leaves.
Overhead, a hinged screen kept grapes safely at bay, protecting anyone seated in the arbor from falling grapes and the yellow jackets that dined on the fermented fruit.
An attractive young woman wheeled out a laden cart.
Victoria was about to say she had very little appetite, when she looked more closely at the cart and decided she was hungry after all.
Courtney, the young woman, served. Dorothy and Victoria talked about poetry, about Victoria’s work as a police officer. Dorothy had done her homework, and Victoria felt slightly ashamed that she knew nothing about Dorothy. They spooned up a cold potato soup and talked, moved on to a seafood salad and talked, continued on to crackers, assorted cheeses, and fruit, and talked some more.
The luncheon over, Victoria looked at her watch. A large part of the afternoon had gone by. She’d meant to ask Dorothy how she’d learned about Orion’s fiber-optics project and the Ditch Witch drill, and, in some indirect way, how she’d obtained the machine and how she was paying for it. Although, when she looked around Dorothy’s house and grounds, money didn’t seem to be a problem.
But it was time to go. “Thank you so much, Dorothy.”
Tim handed her into the passenger seat and they backed out onto North Water Street and headed out of town through the maze of one-way streets.
On the way, Victoria realized that she had meant to ask Dorothy about Angelo Vulpone’s death and find out if Dorothy had any insight on the murder, but the entire conversation had revolved around Victoria, and she, who was usually sensitive to the niceties of polite conversation, hadn’t even been aware of the way Dorothy had allowed her to monopolize it. She hadn’t gotten to know Dorothy at all, and Dorothy had found out much too much about her.
* * *
The luncheon had been pleasant, starting and ending with a ride in the Rolls-Royce. Victoria settled into her seat at the cookroom table and thought about it. The food had been prepared perfectly and served beautifully.
But something she couldn’t quite put her finger on left her feeling uneasy. She lifted her typewriter onto the table and removed the cover. She would write a sestina, one that explored reality and perception.
Dorothy’s had been a perfect setting. Off to one side a small waterfall trickled musically onto stones set just so around the small artificial pond. Even the shutters on the house were in perfect repair, the shingles a uniform silver. Victoria’s had weathered unevenly as she’d replaced patches here and there.
She rolled a sheet of paper into her typewriter and typed the date. She lifted her hands from the keys.
What was it that bothered her so much? It had been a picture-perfect setting with a perfectly charming hostess presiding. The hostess even had copies of all of her poetry books, all of them protected in plastic archival covers.
That was the key, she suddenly realized. Her poetry books. They shouldn’t be protected from anything. She’d have felt much better if her books had been thumbed through with dog-eared pages and an occasional penciled note.
Fingerprints and smears and stains meant use.
Victoria gazed out the window at a newly patched section on the side of her own house, yellow and raw, tucked in among the older silvery shingles. Neither she nor her house would ever be as perfectly put-together as Dorothy Roche and her house.
The more she thought about her shabby house and overgrown garden, her lawn with its dandelions and clover and plantain and who-knows-what wild grasses, the more uneasy she felt.
And then it all came together.
Her house was the way a house should be, lived in and loved. Dorothy’s house and Dorothy, herself, were phony.
Nothing she’d seen today was real. The house and grounds and Dorothy were all artificial.
This revelation made Victoria feel much better. She turned back to her typewriter and began to write her poem about perception and
Overhead, a hinged screen kept grapes safely at bay, protecting anyone seated in the arbor from falling grapes and the yellow jackets that dined on the fermented fruit.
An attractive young woman wheeled out a laden cart.
Victoria was about to say she had very little appetite, when she looked more closely at the cart and decided she was hungry after all.
Courtney, the young woman, served. Dorothy and Victoria talked about poetry, about Victoria’s work as a police officer. Dorothy had done her homework, and Victoria felt slightly ashamed that she knew nothing about Dorothy. They spooned up a cold potato soup and talked, moved on to a seafood salad and talked, continued on to crackers, assorted cheeses, and fruit, and talked some more.
The luncheon over, Victoria looked at her watch. A large part of the afternoon had gone by. She’d meant to ask Dorothy how she’d learned about Orion’s fiber-optics project and the Ditch Witch drill, and, in some indirect way, how she’d obtained the machine and how she was paying for it. Although, when she looked around Dorothy’s house and grounds, money didn’t seem to be a problem.
But it was time to go. “Thank you so much, Dorothy.”
Tim handed her into the passenger seat and they backed out onto North Water Street and headed out of town through the maze of one-way streets.
On the way, Victoria realized that she had meant to ask Dorothy about Angelo Vulpone’s death and find out if Dorothy had any insight on the murder, but the entire conversation had revolved around Victoria, and she, who was usually sensitive to the niceties of polite conversation, hadn’t even been aware of the way Dorothy had allowed her to monopolize it. She hadn’t gotten to know Dorothy at all, and Dorothy had found out much too much about her.
* * *
The luncheon had been pleasant, starting and ending with a ride in the Rolls-Royce. Victoria settled into her seat at the cookroom table and thought about it. The food had been prepared perfectly and served beautifully.
But something she couldn’t quite put her finger on left her feeling uneasy. She lifted her typewriter onto the table and removed the cover. She would write a sestina, one that explored reality and perception.
Dorothy’s had been a perfect setting. Off to one side a small waterfall trickled musically onto stones set just so around the small artificial pond. Even the shutters on the house were in perfect repair, the shingles a uniform silver. Victoria’s had weathered unevenly as she’d replaced patches here and there.
She rolled a sheet of paper into her typewriter and typed the date. She lifted her hands from the keys.
What was it that bothered her so much? It had been a picture-perfect setting with a perfectly charming hostess presiding. The hostess even had copies of all of her poetry books, all of them protected in plastic archival covers.
That was the key, she suddenly realized. Her poetry books. They shouldn’t be protected from anything. She’d have felt much better if her books had been thumbed through with dog-eared pages and an occasional penciled note.
Fingerprints and smears and stains meant use.
Victoria gazed out the window at a newly patched section on the side of her own house, yellow and raw, tucked in among the older silvery shingles. Neither she nor her house would ever be as perfectly put-together as Dorothy Roche and her house.
The more she thought about her shabby house and overgrown garden, her lawn with its dandelions and clover and plantain and who-knows-what wild grasses, the more uneasy she felt.
And then it all came together.
Her house was the way a house should be, lived in and loved. Dorothy’s house and Dorothy, herself, were phony.
Nothing she’d seen today was real. The house and grounds and Dorothy were all artificial.
This revelation made Victoria feel much better. She turned back to her typewriter and began to write her poem about perception and
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