More than any other room in Bliss House, the library, with its smell of old books, polished wood, and low afternoon light, suited Preston. Even though his body was quite athletic, he had an old-fashioned, almost antique look about him, and his strong features made him seem almost roguish. His face would be right at home in the portrait gallery of some Old World museum: Amsterdam, perhaps. Or Rome.
“You went out!” He put his drink down on the desk beside a small pile of open boxes and strode across the room to me. “I’m so glad, my love. How is Rachel?”
“She sent you these.” I was determined to speak to him about the memorial plans, but knew it was always best to approach him carefully about things we might disagree about. I definitely thought having the memorial at the house was inappropriate. I turned my head so he could kiss me on the cheek, then handed him the small paper bag, which was spotted with grease from the butter in the ladyfingers.
He opened it and looked inside. “These smell damned good. That new housekeeper of hers . . . what’s her name? Cynthia? Susan? I can’t keep up. She’s a decent cook. Jack and I both told Rachel she needs to be nice to this one.”
Setting the bag on a table, he took out a ladyfinger and popped two-thirds of it into his mouth. “Damned good,” he said with his mouth still a little full. “Do you want one?”
“They’re for you. But you might save part of one for Michael.”
“Of course. If you think Nonie will let him have one.” He said this with a look of mischief in his eyes.
I had loved this playful Preston. I was still drawn to him, even though there was a wall inside me then that didn’t want to let him pass. He was not the way back to Eva.
“What’s in the boxes? I didn’t see any mail on the table in the hall.”
He glanced back at the desk.
“Want a drink? It’s after five.”
I wondered how far a drink would go to dispel the wall inside me, but wasn’t tempted. The last champagne I’d drunk had made me sleep so deeply that I’d let my daughter drown.
“Water is fine. Ice too, please.”
While Press poured my water, I went to look in the open boxes on the desk. Both were full of rich velvet fabric. Midnight blue, deep scarlet, ruby red with shiny gold threads woven through it. Green with outlines of large, abstract stars, also in gold. I lowered one of the cardboard lids. “J. C. Jacquith Designs, NYC” was neatly hand-lettered on the return label. I took out one of the fabric pieces and carried it to the window to get a better look. The velvet was lush, but the gold threads were sharp as though they were made of actual metal and caught at my fingertips.
“What are these for?”
I wasn’t a fool. I already knew what they were for.
“Samples that J.C. sent down weeks ago. I was getting ready to throw them away. The curtains up in the theater are moth-eaten. It’s Mother’s fault for letting them get to that state.”
There was a note card that had fallen between the two boxes. I picked it up. The paper was heavy stock and scented—something peppery and arresting. The note was dated more than two months earlier, only a week or so after Olivia had died.
“Darling Press, Again, I’m just crushed about your dear old mummy. I hope you’re still holding up like the brick that you are. Here are the samples I promised. The red velvet with the gold is what they’ve put in the studio at Carnegie. Too much? Maybe! Call with the measurements. I’ll bring them down and supervise installation myself. It’s going to be spectacular! Love to you and Precious Bride—J.”
The paper’s scent was vivid, like J.C. herself. I’d found her intimidating with her expensive tailored clothes, bold, interested gaze, and exaggerated gestures. She had a habit of holding her hand out to men to be kissed, and they usually obliged without hesitation. Their reward was a smile full of blazingly white large teeth. J.C. wasn’t beautiful or even particularly pretty. But she had what Nonie called “go-to-hell style.”
“Why are we replacing the curtains? No one ever sees them.” I was being disingenuous, so the words felt predictably clumsy.
It was a longstanding disagreement between Press and his mother. Like the ballroom, she believed the theater to be a waste of space and resources, but had refused to let Preston use it. By the time we were married, the discussions had all been exhausted, leaving me to hear only “she’s irrational about the theater” from Press, and “a home is no place for theatrical productions” from Olivia. It didn’t matter to Olivia that Preston’s group only wanted to rehearse. They held their infrequent performances in the auditorium of Fellowes Academy, a nearby private girls’ boarding school, and had done them there since Zion and Helen had started the group fifteen years earlier.
Press handed me my water. “You and Marlene can continue using my mother’s menus from now until the end of time, if you like. We can even keep her bedroom as a shrine.”