cushions complemented two very fine Persian rugs. These pulled her apartments together and created a sense of careless, comfortable luxury far above their actual monetary value.
The current apartment was a spacious floor-through. To counteract the basement’s natural darkness, Anne had hung on the front wall a sunburst-patterned patchwork quilt inherited from her grandmother. On the opposite wall was a large blowup of one of her award-winning photographs. Three women whose strong features proclaimed them mother, daughter, and granddaughter stood with linked hands. All three were dressed in dazzling white slacks and sweaters. Spring sunlight glanced off the gleaming white Washington Monument behind them and turned the yellow sashes they wore into gold. The granddaughter’s sash bulged over a baby carrier on her chest. Only the back of the baby’s fuzzy dark head could be seen but a bright purple balloon tied to its carrier read “I’m a choice!”
A laminated life-sized cutout of Anne herself stood just inside the door, arms outstretched in welcome. It was a long-ago housewarming gift from a fellow photographer and Anne used it as a coat tree. Sigrid added her coat and scarf as Anne brought in tea and placed the tray on a trunk that served as a coffee table between the two futons.
Without asking how Sigrid wanted hers, Anne filled a chipped mug from the elegant teapot, added a slice of lemon, stirred in a spoonful of honey and handed it over to her daughter.
Sigrid smiled at the mismatched mugs, the silver badly in need of a good polishing, and the chipped pottery platter of wheat rolls and butter. “Grandmother would have a fit if she saw this.”
“She has seen it,” Anne smiled back. “And every time, she threatens to send me a gallon of silver polish and ten place settings of her Royal Doulton.”
Sigrid buttered a roll and bit into it hungrily. “I’d almost forgotten you even had this tea set.”
“Me, too,” Anne admitted. “I came across it when I was hunting for these.” She pushed two picture frames across the trunk top to Sigrid.
Like the ornate tea set, they were sterling silver and badly tarnished.
The tea set had been a wedding present from Anne’s paternal grandmother, a traditional Southerner who had considered silver and crystal as much a prerequisite to marriage as the license; and Sigrid suspected that the frames were also wedding gifts. They were chased with borders of delicate wildflowers and would probably polish up beautifully.
“Who gave you these?”
“Your Aunt Kirsten and Uncle Lars,” Anne said, naming the two who’d been Sigrid’s closest substitute for grandparents on her Harald side. “They were brought from Copenhagen around 1890. I thought you might like to have them.”
“I would,” said Sigrid.
She had never been sentimental about family heirlooms, especially heirlooms that had to be polished or treated gingerly, but these seemed appropriate for her father’s pictures and she immediately slipped one into each frame. A perfect fit. She stood them up side by side on the trunk top. “Thanks, Mother.”
Anne rose abruptly. ‘‘I’ll get the box. Mind, these aren’t your birthday present. You don’t get that till next week.”
With Sigrid’s birthday on the eighth and Anne’s on the twenty-second, the established ritual called for dinner together and an exchange of presents on the fifteenth if Anne were in town.
Sigrid watched her mother swathe the pictures in old Christmas tissue and put them back in a box. She was puzzled by the sudden return of Anne’s edginess. “Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?”
“Why do you keep asking me that?” Anne snapped.
“You just don’t seem yourself tonight. Was it a rough day or something?”
“Or something.” She seemed to hear the waspish tone in her voice and forced a smile. “Sorry. I guess the years are getting to me.” She spooned more honey into her own mug and stirred it
The current apartment was a spacious floor-through. To counteract the basement’s natural darkness, Anne had hung on the front wall a sunburst-patterned patchwork quilt inherited from her grandmother. On the opposite wall was a large blowup of one of her award-winning photographs. Three women whose strong features proclaimed them mother, daughter, and granddaughter stood with linked hands. All three were dressed in dazzling white slacks and sweaters. Spring sunlight glanced off the gleaming white Washington Monument behind them and turned the yellow sashes they wore into gold. The granddaughter’s sash bulged over a baby carrier on her chest. Only the back of the baby’s fuzzy dark head could be seen but a bright purple balloon tied to its carrier read “I’m a choice!”
A laminated life-sized cutout of Anne herself stood just inside the door, arms outstretched in welcome. It was a long-ago housewarming gift from a fellow photographer and Anne used it as a coat tree. Sigrid added her coat and scarf as Anne brought in tea and placed the tray on a trunk that served as a coffee table between the two futons.
Without asking how Sigrid wanted hers, Anne filled a chipped mug from the elegant teapot, added a slice of lemon, stirred in a spoonful of honey and handed it over to her daughter.
Sigrid smiled at the mismatched mugs, the silver badly in need of a good polishing, and the chipped pottery platter of wheat rolls and butter. “Grandmother would have a fit if she saw this.”
“She has seen it,” Anne smiled back. “And every time, she threatens to send me a gallon of silver polish and ten place settings of her Royal Doulton.”
Sigrid buttered a roll and bit into it hungrily. “I’d almost forgotten you even had this tea set.”
“Me, too,” Anne admitted. “I came across it when I was hunting for these.” She pushed two picture frames across the trunk top to Sigrid.
Like the ornate tea set, they were sterling silver and badly tarnished.
The tea set had been a wedding present from Anne’s paternal grandmother, a traditional Southerner who had considered silver and crystal as much a prerequisite to marriage as the license; and Sigrid suspected that the frames were also wedding gifts. They were chased with borders of delicate wildflowers and would probably polish up beautifully.
“Who gave you these?”
“Your Aunt Kirsten and Uncle Lars,” Anne said, naming the two who’d been Sigrid’s closest substitute for grandparents on her Harald side. “They were brought from Copenhagen around 1890. I thought you might like to have them.”
“I would,” said Sigrid.
She had never been sentimental about family heirlooms, especially heirlooms that had to be polished or treated gingerly, but these seemed appropriate for her father’s pictures and she immediately slipped one into each frame. A perfect fit. She stood them up side by side on the trunk top. “Thanks, Mother.”
Anne rose abruptly. ‘‘I’ll get the box. Mind, these aren’t your birthday present. You don’t get that till next week.”
With Sigrid’s birthday on the eighth and Anne’s on the twenty-second, the established ritual called for dinner together and an exchange of presents on the fifteenth if Anne were in town.
Sigrid watched her mother swathe the pictures in old Christmas tissue and put them back in a box. She was puzzled by the sudden return of Anne’s edginess. “Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?”
“Why do you keep asking me that?” Anne snapped.
“You just don’t seem yourself tonight. Was it a rough day or something?”
“Or something.” She seemed to hear the waspish tone in her voice and forced a smile. “Sorry. I guess the years are getting to me.” She spooned more honey into her own mug and stirred it
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