The Light of Paris by Eleanor Brown Page B

house and the man who bought it has turned it into a restaurant. A restaurant! In this neighborhood! Can you believe it?”
    Actually, I could. My parents’ neighborhood had been getting hipper and hipper for years, but my mother would have been unhappy with any change at all.
    â€œIs it any good?”
    â€œHow would I know? They’ve turned my front lawn into a parking lot. I’m certainly not going to eat there.”
    â€œTo be fair, it’s not really your front lawn. It’s his.”
    â€œIt’s close enough. And the noise! Trucks backing in with that dreadful beeping sound, all hours of the day and night. They’ve turned the Schulers’ lovely back deck into a seating area and there’s just the most appalling racket from the garden.”
    â€œSo, like, people eating and drinking and being happy? I can see how that would be a major bummer to have around.”
    â€œDon’t be sarcastic.”
    â€œSarcasm’s all I’ve got, Mother.” I had slept on the plane, but I was tired and my emotions were still jagged and thin.
    â€œWell, it’s nice of you to come. Isn’t Phillip missing you?”
    I neatly sidestepped the question. “Phillip has a business trip to New York this week.” This was true, but not the whole truth.
    â€œWhy didn’t you go with him? You could have gone shopping while he was working! That’s what I always used to do when your father had business in New York.” My mother clasped her hands together joyfully, like a little girl who had been given a new doll. I should have sent her to New York with Phillip. The two of them had always liked each other better than either of them seemed to like me.
    â€œWell, there’s the fact that I hate shopping.” The idea of being stuck in a store—or, even worse, a mall—for hours at a time, with nothing to do other than try on clothes made me want to gnaw my own arm off. When I’d been younger and my mother had made me go shopping for clothes, I’d always taken a book, and while she swanned around the Juniors department, I’d crawl under a clothes rack and read until she’d reached critical dressing room mass and I had to go try things on so she could criticize me in public, the way Mother Nature had intended.
    â€œSo you’re staying the whole week?”
    â€œThat was the plan,” I said. Unless Phillip had been serious, and we really were getting a divorce. A fist twisted my guts at the thought. But I wasn’t going to get into that now. I clumsily changed the subject. “Sharon said you have something to tell me?”
    â€œWell, I have some news.”
Way-ull
. Two syllables. Though she had been born and raised in Washington, D.C., a Southern accent had grown on her like wisteria. I had excised mine when I moved, taking on the bland, regionless diction of a newscaster, tired of people, including myhusband, mentally docking me two dozen IQ points whenever they heard me speak.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    â€œNothing’s wrong, Madeleine. You are so dramatic. I just wanted to tell you I’ve decided to sell the house.”
    Sharon had been gracefully backing away into the front room, and when I turned to her quickly, my eyes wide open, she all but bolted like a rabbit. I whirled back to my mother. “This house? Our house?”
    â€œOf course this house. Who else’s house would I sell? It’s too big for me, really. Lydia Endicott has the loveliest condominium not far from here, and something like that would be so much easier to take care of.”
    Because my mother never admitted to any weakness, I was instantly on alert. She woke up every morning and had dry toast and coffee for breakfast, while torturing whichever housekeeper was unfortunate enough to be in her employ at that time. She dressed (perfectly), she gardened (beautifully), she went to some luncheon function (elegantly), she played