phone.
Studying the younger version of the lawyer, she found herself projecting all sorts of qualities on her. Bulldoggish. Homely. Cruel, but accurate. What was it like to be an ugly woman? Cassandra, like every woman she knew, was full of self-doubt about her own appearance, had several moments every day when she was disappointed by the face she saw in the mirror. The older she got, the more she felt that way. Yet she also knew, on some level, that she would never be described as ugly. What would that be like? Obviously, she wouldnât enjoy it, althoughâthis just occurred to herâphysical attractiveness didnât seem to have much to do with whether women were paired or single. The plain women she knew seemed to do better relationship-wise. There had been some faux-economic explanation of this recently, an appalling bit of pop journalism that had boiled down to the usual advice: Youâre not getting any younger, so you better take what you can get.
Cassandra, a two-time loser at matrimony, had no interest in getting back into the pool, especially after her second husbandâs attempt to break their prenup. That was pure blackmail, and it had worked: She had given him more than he deserved in the hope that he wouldnât gossip about her. She still liked menâshe had a married lover, in fact, someone ideal, who required almost no attentionâbut she had no use for marriage. Her father was right: Marriage had nothing to do with romance. The end of her first marriage had been truly tragicâher college sweetheart, undone by demons he had hid all those years, destroying them both financially. The second one had been a mistake, plain and simple, and her account of it had been a cautionary tale that boiled down to this: If, on the eve of your wedding, you wonder if you are making a terrible mistakeâyou are.
She inserted the 1995 reel, the one that held the story of Callieâs release, interested to see if the photo could reveal anything about the experience of seven years in jail. Funny, Callie was coming out of jail about the same time Cassandra started writing. In the second photograph, Callie actually looked better physically, but her expression was incredibly sad. To Cassandraâs eyes, this was not a woman who felt vindicated. But thenâwhy would she? Callie, upon her release, was still a woman believed to have killed her child and to have evaded justice on what many would call a technicality, a trick.
The homely lawyer was gone, replaced by a man. A strikingly handsome man. He seemed happy, at leastânot out-and-out grinning, but allowing a tight smile that showed the hint of a dimple. Reginald Barrâthe name was dimly familiar. Tisha had been Tisha Barr and she had a little brother, but he was known as Candy, in part because he was sweet, just a total charmer. But there was another, more peculiar reason for the name. The Reggie bar? No, that came much later. Candyâs nickname was from his signature dance, the way he imitated an obscure singing group.
Cassandraâs mind, when it raced toward a stray memory, was like a horse heading for a fence. She either slammed into the limits of her own mind or sailed over, finding what she needed. But she knew this; it had come up in her first book. The Astors, another quartet of Temptations wannabes. She had watched them on some dance showâ AmericanBandstand or Baltimoreâs own Kirby Scott?âand her father couldnât shut up about the name. âThe Astors! The Astors ! I wonder how much of the family fortune they inherited.â
But there was a part where the singers simulated bees buzzing around the sweet girlâs head, and Candy Barr had turned that into a comic bit, slapping at the horde in mock terror. He also had a funny, hop-hop pelvis move, extremely precocious, a little nasty. Whenever he started doing that, Tisha chased him from the room. Gee-whiz â¦something, something.
So
Studying the younger version of the lawyer, she found herself projecting all sorts of qualities on her. Bulldoggish. Homely. Cruel, but accurate. What was it like to be an ugly woman? Cassandra, like every woman she knew, was full of self-doubt about her own appearance, had several moments every day when she was disappointed by the face she saw in the mirror. The older she got, the more she felt that way. Yet she also knew, on some level, that she would never be described as ugly. What would that be like? Obviously, she wouldnât enjoy it, althoughâthis just occurred to herâphysical attractiveness didnât seem to have much to do with whether women were paired or single. The plain women she knew seemed to do better relationship-wise. There had been some faux-economic explanation of this recently, an appalling bit of pop journalism that had boiled down to the usual advice: Youâre not getting any younger, so you better take what you can get.
Cassandra, a two-time loser at matrimony, had no interest in getting back into the pool, especially after her second husbandâs attempt to break their prenup. That was pure blackmail, and it had worked: She had given him more than he deserved in the hope that he wouldnât gossip about her. She still liked menâshe had a married lover, in fact, someone ideal, who required almost no attentionâbut she had no use for marriage. Her father was right: Marriage had nothing to do with romance. The end of her first marriage had been truly tragicâher college sweetheart, undone by demons he had hid all those years, destroying them both financially. The second one had been a mistake, plain and simple, and her account of it had been a cautionary tale that boiled down to this: If, on the eve of your wedding, you wonder if you are making a terrible mistakeâyou are.
She inserted the 1995 reel, the one that held the story of Callieâs release, interested to see if the photo could reveal anything about the experience of seven years in jail. Funny, Callie was coming out of jail about the same time Cassandra started writing. In the second photograph, Callie actually looked better physically, but her expression was incredibly sad. To Cassandraâs eyes, this was not a woman who felt vindicated. But thenâwhy would she? Callie, upon her release, was still a woman believed to have killed her child and to have evaded justice on what many would call a technicality, a trick.
The homely lawyer was gone, replaced by a man. A strikingly handsome man. He seemed happy, at leastânot out-and-out grinning, but allowing a tight smile that showed the hint of a dimple. Reginald Barrâthe name was dimly familiar. Tisha had been Tisha Barr and she had a little brother, but he was known as Candy, in part because he was sweet, just a total charmer. But there was another, more peculiar reason for the name. The Reggie bar? No, that came much later. Candyâs nickname was from his signature dance, the way he imitated an obscure singing group.
Cassandraâs mind, when it raced toward a stray memory, was like a horse heading for a fence. She either slammed into the limits of her own mind or sailed over, finding what she needed. But she knew this; it had come up in her first book. The Astors, another quartet of Temptations wannabes. She had watched them on some dance showâ AmericanBandstand or Baltimoreâs own Kirby Scott?âand her father couldnât shut up about the name. âThe Astors! The Astors ! I wonder how much of the family fortune they inherited.â
But there was a part where the singers simulated bees buzzing around the sweet girlâs head, and Candy Barr had turned that into a comic bit, slapping at the horde in mock terror. He also had a funny, hop-hop pelvis move, extremely precocious, a little nasty. Whenever he started doing that, Tisha chased him from the room. Gee-whiz â¦something, something.
So
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