Read Online Blowing Smoke by Barbara Block - Free Book Online Page A

as the middle class moved in. What’s even worse, from some people’s point of view, is that the college there, once an all-girls school, in an attempt to shore up their enrollment, not only turned coed but was now recruiting minority students from New York City. The barbarians were no longer at the gates. They were inside. But they hadn’t reached Rose Taylor’s house yet.
    A white plantation-style manor, it looked like some of the ones I’d once seen on a trip to Newport, Rhode Island, except smaller. Located about forty feet back from the lake, the house was surrounded by a vast, manicured emerald green lawn, which gently unfurled itself as it ran down to the dock. It was a Henry James kind of lawn. I expected to see men and women dressed in white playing croquet. Several sprinklers were set up on the grass, the fine mists of water dancing in the sun, catching the colors of the light. Maybe there was a drought in the rest of Onondaga County, but there wasn’t one here.
    The bucolic nature of the place was further emphasized by the series of gently rolling hills off in the distance. They were so evenly spaced, they looked as if they had been airbrushed in. The only thing missing was sheep dotting the hillside. Naturally, there was a tennis court and a swimming pool off to one side. I parked the car in the circular driveway a little over to the left. As I walked up the black brick road— no tarmac for Rose Taylor—two gardeners stopped and watched me go by. The sun had turned their skin the color of walnuts.
    A maid answered the door a few seconds after I rang. She was dressed in the traditional maid’s uniform, a black dress with a white apron, something you don’t see too often anymore. Or let me correct that. Something I don’t see too often anymore—something that I actually had never seen at all, if we’re being accurate.
    â€œThe service entrance is around the back,” she told me in heavily accented English.
    I guess I should have changed out of my jeans and T-shirt. I handed her my card and told her who I was.
    â€œReally,” I said, giving her my best middle-class smile. “Mrs. Taylor is expecting me. Check if you want.”
    â€œThat is not necessary.” The maid’s disdainful glance lingered on the place on my T-shirt where I’d wiped my hands after I’d scooped some algae out of one of the fish tanks. Up until now I’d forgotten about the yellow-green stain. Then she gave a slight, resigned shrug, as if to say she only worked here, it wasn’t any business of hers who came in.
    â€œMrs. Taylor is waiting for you in the sunroom.”
    I stepped inside, and she closed the door. Constructed from wood, with palm-sized metal rivets, it reminded me of the doors you see on old buildings in Florence or Rome. The maid’s short-legged body and the slightly flat shape of the back of her head made me think she was Mayan, probably from Chiapas or the Yucatan. At one time, I would have thought that was unusual, but in the past few years I’ve been seeing more and more Mexicans in this area.
    She turned and started down the hall. I trotted behind her, my slides click-clacking on the black-and-white marble floor. My stomach started to clench. At first, I thought I was nervous about the upcoming meeting, but then I realized it was the house itself. It reminded me of my mother’s apartment. The house was perfect. Like a museum. Filled with beautiful objects, it was devoid of the clutter that would have made it a home. From what I could see, it was also devoid of things like computers, television sets, and stereos. The furniture in the rooms we passed was mostly French, the rugs Persian. There were landscapes on the walls and a collection of blue-and-white Chinese pottery displayed in the hall, along with two large antique Japanese scrolls. An old Coromandel screen, similar to one I’d seen in an exhibition at the