made myself clear?”
“I guess so.”
“You
guess
so?” Violet could hear the strength in her own voice. She was powerful, intimidating. She was Meryl Streep in
The Devil Wears Prada.
She was Glenn Close in
Fatal Attraction.
She was Faye Dunaway as Joan Crawford. Or Joan Crawford as herself.
Hell, she was the Terminator.
“I mean…yes,” Carl stammered.
“That’s better. Now lose my number, forget my address, and run along like a good little boy. We will not speak again. Good-bye, Carl.”
Violet hung up the phone and rose, feeling tall and tough. She knew she should close Dorothy Parker back into the book, but she wanted toenjoy the exhilaration of power for just a few more moments. Then she heard a tiny voice behind her.
“Aunt V?”
Violet turned and saw her niece at the door, a confused look in her eyes.
“How long have you been standing there?” Violet asked.
Delaney leaned over to unclip Woollcott’s leash. Though Violet yearned to ride the crest of this heady feeling awhile longer, she knew she was treading dangerous waters, and she couldn’t risk frightening her fragile niece. So while the girl was distracted, she quickly shut the Algonquin guest book, which was accompanied by a jolt that made her gasp—it felt as if the marble in her belly flew up her gullet and out her mouth. Immediately, the room got duller and she felt depleted.
“Was that really Carl?” Delaney asked, as she scratched Woollcott behind the ears.
“Yes.”
Delaney lifted her head, smiling. “Wow.”
“ ‘Wow’?”
“I didn’t know you had it in you, Aunt V!”
Violet had to sit down. This wasn’t the reaction she was expecting. She was sure the Jekyll-and-Hyde transformation would terrify her niece, but it hadn’t.
The kid was proud of her.
Chapter 8
“Do you have your sheet music?” Violet asked, as she loaded the breakfast plates into the dishwasher. The girl was sitting on the floor, playing with Woollcott. The neon fish was a hit.
“It’s in my binder,” Delaney said, as she pulled the plastic toy from the dog’s mouth. She tossed it to the corner of the kitchen, and he dashed for it.
It was Sunday morning, and they were getting ready to leave for Delaney’s lesson. Earlier, the girl had told her aunt she was working on a piece she would play at the upcoming recital but wouldn’t say which song it was. She wanted it to be a surprise.
Violet glanced over her shoulder and saw Delaney’s binder on the kitchen table. She went back to doing the dishes. “Why were your lessons switched to Sundays?”
“Good boy,” Delaney said to Woollcott. “I don’t know. I think His Royal Orangeness was busy on Thursday nights or something. But all he ever does is stay in the basement on his computer. And Lady Munchausen doesn’t drive if it’s dark out. Or raining. Or if there’s a cloud anywhere in the Western Hemisphere.”
Violet smiled. Delaney reminded her so much of herself as a kid. Or, rather, the kid she would have been if she wasn’t afraid to open her mouth.
The doorbell rang, and Violet stopped what she was doing. Whocould be dropping by on a Sunday morning? Please, God, she thought, don’t let it be Carl.
Delaney was watching her, so she tried to appear nonchalant as she shook the water off a plate and slipped it into the dishwasher. She dried her hands on a towel.
“I’ll get it,” Delaney said.
“Let me,” Violet said.
The girl smiled, excited. “You think it’s Vincent van Loser?” she said, following her aunt to the door. “I’d love to see you give it to him again!”
Violet took a deep breath.
I thought I made myself perfectly clear,
she rehearsed in her head. She wasn’t going to let him in, and she wasn’t going to back down. She swung open the door.
“Malcolm!” she said, letting out a long breath. “This is a—”
“Oh, no,” Delaney said. “Not
him.
”
“Hello, ladies.” He grinned, and in the morning light Violet noticed that his teeth were
“I guess so.”
“You
guess
so?” Violet could hear the strength in her own voice. She was powerful, intimidating. She was Meryl Streep in
The Devil Wears Prada.
She was Glenn Close in
Fatal Attraction.
She was Faye Dunaway as Joan Crawford. Or Joan Crawford as herself.
Hell, she was the Terminator.
“I mean…yes,” Carl stammered.
“That’s better. Now lose my number, forget my address, and run along like a good little boy. We will not speak again. Good-bye, Carl.”
Violet hung up the phone and rose, feeling tall and tough. She knew she should close Dorothy Parker back into the book, but she wanted toenjoy the exhilaration of power for just a few more moments. Then she heard a tiny voice behind her.
“Aunt V?”
Violet turned and saw her niece at the door, a confused look in her eyes.
“How long have you been standing there?” Violet asked.
Delaney leaned over to unclip Woollcott’s leash. Though Violet yearned to ride the crest of this heady feeling awhile longer, she knew she was treading dangerous waters, and she couldn’t risk frightening her fragile niece. So while the girl was distracted, she quickly shut the Algonquin guest book, which was accompanied by a jolt that made her gasp—it felt as if the marble in her belly flew up her gullet and out her mouth. Immediately, the room got duller and she felt depleted.
“Was that really Carl?” Delaney asked, as she scratched Woollcott behind the ears.
“Yes.”
Delaney lifted her head, smiling. “Wow.”
“ ‘Wow’?”
“I didn’t know you had it in you, Aunt V!”
Violet had to sit down. This wasn’t the reaction she was expecting. She was sure the Jekyll-and-Hyde transformation would terrify her niece, but it hadn’t.
The kid was proud of her.
Chapter 8
“Do you have your sheet music?” Violet asked, as she loaded the breakfast plates into the dishwasher. The girl was sitting on the floor, playing with Woollcott. The neon fish was a hit.
“It’s in my binder,” Delaney said, as she pulled the plastic toy from the dog’s mouth. She tossed it to the corner of the kitchen, and he dashed for it.
It was Sunday morning, and they were getting ready to leave for Delaney’s lesson. Earlier, the girl had told her aunt she was working on a piece she would play at the upcoming recital but wouldn’t say which song it was. She wanted it to be a surprise.
Violet glanced over her shoulder and saw Delaney’s binder on the kitchen table. She went back to doing the dishes. “Why were your lessons switched to Sundays?”
“Good boy,” Delaney said to Woollcott. “I don’t know. I think His Royal Orangeness was busy on Thursday nights or something. But all he ever does is stay in the basement on his computer. And Lady Munchausen doesn’t drive if it’s dark out. Or raining. Or if there’s a cloud anywhere in the Western Hemisphere.”
Violet smiled. Delaney reminded her so much of herself as a kid. Or, rather, the kid she would have been if she wasn’t afraid to open her mouth.
The doorbell rang, and Violet stopped what she was doing. Whocould be dropping by on a Sunday morning? Please, God, she thought, don’t let it be Carl.
Delaney was watching her, so she tried to appear nonchalant as she shook the water off a plate and slipped it into the dishwasher. She dried her hands on a towel.
“I’ll get it,” Delaney said.
“Let me,” Violet said.
The girl smiled, excited. “You think it’s Vincent van Loser?” she said, following her aunt to the door. “I’d love to see you give it to him again!”
Violet took a deep breath.
I thought I made myself perfectly clear,
she rehearsed in her head. She wasn’t going to let him in, and she wasn’t going to back down. She swung open the door.
“Malcolm!” she said, letting out a long breath. “This is a—”
“Oh, no,” Delaney said. “Not
him.
”
“Hello, ladies.” He grinned, and in the morning light Violet noticed that his teeth were
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