page 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | all | buy The Ireland trip had been her last vacation with Christopher, a romantic trip without the girls and filled with night after night in which they turned in early, eager to be alone. They'd laughed as they steered awkwardly around the jaw-droppingly beautiful coast, neither of them quite comfortable driving a stick shift on the other side of the road. But they'd managed it just fine, thank you very much. This made the accident all the more incomprehensible: Christopher had driven the Hutchison Parkway every day. Every single day. And then he made a mistake. That's what happened when you let your guard down. Gus Simpson kept a vigilant watch: she knew that every moment, every detail mattered. Even the table setting. The just-polished silver had gleamed as it lay on the linen tablecloth; the sixteen settings had been her great-grandmother's. Every clan has its own version of mythmaking–the hard winter everyone barely survived, the long and impossible transatlantic voyage from the Old World–and Gus's family had their own, of course. It was The Quest for Fine Things. And so the silver service (much more ornate than current fashion) had been purchased, at great sacrifice, as a setting a year from Tiffany & Co. and used only for the big three: Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving in later generations. Sometimes, the story went, a spoon was all that could be afforded, the knives and forks left waiting for a fatter year. And so the set had made its way–though not without causing tension within the family–from mother to oldest daughter to daughter's daughter and finally to Gus, where the flatware had been put to more cutting and eating than ever before. No doubt her grandmothers would have thought it frivolous the way Gus delighted in her good plates and knives, and frowned upon their frequent use. Save, save, save it for later. That had been their motto. Tuck away the good to use only when you really need it. The thing was, Gus always felt as if she really needed it. Though the night Alan Holt came to dinner, surely, even her grandmothers would have approved Gus setting such a grand table, all ready for the gorgeous meal simmering and roasting away in the kitchen. Cream of asparagus soup. Rack of lamb with herb jus. Gently roasted baby potatoes. Fresh, crusty bread she'd made from scratch, using a wet brick in her oven to generate steam (thanks to the advice of Julia Child in a well-worn copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Vol 2). All followed by a rich, buttery financiere with homemade raspberry sorbet. She'd wanted the meal to be delicious. Homey. Welcoming. After all, it wasn't every day that the president of the CookingChannel came over for Sunday dinner and the prospect of a different future hovered. "Mom? The table?" her daughter had said. Ah, yes, the table. Sabrina's display had been the one element of discord in a perfectly arranged tableau: it was clearly unacceptable. Gus had opened her mouth to tell Sabrina to clean up the mess she'd created. To go upstairs, change out of the clothes she was wearing and put on something decent. To go find her sister and tell her to get ready. The words had been all ready to tumble out. Even without seeing herself she could feel the frown, her furrowed brow. How many times had Gus criticized Sabrina and Aimee? Change your clothes, turn down that music, tidy up your room, don't leave wet towels on the floor. She, like all mothers of teenagers, had keenly felt her transformation into a walking cliché, as so many of the little issues that had seemed trivial and fuddy-duddy when she was young had stretched to matters of tremendous importance. A widow with two daughters, no less. Turning lights out when she left a room. Wearing a sweater instead of turning up the heat. Using a coaster on the coffee table. Eating leftovers. It was paying the bills that did it. Changed her perspective. Suddenly everything had mattered. page 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | all | buy