Read Online Loose Screws by Karen Templeton - Free Book Online Page A

before we ring the bell, although Phyllis is right behind her, that smile as carefully applied as her twenty-dollar lipstick.
    â€œOooh, you’re just in time,” Phyllis says as the maid rustles out of sight. Her eyes dart to my mother, right behind me; if Nedra’s unexpected presence has thrown her, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she clasps my mother’s hand in both of hers, welcoming her, after which she flings out her arms and engulfs me in a perfumed hug, which I hesitantly return. She is nearly as tall as I am, but she feelsfrail somehow, more illusion than reality. Sensing my discomfort, Phyllis pulls back, her hands gently clamped on my arms, sympathy mixed with something else I can’t quite define swimming in her pale blue eyes. I tense, panicked she’s going to say something for which I’ll have no intelligent reply. I’m a little in awe of this woman, to tell you the truth, even though she’s never done a single thing to engender that reaction. Well, except be perfect. To my immense relief, all she does is smile more broadly, taking in my outfit.
    â€œDon’t you look absolutely adorable! ” she says, glancing at my mother as if expecting her to agree. Quickly surmising she’ll get little support from that quarter, she returns her gaze to me, shaking her head so that her perfectly cut, wheat-colored pageboy softly skims the shoulders of her light rose silk shell. “What I wouldn’t give to be young enough to get away with those colors! And those legs! ” She laughs. “I had legs like that, about a million years ago!”
    Underneath those white linen slacks, I imagine she still does. Faces may fall and bosoms may sag, but good legs go with you to the grave, Grandma Bernice, Nedra’s mother, used to say.
    â€œBut come on back,” Phyllis says with a light laugh. “Concetta has set lunch out on the patio, but it’s no trouble at all to add another place.”
    As always, Phyllis Munson’s graciousness blows me away. Chattering about the weather or something, she leads us through the thickly carpeted, traditionally furnished Colonial Revival, one befitting a Westchester congressman and his lovely anorexic wife.
    Although the decor is a little bland for my taste—the neutral palette seems almost afraid to offend—there’s something about this house that’s always put me at peace the moment I set foot inside. The orderly, predictable arrangement of the furniture; the way the lush pile carpeting feels underfoot; the almost churchlike hush that caresses us as we make our way through the house to the back. What it says is, sane people live here.
    Which is not to say that the house doesn’t tell Designer Ginger things about the owners they’d probably just as wellthe world not know. While the blandness isn’t offensive, the paint-by-number decor doesn’t reveal a whole lot about the owners’ personalities, either. There are no antiques, no quirky family heirlooms, to break the monotony of the coordinating upholstery and draperies, the relentlessly matching reproduction furniture. Oh, the quality is as good as it gets for mass production—Henredon rather than Thomasville—but it is a bit like walking into a posh hotel suite. Not that that’s necessarily a bad thing. I’ve always fantasized about staying in the Plaza, too.
    But there’s something more, something I discerned within minutes of my first visit, six or so months ago: that the house’s self-conscious perfection stems in large part from the Munsons’ eagerness to cover up that neither of them hail from either old money or prize stock.
    Unfortunately, it’s all too easy to spot the newly, or at least recently, arrived. They’re the ones petrified of making a mistake, the ones who constantly ask me if I’m sure this fabric or that piece of furniture is “right,” far more concerned about what