modernized kitchen. And, oh, another bedroom for Lillian and Latisha for the nights they spent with us. And, of course, a bathroom for each bedroom.
Then there were what I would call the public rooms—maybe a double living room with facing fireplaces and a dining room large enough for my table to be fully extended, both with plenty of room to receive any number of guests. And a foyer and halls—there would have to be space for that. I just hate dark, narrow hallways, so they should be at least five or so feet wide upstairs and down-, wherever we needed hallways.
How many square feet, I wondered, would a house have to be to accommodate all the rooms I would want? I had no idea. I knew only that if we were to build something, it should be exactly what we wanted. No need to go to the trouble and the expense to end up with anything less.
I sighed, put aside my daydreaming, and picked up my pen. I had a party to give. As I looked at the lengthening guest list, I had an inspiration—not a party but a soiree! Put them on notice right at the beginning that it would be special. Now, of course, I knew that, strictly speaking, a soiree is an evening affair, but I also knew that people in New Orleans called almost everything—morning, noon, or night—a soiree. So what I could do was to change the times to, say, from four to five for the first group and from five to six for the second, which would be close enough to qualify as an evening affair. And if anybody wanted to stay the whole two hours, why, that would be fine, too.
Music,
I thought. A soiree would require background music, and something more than the FM radio or the Christmas tape Lloyd had put together. Then I thought of Sara O’Neill—she played the harp when the Episcopal church had special musical programs, and I’m talking about one of those huge instruments, which required her to wear a long dress so she could straddle it, not one of those mouth organs. Or was I mixing it up with a cello, which I was sure required an unladylike position?
Sara would know how she was to sit, and with her name, she was undoubtedly of Irish descent, and weren’t they great harp players? Or was I stereotyping her? Another thing Connie accused us of doing.
Well, whatever.
The music would be beautiful, all in the background, of course. I wasn’t looking for a recital, where people would have to sit and listen instead of talk and mingle.
But where to put her? Those harps were quite large, and just one of them with Sara next to it would take up a fourth of my living room. The back hall? Maybe close off the kitchen door and stick Sara and her harp back there under the stairs. People would see her as they moved from the living room to the library, where I would put a red felt floor-length cloth over the mahogany desk with another punch bowl on it along with a couple of trays of finger food.
Of course, putting Sara and her harp in the back hall might interfere with access to the downstairs bathroom, which could be a problem with so many ladies in the house. They’d have to go upstairs, which would be fine for everybody except Miss Mattie Freeman, who’d never make the climb in time. I sighed, knowing I couldn’t make it perfect for everyone. Another reason, I thought, with some justifiable pleasure, to consider building a new house.
With a sudden intake of breath it came to me that I might be in the process of falling in with what Connie had recommended—doing away with the old and building the new.
That decided it, right then and there, my old house suited me just fine. I wasn’t in the mood to rehabilitate anything and daydreaming wasn’t getting my soiree planned.
So to get myself back into a party mood, I wrote out “A Christmas Soiree” to see how it would look on an invitation. I liked it, and if Connie Clayborn wasn’t impressed with the way we did things in Abbotsville, she could go back to Boston. Or to Switzerland, which would be even better.
Chapter 8
I put
Then there were what I would call the public rooms—maybe a double living room with facing fireplaces and a dining room large enough for my table to be fully extended, both with plenty of room to receive any number of guests. And a foyer and halls—there would have to be space for that. I just hate dark, narrow hallways, so they should be at least five or so feet wide upstairs and down-, wherever we needed hallways.
How many square feet, I wondered, would a house have to be to accommodate all the rooms I would want? I had no idea. I knew only that if we were to build something, it should be exactly what we wanted. No need to go to the trouble and the expense to end up with anything less.
I sighed, put aside my daydreaming, and picked up my pen. I had a party to give. As I looked at the lengthening guest list, I had an inspiration—not a party but a soiree! Put them on notice right at the beginning that it would be special. Now, of course, I knew that, strictly speaking, a soiree is an evening affair, but I also knew that people in New Orleans called almost everything—morning, noon, or night—a soiree. So what I could do was to change the times to, say, from four to five for the first group and from five to six for the second, which would be close enough to qualify as an evening affair. And if anybody wanted to stay the whole two hours, why, that would be fine, too.
Music,
I thought. A soiree would require background music, and something more than the FM radio or the Christmas tape Lloyd had put together. Then I thought of Sara O’Neill—she played the harp when the Episcopal church had special musical programs, and I’m talking about one of those huge instruments, which required her to wear a long dress so she could straddle it, not one of those mouth organs. Or was I mixing it up with a cello, which I was sure required an unladylike position?
Sara would know how she was to sit, and with her name, she was undoubtedly of Irish descent, and weren’t they great harp players? Or was I stereotyping her? Another thing Connie accused us of doing.
Well, whatever.
The music would be beautiful, all in the background, of course. I wasn’t looking for a recital, where people would have to sit and listen instead of talk and mingle.
But where to put her? Those harps were quite large, and just one of them with Sara next to it would take up a fourth of my living room. The back hall? Maybe close off the kitchen door and stick Sara and her harp back there under the stairs. People would see her as they moved from the living room to the library, where I would put a red felt floor-length cloth over the mahogany desk with another punch bowl on it along with a couple of trays of finger food.
Of course, putting Sara and her harp in the back hall might interfere with access to the downstairs bathroom, which could be a problem with so many ladies in the house. They’d have to go upstairs, which would be fine for everybody except Miss Mattie Freeman, who’d never make the climb in time. I sighed, knowing I couldn’t make it perfect for everyone. Another reason, I thought, with some justifiable pleasure, to consider building a new house.
With a sudden intake of breath it came to me that I might be in the process of falling in with what Connie had recommended—doing away with the old and building the new.
That decided it, right then and there, my old house suited me just fine. I wasn’t in the mood to rehabilitate anything and daydreaming wasn’t getting my soiree planned.
So to get myself back into a party mood, I wrote out “A Christmas Soiree” to see how it would look on an invitation. I liked it, and if Connie Clayborn wasn’t impressed with the way we did things in Abbotsville, she could go back to Boston. Or to Switzerland, which would be even better.
Chapter 8
I put
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