Two down - By Nero Blanc Page 0,12

fourteen minutes away). Belle began counting the seconds until she could reasonably take her leave. Rosco was going to have to face this grueling friendship alone.

“More tea, Belle?” The hostess sat rigidly erect in a crimson-backed chair so stiff and imposing it resembled a medieval throne. She can’t possibly be comfortable, Belle thought, but inadvertently sat straighter in her own high-backed chair.

“Thank you, Mrs. Briephs.”

Emma removed Belle’s gold-rimmed porcelain cup and relayed it to her mistress, who then lifted both cup and saucer in one hand while raising the teapot in the other. Steaming, golden liquid cascaded unhesitatingly through the air in a ritual so practiced it looked faintly religious.

“Another slice of lemon?”

“Please.” Belle very nearly added, “ma’am.” Instead, she uncrossed and recrossed her ankles in an involuntary replication of childhood.

“So, both of your parents were professors?”

“Yes . . .”

“Up until your mother’s untimely demise, I should say?”

“Yes, that’s correct.” Again, a traitorous voice almost inserted a squeaky “ma’am.”

“And your father no longer teaches?”

“He lives in Florida.” The answer struck both Belle and Sara as odd—as if the entire state contained no institutions of higher learning. Sara raised a quizzical eyebrow while Belle hastened to amend the statement. “He has a house in the Keys . . . in Marathon. We rarely see each other.”

Sara paused as if considering an appropriate response, then silently passed the refilled cup to Emma, who returned it to Belle before withdrawing noiselessly to the tea cart.

Belle fidgeted with the cup, picked up her teaspoon, and stabbed the lemon slice floating on the surface of the hot liquid, an activity her hostess regarded with a quick, basilisk stare. Repressing a sigh, Belle placed the dainty silver spoon on her saucer. What, she wondered, would a person do with a sugar lump or two?

“Marathon,” Sara mused. “Part of a tetrapolis in ancient Attica . . . the sight of the famous battle in which the Greeks defeated the Persians in 490 B.C. . . . Did your father choose his domicile because of the name association?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Briephs.”

The answer seemed to take Sara by surprise. “But surely you must have discussed the historical reference? It’s so very obvious.”

“My father and I seldom . . .” Belle began, then changed tack, opting for the simpler: “No, we didn’t talk about it.”

“The relationship between parent and child is a vital one, young lady. My son and I were very close. We were not only family, we were best of friends.”

Belle’s determined lack of response made Sara pause. She studied the younger woman, then redirected her conversation. “. . . So, your cerebral upbringing inspired you with an appreciation for learning and the mastery of language, which facility enabled you to establish a career as a word maven—similar to my son’s chosen profession?”

“Well, no . . . not precisely in that order,” Belle said.

A round crystal plate containing minute cucumber sandwiches arrayed on a lace doily was passed by the mute Emma. Mrs. Briephs declined the comestible with a slight but gracious smile, then turned to Belle with a dictatorial: “From our garden. The seeds were brought from England by my forebears. No one else grows cucumbers like these.”

Belle juggled her cup in one hand to select a tiny sandwich, then wondered where to put it. “Thank you, Emma,” she murmured, repressing a groan. She imagined the phone ringing to announce a disaster, the kitchen catching fire, the furnace exploding: anything that would curtail this hideous conversation.

“ ‘Not precisely’ like my son’s vocation, do you mean?” Sara demanded. “Or are you referring to your own career path?”

Belle felt her hackles rise. Sara’s questions had become far too intrusive. Life wasn’t precise; how could anyone suggest that work—or relationships—have an orderly flow? If routine and safety were prerequisites to living, she wouldn’t have met Rosco. In fact, she’d probably still be married to the lordly Garet. Or—and here, Belle’s imagination began taking giddy flight—she would have waltzed away from college, decamped to Paris, where she’d currently be living in bohemian splendor on the infamous Left Bank.

Then, before she knew it, the damnable word “transitional” roared into her head. Belle clutched the saucer tighter. She was very tempted to heave it onto the table and run hollering from the room.

Instead, reason and a grudging respect for Sara’s age took charge. “I used the term ‘not precisely,’ Mrs. Briephs, because I didn’t set out to write crossword puzzles. I intended to become a poet.”

“Who stopped you?”

“No one. I stopped myself