family, do I, Marian?”
Oh leave me out of it, she thinks wearily.
“But I do recognize that my family, like any other American family, has always moved in a circle of like-minded people, people with the kind of common history that makes us all feel…” He ponders. He is having an actual reflective moment, Marian thinks. “Comfortable!” Barton says, triumphantly. “Now I am bringing someone into that circle, do you see? And while that is far from an impossible thing—this is America, after all—it is not simple, either. I am, so to speak, standing up for this person. I am vouching for this person, and uniting my own fortunes with those of this person.”
Marian wonders whether “this person” refers to his future wife or to Mort Klein. She imagines the two men, for a moment, standing staunchly side by side, with her cousin’s great hand around Klein’s shoulder. There is, it occurs to Marian, even a slight resemblance between them, notwithstanding the “famous” Warburg chin: a high crown and strong nose, and that certain satisfaction arising from a life lived by principle, even if it is a lousy principle. They’re a pair. They are, truly, she sees, made for each other. And isn’t it a pity Barton can’t marry the father?
Valerie, for once, is speechless.
Barton, Marian thinks, deserves everything the Celebrant is going to do to him.
“You know,” she hears herself say, “this is horrible, but I’m going to have to leave you. I need to get ready.”
They both look at her.
Ready for what? she knows they are thinking.
She wishes she had taken a moment to answer this question, herself, before speaking up.
“Ready for what?” Valerie asks, as though she is only now noticing Marian as a creature of any independent interest whatsoever.
“Dinner. I’m having dinner with one of my graduate students. A woman,” she adds, unnecessarily. “She’s in trouble with her thesis. She’s writing about the bluestockings, and she hasn’t been able to get focused. I said I would take her out to Nicola’s and we would talk about it away from the office. It might help,” she finishes lamely.
Valerie looks quizzical. “Blue stockings? I didn’t know they wore blue stockings in the eighteenth century.”
“Oh,” says Marian with a hopeful nod. “But they did. And there is so much material.”
“Well, it’s fine with me,” Barton says, plunking down his tumbler on the end table. “Only I could use some advice from you ladies, since I want to send flowers to Sophie. I went into one poky little place on Lexington and all the flowers looked half dead. I couldn’t send those.”
Valerie shakes her head in mock horror. “Naturally, you couldn’t.”
“I don’t have time to look around. Just tell me where one goes. Who does the best flowers now?” He peers, suddenly, past Marian. To the bar? No—of course, to the flowers. “Who did those?”
Valerie turns, too. The white roses with their strange pink tips, so open, nearly baroque, Marian thinks. Like a still life: White Roses in Silver Vase with Manhattan Skyline.
She bites her lip. “The White Rose.”
“Ooh!” Valerie gives a little chirp. “Yes! That’s it!”
“I can see it’s a white rose,” Barton says impatiently.
“No, it’s the shop,” Valerie says. “The shop is called the White Rose. It’s a darling place in the Village.”
“That’s too far,” he says dismissively. “I’m hardly going to go all the way down there just for flowers.”
“But you needn’t,” Valerie reassures him. “Just call them. Tell them what you want and how much you want to spend. They’ll do something beautiful. Their flowers are so lovely, everyone uses them.”
Her emphasis on “everyone” has its intended effect. Barton looks back at the flowers, frowning. “What’s the name again?” he says.
Marian smiles. Despite her anxiety, she is pleased to hear Oliver’s flowers praised. “It’s called the White Rose.”
And
Oh leave me out of it, she thinks wearily.
“But I do recognize that my family, like any other American family, has always moved in a circle of like-minded people, people with the kind of common history that makes us all feel…” He ponders. He is having an actual reflective moment, Marian thinks. “Comfortable!” Barton says, triumphantly. “Now I am bringing someone into that circle, do you see? And while that is far from an impossible thing—this is America, after all—it is not simple, either. I am, so to speak, standing up for this person. I am vouching for this person, and uniting my own fortunes with those of this person.”
Marian wonders whether “this person” refers to his future wife or to Mort Klein. She imagines the two men, for a moment, standing staunchly side by side, with her cousin’s great hand around Klein’s shoulder. There is, it occurs to Marian, even a slight resemblance between them, notwithstanding the “famous” Warburg chin: a high crown and strong nose, and that certain satisfaction arising from a life lived by principle, even if it is a lousy principle. They’re a pair. They are, truly, she sees, made for each other. And isn’t it a pity Barton can’t marry the father?
Valerie, for once, is speechless.
Barton, Marian thinks, deserves everything the Celebrant is going to do to him.
“You know,” she hears herself say, “this is horrible, but I’m going to have to leave you. I need to get ready.”
They both look at her.
Ready for what? she knows they are thinking.
She wishes she had taken a moment to answer this question, herself, before speaking up.
“Ready for what?” Valerie asks, as though she is only now noticing Marian as a creature of any independent interest whatsoever.
“Dinner. I’m having dinner with one of my graduate students. A woman,” she adds, unnecessarily. “She’s in trouble with her thesis. She’s writing about the bluestockings, and she hasn’t been able to get focused. I said I would take her out to Nicola’s and we would talk about it away from the office. It might help,” she finishes lamely.
Valerie looks quizzical. “Blue stockings? I didn’t know they wore blue stockings in the eighteenth century.”
“Oh,” says Marian with a hopeful nod. “But they did. And there is so much material.”
“Well, it’s fine with me,” Barton says, plunking down his tumbler on the end table. “Only I could use some advice from you ladies, since I want to send flowers to Sophie. I went into one poky little place on Lexington and all the flowers looked half dead. I couldn’t send those.”
Valerie shakes her head in mock horror. “Naturally, you couldn’t.”
“I don’t have time to look around. Just tell me where one goes. Who does the best flowers now?” He peers, suddenly, past Marian. To the bar? No—of course, to the flowers. “Who did those?”
Valerie turns, too. The white roses with their strange pink tips, so open, nearly baroque, Marian thinks. Like a still life: White Roses in Silver Vase with Manhattan Skyline.
She bites her lip. “The White Rose.”
“Ooh!” Valerie gives a little chirp. “Yes! That’s it!”
“I can see it’s a white rose,” Barton says impatiently.
“No, it’s the shop,” Valerie says. “The shop is called the White Rose. It’s a darling place in the Village.”
“That’s too far,” he says dismissively. “I’m hardly going to go all the way down there just for flowers.”
“But you needn’t,” Valerie reassures him. “Just call them. Tell them what you want and how much you want to spend. They’ll do something beautiful. Their flowers are so lovely, everyone uses them.”
Her emphasis on “everyone” has its intended effect. Barton looks back at the flowers, frowning. “What’s the name again?” he says.
Marian smiles. Despite her anxiety, she is pleased to hear Oliver’s flowers praised. “It’s called the White Rose.”
And
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