smile faded as quickly as it had come.
Beth said, “What’s up? Indigestion?”
“I was just thinking.” Ginny swallowed the last noodle, and mopped up sauce with the bread, “— you got your first letter a week ago….”
“That’s right. So?”
“So, how well do you know this Jordan Bailey?”
13
W estminster chimes sounded through the corridors of the mansion on Russian Hill. Nora Prescott’s hand-sewn shoes trod delicately across the Bokhara rug.
By the time she smoothed her chignon and checked her lipstick in the hallway mirror, whoever had rung the doorbell was gone. On the front veranda, wedged against a concrete urn brimming with azalea blooms, was an exquisitely decorated parcel.
Nora resisted a squeal. Her birthday was three weeks away, but obviously Phillip couldn’t wait to spring a little surprise on her. She would be fifty-five soon, but hard work and meticulous care made her look ten years younger. Nora glanced right and left along the street, scanning for signs of a delivery truck or perhaps Phillip’s Lexus turning the corner. Then, seeing nothing, she picked up the box and went inside.
Inside the package, Nora found another box, then a third. Even during childhood, Nora had hated this foolish game, knowing the final gift never matched the expectation. This one, though, wasn’t bad. It was a brooch, in the shape of an N, encrusted with pearls. Nora didn’t care for initialled jewellery; it reminded her of days-of-the-week underwearfrom a catalogue. Still, this brooch, while not worth a sultan’s ransom, was an antique, and the pearls seemed to be good. She would find out just how good when she got the jewellery appraised.
Looking in the mirror, Nora affixed the brooch to the jacket of her Armani suit. It didn’t do justice to the ensemble, but she left it there, curious to see Phillip’s reaction when he arrived home.
There’d been no reaction from him when she’d worn the watch, nor the diamond earrings. The Delft urn she received now graced the stark mantel of their all-white living room. No comment.
Had that been part of this whole charade? Phillip, sending her gifts, waiting to assess her response? Of course, by saying nothing, Nora was leading him to believe there might be another admirer, maybe two.
She supposed she should dash into Phillip’s arms later, coo her delight at the gifts and scold him for being a naughty boy, teasing her this way.
But, if it wasn’t Phillip….
One of the exasperating things about her fiancé was his practicality. The house Phillip had purchased because it was “solid,” his Lexus because it was dependable. His wristwatch was a Timex, which he’d owned for the past eight years, he often boasted. Expensive jewellery, to Phillip’s way of thinking, was frivolous, and Phillip Rossner was too stodgy to indulge in frivolity. Well, perhaps her faithful hound had learned some new tricks.
In the silk-papered powder room, Nora applied a fresh misting of perfume and continued to puzzle over the gifts. The manicure set she had been sent was tasteless, dimestore stuff, its black vinyl case decorated with ersatz embroidery. The Delft urn, too, was an oddity. Nora had never been to the Netherlands, and her background was Scottish, so the meaning behind the Dutch pottery was lost to her. The Andrew Lloyd Webber CD might be considered romantic to some, but it was a far cry from the Cartier watch. The sender, be it Phillip or someone else, certainly had eclectic taste.
At first, she had been tempted to pitch the gifts in the garbage, then she realized she was being toyed with and decided to play along. She didn’t understand the game yet, but she couldn’t deny its intrigue. Besides, the Cartier was definitely a keeper.
For a split second, she again debated confronting Phillip about the gifts. Then she decided to shut up. Either Phillip, in frustration, would eventually pout about her being ungrateful for his trinkets, or another suitor, perhaps
Beth said, “What’s up? Indigestion?”
“I was just thinking.” Ginny swallowed the last noodle, and mopped up sauce with the bread, “— you got your first letter a week ago….”
“That’s right. So?”
“So, how well do you know this Jordan Bailey?”
13
W estminster chimes sounded through the corridors of the mansion on Russian Hill. Nora Prescott’s hand-sewn shoes trod delicately across the Bokhara rug.
By the time she smoothed her chignon and checked her lipstick in the hallway mirror, whoever had rung the doorbell was gone. On the front veranda, wedged against a concrete urn brimming with azalea blooms, was an exquisitely decorated parcel.
Nora resisted a squeal. Her birthday was three weeks away, but obviously Phillip couldn’t wait to spring a little surprise on her. She would be fifty-five soon, but hard work and meticulous care made her look ten years younger. Nora glanced right and left along the street, scanning for signs of a delivery truck or perhaps Phillip’s Lexus turning the corner. Then, seeing nothing, she picked up the box and went inside.
Inside the package, Nora found another box, then a third. Even during childhood, Nora had hated this foolish game, knowing the final gift never matched the expectation. This one, though, wasn’t bad. It was a brooch, in the shape of an N, encrusted with pearls. Nora didn’t care for initialled jewellery; it reminded her of days-of-the-week underwearfrom a catalogue. Still, this brooch, while not worth a sultan’s ransom, was an antique, and the pearls seemed to be good. She would find out just how good when she got the jewellery appraised.
Looking in the mirror, Nora affixed the brooch to the jacket of her Armani suit. It didn’t do justice to the ensemble, but she left it there, curious to see Phillip’s reaction when he arrived home.
There’d been no reaction from him when she’d worn the watch, nor the diamond earrings. The Delft urn she received now graced the stark mantel of their all-white living room. No comment.
Had that been part of this whole charade? Phillip, sending her gifts, waiting to assess her response? Of course, by saying nothing, Nora was leading him to believe there might be another admirer, maybe two.
She supposed she should dash into Phillip’s arms later, coo her delight at the gifts and scold him for being a naughty boy, teasing her this way.
But, if it wasn’t Phillip….
One of the exasperating things about her fiancé was his practicality. The house Phillip had purchased because it was “solid,” his Lexus because it was dependable. His wristwatch was a Timex, which he’d owned for the past eight years, he often boasted. Expensive jewellery, to Phillip’s way of thinking, was frivolous, and Phillip Rossner was too stodgy to indulge in frivolity. Well, perhaps her faithful hound had learned some new tricks.
In the silk-papered powder room, Nora applied a fresh misting of perfume and continued to puzzle over the gifts. The manicure set she had been sent was tasteless, dimestore stuff, its black vinyl case decorated with ersatz embroidery. The Delft urn, too, was an oddity. Nora had never been to the Netherlands, and her background was Scottish, so the meaning behind the Dutch pottery was lost to her. The Andrew Lloyd Webber CD might be considered romantic to some, but it was a far cry from the Cartier watch. The sender, be it Phillip or someone else, certainly had eclectic taste.
At first, she had been tempted to pitch the gifts in the garbage, then she realized she was being toyed with and decided to play along. She didn’t understand the game yet, but she couldn’t deny its intrigue. Besides, the Cartier was definitely a keeper.
For a split second, she again debated confronting Phillip about the gifts. Then she decided to shut up. Either Phillip, in frustration, would eventually pout about her being ungrateful for his trinkets, or another suitor, perhaps
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