was high-pitched with excitement.
There was a lull while Martha took in this news. Then, “Who, exactly?” she asked, wearily, because this was not Lucy’s first foray into love, and when Martha had seen her a few weeks ago she was not even attached. Nor, as far as she had known, was she seeing anyone in particular.
“His name is Ahmet.” Lucy told her quickly all about him. He was not an Englishman, he was “foreign.” When Martha asked exactly what kind of “foreign,” Lucy told her he was probably Croatian, and a millionaire. “And good-looking,” she added, sounding more thoughtful. “And sexy.”
Oh God, Martha thought, she’s done it again. Lucy fell in love at the drop of a hat. And besides, no Croatians were called “Ahmet.”
“Maybe I’ll bring him over to New York to meet you,” Lucy told her in that rapid-fire way of speaking she had. “And I want to meet your Marco.”
“He’s not exactly my Marco.” Martha wished he was though.
“Anyhow, this guy owns a yacht. He asked me out on it.”
“ What? You didn’t go, did you?”
“Of course I didn’t, I’m not that daft.” Lucy was laughing. “Not yet, anyhow. But you’ll get to meet him. We’ll have dinner or something. Talk to you later.” And Lucy rang off.
Just what I need, Martha thought, switching off her cell phone. Lucy was the youngest, just seventeen, and most irresponsible of the three sisters. The eldest, Sarah, was a pediatrician in England. Lucy was supposed to be at drama school, auditioning for acting jobs, but was perpetually out of work “seeing how the real world lives.” A typical Lucy remark if there ever was one.
In Martha’s opinion their parents had indulged Lucy shamefully. The family lived at Patrons Hall, “the Ancestral Home,” as Marco had called it, amused, when Martha had taken him for a quick visit. They’d been en route to Paris with a stopover in London, when she’d rented a small car and driven them there, whizzing fast down the motorway with Marco flinching next to her while she laughed at his fears and told him she had been doing this route for years, knew it like the back of her hand. She did, but he’d still heaved a sigh of relief when they arrived without incident.
Martha remembered turning to look at Marco sitting silently in the seat next to her. He was staring intently at the rambling, creamy-stone house with what she recognized as his “painter’s eyes,” a special look where he seemed to absorb a place, or a person, somewhere deep within his brain, in his soul perhaps. That was one of the reasons he was such a good artist. A great artist, it had often been said, though Marco would only describe himself, simply, as “a painter.”
“I’m looking at history,” he’d said quietly. “I’m looking at masons and woodworkers, at slate that must have been mined locally, for nothing came from far away, not when this place was first built. Elizabethan chimneys, Queen Anne tiles, Victorian gothic architraves…”
“And antique boilers that barely keep the place warm,” Martha said, laughing because it had always been that way. She remembered men standing by the fire after a dinner, lifting their coat tails to warm their backsides while the women, gorgeous in their sleeveless silk and jewels, fanned themselves as if too hot because to admit they were not would have been rude to their hostess, who was, in this memory of Martha’s, her grandmother.
Still, whatever its defects, Patrons Hall was home and always would be, and nothing, not the small flat in London’s Chelsea, nor her charming, cozy-in-winter-cooled-by-air-conditioning-in-summer Manhattan apartment would ever replace it in Martha’s heart.
Now she sighed: there was a new man on the scene who Martha would have to deal with. She’d probably have to extricate her sister from his clutches, at a time when she had so much personal stuff on her mind. Lucy was small, she was blond, she had Martha’s clear blue
There was a lull while Martha took in this news. Then, “Who, exactly?” she asked, wearily, because this was not Lucy’s first foray into love, and when Martha had seen her a few weeks ago she was not even attached. Nor, as far as she had known, was she seeing anyone in particular.
“His name is Ahmet.” Lucy told her quickly all about him. He was not an Englishman, he was “foreign.” When Martha asked exactly what kind of “foreign,” Lucy told her he was probably Croatian, and a millionaire. “And good-looking,” she added, sounding more thoughtful. “And sexy.”
Oh God, Martha thought, she’s done it again. Lucy fell in love at the drop of a hat. And besides, no Croatians were called “Ahmet.”
“Maybe I’ll bring him over to New York to meet you,” Lucy told her in that rapid-fire way of speaking she had. “And I want to meet your Marco.”
“He’s not exactly my Marco.” Martha wished he was though.
“Anyhow, this guy owns a yacht. He asked me out on it.”
“ What? You didn’t go, did you?”
“Of course I didn’t, I’m not that daft.” Lucy was laughing. “Not yet, anyhow. But you’ll get to meet him. We’ll have dinner or something. Talk to you later.” And Lucy rang off.
Just what I need, Martha thought, switching off her cell phone. Lucy was the youngest, just seventeen, and most irresponsible of the three sisters. The eldest, Sarah, was a pediatrician in England. Lucy was supposed to be at drama school, auditioning for acting jobs, but was perpetually out of work “seeing how the real world lives.” A typical Lucy remark if there ever was one.
In Martha’s opinion their parents had indulged Lucy shamefully. The family lived at Patrons Hall, “the Ancestral Home,” as Marco had called it, amused, when Martha had taken him for a quick visit. They’d been en route to Paris with a stopover in London, when she’d rented a small car and driven them there, whizzing fast down the motorway with Marco flinching next to her while she laughed at his fears and told him she had been doing this route for years, knew it like the back of her hand. She did, but he’d still heaved a sigh of relief when they arrived without incident.
Martha remembered turning to look at Marco sitting silently in the seat next to her. He was staring intently at the rambling, creamy-stone house with what she recognized as his “painter’s eyes,” a special look where he seemed to absorb a place, or a person, somewhere deep within his brain, in his soul perhaps. That was one of the reasons he was such a good artist. A great artist, it had often been said, though Marco would only describe himself, simply, as “a painter.”
“I’m looking at history,” he’d said quietly. “I’m looking at masons and woodworkers, at slate that must have been mined locally, for nothing came from far away, not when this place was first built. Elizabethan chimneys, Queen Anne tiles, Victorian gothic architraves…”
“And antique boilers that barely keep the place warm,” Martha said, laughing because it had always been that way. She remembered men standing by the fire after a dinner, lifting their coat tails to warm their backsides while the women, gorgeous in their sleeveless silk and jewels, fanned themselves as if too hot because to admit they were not would have been rude to their hostess, who was, in this memory of Martha’s, her grandmother.
Still, whatever its defects, Patrons Hall was home and always would be, and nothing, not the small flat in London’s Chelsea, nor her charming, cozy-in-winter-cooled-by-air-conditioning-in-summer Manhattan apartment would ever replace it in Martha’s heart.
Now she sighed: there was a new man on the scene who Martha would have to deal with. She’d probably have to extricate her sister from his clutches, at a time when she had so much personal stuff on her mind. Lucy was small, she was blond, she had Martha’s clear blue
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