The Engagements by J. Courtney Sullivan Page B

or more. They told her their eldest son was now a writer of forty, with children of his own, and Frances felt a jolt go through her. Itshouldn’t be a surprise, of course, but it did shock her to remember that getting older was so inevitable. Sometimes it seemed it was only happening to her.
    Frances had imagined that they would compliment her on her house, maybe spy the baby deer who had been snacking at the bird feeder all morning. She had moved in soon after she retired. The three-bedroom stone rambler stood on a hill at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, tucked away behind a cluster of residential streets, full of pretty houses, and flowers and trees. It had dark green shutters and white trim on the garage. Towering pines stood in the front yard. She thought it was an impressive place, especially for a woman on her own.
    But when she opened the door, the first thing Howard said was, “Is that gas?”
    Hana pinched her nose. “It smells something awful in here, Frances!”
    Apparently the damn pilot light had gone out. Somehow she hadn’t noticed. It didn’t seem like much to her, but they appeared deeply concerned.
    “You could have been killed!” Hana said, running around, opening all the windows.
    Poor Howard dropped to his stomach and started fiddling with the stove.
    They reminded Frances of her younger cousins in Canada, always telling her she ought to think about selling the house and going to one of those awful retirement homes. Her glaucoma had worsened in recent years, but other than that she felt fine. She had agreed to hire a helper woman, who came in three days a week to do the bills and make sure she hadn’t dropped dead.
    “I’ve got it lit,” Howard said, triumphant. He climbed to his feet. “Well now, Frances. How the hell are you?”
    She was wildly embarrassed, and took them to a nice restaurant in town, where she hoped the food would make them forget about the gas. She ordered a steak and the first of the two martinis she always had with lunch.
    “So what’s this all about, Howard?” she asked as they handed the waiter their menus.
    He laughed. “You don’t beat around the bush. I forgot that about you.”
    “I’m seventy-three years old. There’s no longer time for beating around the bush.”
    “Well, Lou Hagopian’s the chairman at Ayer now,” he started.
    “Yes, I know.”
    “He’s decided that Ayer ought to commemorate the agency’s fiftieth anniversary with De Beers in a big way.”
    “Oh?”
    She had a vivid recollection of herself snapping at Gerry Lauck after the twenty-fifth.
Where’s my gold watch?
Frances felt a rush of guilt, even though Gerry had died ages ago.
    “They’re planning something very grand,” Howard said. bottle of winealApparentlyn“A full week of celebrations in London, where the company is headquartered. There will be lunches every day, and dinners and parties each night.”
    “My. That does sound grand.”
    “The whole thing will culminate in a big, fancy dinner and a recognition of your contributions. They’ll want you to give a few remarks. Talk about how you came up with the famous line.”
    Frances was stunned. “They want me there?”
    “Yes!” Howard said. “All expenses paid. You’ll be the star of the show.”
    There were so many things she ought to be thinking: That this was a tremendous honor. That finally she was getting her due. But the only thought she could focus on was the fact that she had nothing to wear. Her heart seized.
Seven lunches and seven dinners with the Oppenheimers?
She assumed they would not be impressed by the brown skirt suit she wore to Mass on Sundays.
    “Do you feel up to it?” Howard asked.
    “They’ll send someone along to be your companion,” his wife added. “She can help you get dressed and all. Keep an eye on you.”
    Now Frances realized why they had come in person. Hagopian had probably sent them to assess whether she was too old, too frail, too likely to let her cocktails go to her head and