. . ” Why couldn’t he quit babbling about the negatives? What did these things cost, anyway? It was horrifying to contemplate. . . .
She patted him on the knee. “It’s not nice to talk about the cost of a gift. Besides, if you really must know, it’s three years old and the radio isn’t working.”
“It looks brand-new!”
“Yet bought with old money. Royalties from Violet Goes to the Country and Violet Goes to School, tucked into a money market fund long ago. I’ve worked very hard, Timothy, and been conservative as a church mouse—I wanted to do this.”
He was ashamed to ask what make it was. He’d never been able to identify cars, unlike Tommy Noles, who knew Packards from Oldsmobiles and Fords from Chevrolets. Actually, a Studebaker was the only car he’d ever been able to guess, dead-on.
Maybe a Jaguar. . . .
“It’s a Mustang GT,” said his wife, looking mischievous.
He put his arm around her and drew her close and nuzzled his face into her hair. “You astound me, you have always astounded me, I need to sit here and just look at it for a minute. Thank you for being patient.” He felt wild laughter rising in him, as he’d felt the tears earlier. What kind of roller coaster was he on, anyway?
“I don’t deserve it,” he said. There. He’d finally gotten down to the bottom line.
She lifted her hand to his cheek. “Deserve? Since when is love about deserving?”
“Right,” he said. He felt his heart beginning to hammer at the sight of it sitting there so coolly parked at the curb, as if it owned the house and the people in it.
He realized he’d come within a hair of hurting her by persisting in his fogy ways. No, he’d never have believed he’d be driving a red convertible, not in a million years, but he knew it was absolutely crucial that he begin believing it—at once.
He felt the grin spreading across his face, and didn’t think he could stop the laughter that was lurking in him.
“Wait’ll Dooley sees this!” he said, as they trotted toward the curb.
CHAPTER THREE
Going, Going, Gone
“Timothy!”
His wife was calling him constantly these days. From the top of the stairs, from the depths of the basement, from the far reaches of the new garage.
It was Timothy here, Timothy there, Timothy everywhere.
“Yes?” he bellowed from the study.
“Do we really need this cast-iron Dutch oven?” she yelled from the hallway, where the items to be packed in the car were being severely thinned.
“How else can I make a pork roast?” he shouted.
“I don’t think people at the beach eat pork roast!” she shouted back.
He hated shouting.
Cynthia appeared in the study, her hair in a bandanna, wearing shorts and a T-shirt. She might have been a twelfth-grade student from Mitford School. Why was his wife looking increasingly younger as he grew increasingly older? It wasn’t fair.
“I think,” she said, wiping perspiration from her face, “that beach people eat ocean perch or broiled tuna or . . .” She shrugged. “You know.”
He took the heavy pot from her, feeling grumpy. “Leave it,” he said, toting it to the kitchen.
“And do you really think,” she hooted from the study, “that we need those Wellington boots you garden in?”
He stepped back to the study. “What did you say?”
“Those huge green boots. Those Wellingtons.”
“What about them?”
“I mean, there’s no mud at the beach!”
He sighed.
“Besides, we can’t lash anything on top of the car. . .”—she grinned, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a kid—“because we’ll have the top down. ”
“Axe the boots.”
“And the Coleman stove. Why would we need a Coleman stove ? We won’t be camping out, you know.”
If he didn’t watch her every minute, they would be roaring down the highway with nothing but a change of underwear and a box of watercolors. Besides, he had thought of maybe cooking out one night on the beach, under the stars, with a blanket. . . .
He
She patted him on the knee. “It’s not nice to talk about the cost of a gift. Besides, if you really must know, it’s three years old and the radio isn’t working.”
“It looks brand-new!”
“Yet bought with old money. Royalties from Violet Goes to the Country and Violet Goes to School, tucked into a money market fund long ago. I’ve worked very hard, Timothy, and been conservative as a church mouse—I wanted to do this.”
He was ashamed to ask what make it was. He’d never been able to identify cars, unlike Tommy Noles, who knew Packards from Oldsmobiles and Fords from Chevrolets. Actually, a Studebaker was the only car he’d ever been able to guess, dead-on.
Maybe a Jaguar. . . .
“It’s a Mustang GT,” said his wife, looking mischievous.
He put his arm around her and drew her close and nuzzled his face into her hair. “You astound me, you have always astounded me, I need to sit here and just look at it for a minute. Thank you for being patient.” He felt wild laughter rising in him, as he’d felt the tears earlier. What kind of roller coaster was he on, anyway?
“I don’t deserve it,” he said. There. He’d finally gotten down to the bottom line.
She lifted her hand to his cheek. “Deserve? Since when is love about deserving?”
“Right,” he said. He felt his heart beginning to hammer at the sight of it sitting there so coolly parked at the curb, as if it owned the house and the people in it.
He realized he’d come within a hair of hurting her by persisting in his fogy ways. No, he’d never have believed he’d be driving a red convertible, not in a million years, but he knew it was absolutely crucial that he begin believing it—at once.
He felt the grin spreading across his face, and didn’t think he could stop the laughter that was lurking in him.
“Wait’ll Dooley sees this!” he said, as they trotted toward the curb.
CHAPTER THREE
Going, Going, Gone
“Timothy!”
His wife was calling him constantly these days. From the top of the stairs, from the depths of the basement, from the far reaches of the new garage.
It was Timothy here, Timothy there, Timothy everywhere.
“Yes?” he bellowed from the study.
“Do we really need this cast-iron Dutch oven?” she yelled from the hallway, where the items to be packed in the car were being severely thinned.
“How else can I make a pork roast?” he shouted.
“I don’t think people at the beach eat pork roast!” she shouted back.
He hated shouting.
Cynthia appeared in the study, her hair in a bandanna, wearing shorts and a T-shirt. She might have been a twelfth-grade student from Mitford School. Why was his wife looking increasingly younger as he grew increasingly older? It wasn’t fair.
“I think,” she said, wiping perspiration from her face, “that beach people eat ocean perch or broiled tuna or . . .” She shrugged. “You know.”
He took the heavy pot from her, feeling grumpy. “Leave it,” he said, toting it to the kitchen.
“And do you really think,” she hooted from the study, “that we need those Wellington boots you garden in?”
He stepped back to the study. “What did you say?”
“Those huge green boots. Those Wellingtons.”
“What about them?”
“I mean, there’s no mud at the beach!”
He sighed.
“Besides, we can’t lash anything on top of the car. . .”—she grinned, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a kid—“because we’ll have the top down. ”
“Axe the boots.”
“And the Coleman stove. Why would we need a Coleman stove ? We won’t be camping out, you know.”
If he didn’t watch her every minute, they would be roaring down the highway with nothing but a change of underwear and a box of watercolors. Besides, he had thought of maybe cooking out one night on the beach, under the stars, with a blanket. . . .
He
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