the apartment. She wore these delicate glasses with rhinestones dusting the tips. And blue was her favorite color—she had fluffy blond hair and big blue eyes and it suited her. The day we met her she was wearing a pale blue dress with breezy bell-shaped sleeves.
We explained to her that in San Francisco, the weather is pretty much the same all year long. We live in blue jeans and T-shirts and Converse sneakers. But even after we told her all that she asked: “But don’t you have summer wardrobes?”
I thought the word wardrobe sounded very grand, like say you were packing a steamer trunk for a transatlantic crossing.
She continued, “You know, Theo doesn’t like trousers.”
“Trousers?” said Valentine.
Was this an East Coast word or something? We had never heard anybody use it.
“Pants,” Clover said, almost spitting the word. “Women in pants.”
“Oh.”
We pondered the marvelous complexity of a world in which there were such elaborate rules. We had never before dreamed of such things!
Val pointed out, “But that’s so old-fashioned of her!”
“Exactly,” Clover said calmly, as if the phrase old-fashioned was a compliment, which I don’t think is what Valentine meant it to be. “She doesn’t like trousers on women, or short skirts either. So, when she comes to New York in August, you’ll have to be dressed appropriately.”
“What’s appropriately?” I asked.
“Oh. Well, Aunt Theo says that one should dress to have a swing in one’s step and to be ready for Italy. You know, as if you were dressing for an Italian lover.”
There was that word again! Lover. It was thrilling, if also a little embarrassing. Perish. Lover. Just imagine having the opportunity to use the two of them in the same sentence!
Valentine got straight to the point and asked Clover: “Have you ever had one?”
“What?”
“An Italian lover.”
Clover laughed and said, “There’s time to ask me all that later. Come on, you two, you’d better unpack. Here, let me show you to your bedroom.”
On the way there, we took the time now to look around the apartment. The first thing I noticed was that it was done up in all of these crazy, rich colors. There were autumn leaf yellow walls in the kitchen and sapphire blue walls in the living room. Books everywhere. Old books. Penguin paperbacks with orange and green spines, big art books, fashion books, you name it. Paintings, mostly of voluptuous shell-colored nudes.
“You know what all these colors kind of remind me of,” I said. “Matisse.”
Valentine, as if sensing this, said, “Oh, Franny, stop showing off! We’re not in school anymore.”
“Look!” I pointed at a book on the coffee table, ignoring Val’s comment. The cover said: Made in Paris By Theodora Bell.
When I picked it up and looked at the jacket, I realized that it was a portrait of the great Theo herself, photographed in profile and wearing a strapless, feathered black ball gown and pair of long lilac gloves. I turned to Clover and asked her: