wandered off among the shrubbery. Then she picked up a couple of fallen plumes and hurried on up the drive.
Nan was still eating her breakfast when Summer knocked on the back door. She was wearing her quilted velvet dressing gown, and her long pale hair was looped at the back of her neck in a loose chignon. As always, she looked as classy and perfectly groomed as one of her horses. While Summer unloaded her backpack—two boxes of strawberries and some tomatoes from the Fisher greenhouses—Nan went back to her coffee and croissants at the breakfast table.
“Oh, marvelous,” she said when she saw the strawberries. “Just what this breakfast needed. Would you give them a little wash and put them in one of the blue bowls. Just one box for now. That will be lovely.”
Of course Galya had already washed the berries, but Summer didn’t argue. When they were all carefully rewashed and arranged in the bowl, she took them to the table.
“Thank you, dear. They’re beautiful. They look like a painting in that bowl, don’t they?” Nan said. Then she smiled her wide, even-toothed smile. “Now sit down for a moment.” Summer sat down and smiled back. Nan’s gaze was warm, approving and concerned—very much the way it was when she looked at her Arabians. “Did you eat before you came this morning,” she asked, and when Summer shook her head, “You really shouldn’t go without breakfast, dear. You’re much too thin.”
“I wasn’t hungry,” Summer said, “and besides there wasn’t—” She stopped, shrugging. But Nan saw the shrug and asked, “There wasn’t what?”
“Oh nothing. About the strawberries—Galya said to tell you she’d have more next Saturday. Bigger ones.”
“That will be lovely, but these are quite nice. Amazing really, for this early in the year. Now you just jump up and get a plate and some silverware and have a few of these berries and some nice hot croissants before you start to work. No, don’t argue. You’ll get ever so much more done on a full stomach.”
Summer hadn’t intended to argue. There wasn’t much point with Nan, particularly when it came to being fed. Richard, who had the beginnings of a pot belly, sometimes made comments about Nan’s nurturing compulsion. According to him, Nan force fed everything that came within reach. Actually, he wasn’t far wrong. Nearly everything at Crown Ridge looked slightly pudgy, from Richard right on down: eleven Arabians not counting the colts, two dogs, four cats, six canaries and about a dozen peacocks. And judging by the amount of plant food Nan was always doling out, even her African violets were probably overweight.
There were, however, definite limits to Nan’s nurturing instincts. During their many discussions, usually held over one table or another, Summer had learned that Nan disapproved of feeding people when it was done by governments or institutions. She was very much against food stamps and school lunch programs, and she even wondered if feeding starving people in other countries didn’t ultimately do more harm than good. “Richard and I are sorry for hungry people, of course,” she’d told Summer more than once, “but we believe that giving people food takes away their freedom and initiative.”
That was another thing Summer didn’t argue with Nan about. Actually, in some ways she agreed. Nobody could possibly hate food stamps as much as she did—but at the same time she was pretty sure that she and Sparrow would have starved to death several times over while Oriole was developing the initiative she might have been capable of if her food stamps had been taken away.
So Summer just listened and watched, and it didn’t take long to figure out that Nan’s food dispensing behavior was only triggered by mouths that, in one way or another, belonged to her. And when she began to insist on feeding Summer, it seemed to indicate that she was thinking of Summer as one of her possessions. It was a concept to which Summer
Nan was still eating her breakfast when Summer knocked on the back door. She was wearing her quilted velvet dressing gown, and her long pale hair was looped at the back of her neck in a loose chignon. As always, she looked as classy and perfectly groomed as one of her horses. While Summer unloaded her backpack—two boxes of strawberries and some tomatoes from the Fisher greenhouses—Nan went back to her coffee and croissants at the breakfast table.
“Oh, marvelous,” she said when she saw the strawberries. “Just what this breakfast needed. Would you give them a little wash and put them in one of the blue bowls. Just one box for now. That will be lovely.”
Of course Galya had already washed the berries, but Summer didn’t argue. When they were all carefully rewashed and arranged in the bowl, she took them to the table.
“Thank you, dear. They’re beautiful. They look like a painting in that bowl, don’t they?” Nan said. Then she smiled her wide, even-toothed smile. “Now sit down for a moment.” Summer sat down and smiled back. Nan’s gaze was warm, approving and concerned—very much the way it was when she looked at her Arabians. “Did you eat before you came this morning,” she asked, and when Summer shook her head, “You really shouldn’t go without breakfast, dear. You’re much too thin.”
“I wasn’t hungry,” Summer said, “and besides there wasn’t—” She stopped, shrugging. But Nan saw the shrug and asked, “There wasn’t what?”
“Oh nothing. About the strawberries—Galya said to tell you she’d have more next Saturday. Bigger ones.”
“That will be lovely, but these are quite nice. Amazing really, for this early in the year. Now you just jump up and get a plate and some silverware and have a few of these berries and some nice hot croissants before you start to work. No, don’t argue. You’ll get ever so much more done on a full stomach.”
Summer hadn’t intended to argue. There wasn’t much point with Nan, particularly when it came to being fed. Richard, who had the beginnings of a pot belly, sometimes made comments about Nan’s nurturing compulsion. According to him, Nan force fed everything that came within reach. Actually, he wasn’t far wrong. Nearly everything at Crown Ridge looked slightly pudgy, from Richard right on down: eleven Arabians not counting the colts, two dogs, four cats, six canaries and about a dozen peacocks. And judging by the amount of plant food Nan was always doling out, even her African violets were probably overweight.
There were, however, definite limits to Nan’s nurturing instincts. During their many discussions, usually held over one table or another, Summer had learned that Nan disapproved of feeding people when it was done by governments or institutions. She was very much against food stamps and school lunch programs, and she even wondered if feeding starving people in other countries didn’t ultimately do more harm than good. “Richard and I are sorry for hungry people, of course,” she’d told Summer more than once, “but we believe that giving people food takes away their freedom and initiative.”
That was another thing Summer didn’t argue with Nan about. Actually, in some ways she agreed. Nobody could possibly hate food stamps as much as she did—but at the same time she was pretty sure that she and Sparrow would have starved to death several times over while Oriole was developing the initiative she might have been capable of if her food stamps had been taken away.
So Summer just listened and watched, and it didn’t take long to figure out that Nan’s food dispensing behavior was only triggered by mouths that, in one way or another, belonged to her. And when she began to insist on feeding Summer, it seemed to indicate that she was thinking of Summer as one of her possessions. It was a concept to which Summer
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