home, not just a showplace like so many of the professionals’ “residences” she’d seen through the years. They couldn’t really be called homes at all; they were so prissy-neat and immaculate that you felt you had to apologize for using the “powder room.”
“What do you think?” Roger asked after they’d toured the rooms and wound up back on the flagstone patio. He’d offered no excuses for the disarray, which instilled an even deeper feeling of comradeship for him in Vicky. Hell, for her, if there really was such a place, would be anywhere in which she had to do housework. It was one more thingthat she felt she and Roger had in common. He led her through one of the glass doors flanking the fireplace into the living room, which had been furnished in earth tones, with solid tables of rich, dark wood so highly polished they appeared wet.
“Oh, who’s this with Doris ?” Vicky asked, lifting a framed photograph from a side counter. “He’s very good looking.”
“That’s Steve,” Roger replied. “The other one is of Doris and me when we were kids.”
“You’ve known each other that long, then? How nice. But how come there isn’t there a picture of the three of you together?”
Roger started to answer, but hesitated. “That’s a long story,” he said finally and turned away. “Well, what do you think of my own personal taste in decor? Mind you, it’s your taste that I’ll keep in mind if you decide to have me design your room.”
“I very much like your style,” Vicky answered, aware that Roger would understand the double meaning of her words. “Your tastes and mine match very well.” She looked again at Steve’s picture. “Very well indeed.” Her look turned thoughtful as she slowly turned to study the entire room. “I think I know what it is,” she added, studying the masculine furnishings. “Butch…yes, that’s it. Butch…but flowing.”
Chapter 5
Vicky spent the next few days in flurries of activity with Roger. They visited the shops in Harrisburg , ordering material for curtains, choosing furniture, and browsing through art galleries. Vicky especially enjoyed watching Roger squirm and turn crimson when she loudly announced to all (pretending she was hard of hearing) that they were on their honeymoon. Or, when she would bargain with the dealers and manage to secure items for lower prices than he would settle for with his decorator’s discount.
When the shopping was completed and all was in readiness for the actual work to begin, Roger insisted that Vicky move out of her room for two days, while he and his workers transformed it. She didn’t mind the move at all but, after the whirl of shopping and fun, she felt at a loss for what to do with herself at first, and then decided to explore the activities offered by the Sanctuary. She’d spent so much time away from the home that she hadn’t been able to acquaint herself with it, or with the other residents. The offer to watch Lawrence Welk a few nights before had been just that—to watch Lawrence Welk . No talking, no dancing—just watch. They might just as well have been attending a religious service—like a Judy Garland concert—but without the frenzy.
She carried her Minox everywhere, surreptitiously, hoping for a candid shot that she could enter into the Jamesville contest. But no such shot offered itself. The Sanctuary was pretty, as were some of the people in it, but pretty in itself was not interesting or unique. Many of the residents could have been photographed with a time exposure and come out sharply focused.
Classes were held in the TV room at the rear of the house, behind the parlor, and Vicky decided to try her hand at watercolors. She found it depressing. Every daub of paint she laid to paper ran to the bottom, forming a pool that she suspected, judging from the color, would make an excellent natural fertilizer.
She tried sculpting in clay, but no matter how much or how little she did to the glob of
“What do you think?” Roger asked after they’d toured the rooms and wound up back on the flagstone patio. He’d offered no excuses for the disarray, which instilled an even deeper feeling of comradeship for him in Vicky. Hell, for her, if there really was such a place, would be anywhere in which she had to do housework. It was one more thingthat she felt she and Roger had in common. He led her through one of the glass doors flanking the fireplace into the living room, which had been furnished in earth tones, with solid tables of rich, dark wood so highly polished they appeared wet.
“Oh, who’s this with Doris ?” Vicky asked, lifting a framed photograph from a side counter. “He’s very good looking.”
“That’s Steve,” Roger replied. “The other one is of Doris and me when we were kids.”
“You’ve known each other that long, then? How nice. But how come there isn’t there a picture of the three of you together?”
Roger started to answer, but hesitated. “That’s a long story,” he said finally and turned away. “Well, what do you think of my own personal taste in decor? Mind you, it’s your taste that I’ll keep in mind if you decide to have me design your room.”
“I very much like your style,” Vicky answered, aware that Roger would understand the double meaning of her words. “Your tastes and mine match very well.” She looked again at Steve’s picture. “Very well indeed.” Her look turned thoughtful as she slowly turned to study the entire room. “I think I know what it is,” she added, studying the masculine furnishings. “Butch…yes, that’s it. Butch…but flowing.”
Chapter 5
Vicky spent the next few days in flurries of activity with Roger. They visited the shops in Harrisburg , ordering material for curtains, choosing furniture, and browsing through art galleries. Vicky especially enjoyed watching Roger squirm and turn crimson when she loudly announced to all (pretending she was hard of hearing) that they were on their honeymoon. Or, when she would bargain with the dealers and manage to secure items for lower prices than he would settle for with his decorator’s discount.
When the shopping was completed and all was in readiness for the actual work to begin, Roger insisted that Vicky move out of her room for two days, while he and his workers transformed it. She didn’t mind the move at all but, after the whirl of shopping and fun, she felt at a loss for what to do with herself at first, and then decided to explore the activities offered by the Sanctuary. She’d spent so much time away from the home that she hadn’t been able to acquaint herself with it, or with the other residents. The offer to watch Lawrence Welk a few nights before had been just that—to watch Lawrence Welk . No talking, no dancing—just watch. They might just as well have been attending a religious service—like a Judy Garland concert—but without the frenzy.
She carried her Minox everywhere, surreptitiously, hoping for a candid shot that she could enter into the Jamesville contest. But no such shot offered itself. The Sanctuary was pretty, as were some of the people in it, but pretty in itself was not interesting or unique. Many of the residents could have been photographed with a time exposure and come out sharply focused.
Classes were held in the TV room at the rear of the house, behind the parlor, and Vicky decided to try her hand at watercolors. She found it depressing. Every daub of paint she laid to paper ran to the bottom, forming a pool that she suspected, judging from the color, would make an excellent natural fertilizer.
She tried sculpting in clay, but no matter how much or how little she did to the glob of
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