Read Online One Way or Another: A Novel by Elizabeth Adler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Adler
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rain fell, and all was calm and full of happiness.
How, Martha wondered now, sitting alone sipping her macchiato on a New York morning, could she ever find that again. It was part of her life, her background, her family. But times had changed; her parents were long gone, hopefully to what was called “a better place.” And with them went that way of life. Patrons Hall was still there, but there was no butler to ensure its upkeep, its “soul” as Martha liked to think of it.
The sisters often returned to their old home but there were no more times like the wedding anniversary dinner, at which the girls had been allowed to mingle with the grown-ups, and to choose what to wear, which resulted in the eldest sister in jeans and a Rolling Stones tongue T-shirt; the youngest in her mother’s strapless long red silk dress, hitched up with safety pins, and Martha in a short black velvet dress with a puffy skirt. Nobody warned her that a puffy skirt flipped up when you sat down and she still recalled the hot embarrassment of dropping onto a chair only to reveal her girly white cotton knickers to the entire room. She blushed even now, at the memory. She’d kept that dress, her first grown-up party dress; still had it sheathed in a plastic cover, though when she looked at its tiny waistline she marveled at how she ever fit into it.
That night had been the most magical of her childhood, both parents so good-looking; James Edward Patron, tall, dark, and handsome in the classic style, elegant in a dark blue dinner jacket, with tiny sapphire studs, a gift from his wife, in his shirtfront. The shirt, though, was not buttoned to the neck and bow-tied in the conventional way, because he was not “conventional.” He wore it open at the neck and removed his jacket halfway through dinner, with apologies to the ladies, getting up to prowl the tables, pour more wine, stopping everywhere to chat, making everyone feel welcome. Her mother was the best at that, though. Mary Jane Patron had the happy knack of making each person feel they were the most important guest, the most vital to the spirit of the party, the most interesting of all. Her wide pale blue eyes, which Martha inherited, sparkled with amusement, her laughter rang out across the dark night from where they sat beneath those red Chinese lanterns. It was, in Martha’s memory, as though they were touched by magic. And she was sure, even now, that they were.
Sadly, that magic had deserted them some years ago now, and life without them at Patrons Hall was simply not the same. Even when the girls got together, sitting on the red Turkey rug in front of the drawing room fire, toasting crumpets on a long fork, “like Jane Austen women,” they said, laughing at themselves, they did it from nostalgie, a wish to bring back that past, where they were all so happy. And so loved.
“Old-fashioned” was how Martha’s mother had described Patrons Hall when she first stepped through the door, brought there as a bride by the too-gorgeously good-looking husband, seven years younger than herself. She was twenty-eight, practically “on the shelf,” her already married friends warned, urging her to get a move on before it was too late.
“Too late? For what?” had been Mary Jane’s nonchalant reply.
And she’d turned out to be right. After all, look what she ended up with just by waiting a bit—a lovely husband; two lovely homes—there was one in London as well as the country house. And, best of all, three beautiful children, all girls. Mary Jane wasn’t sure how she would have dealt with boys—sending them off to school in that British way at seven years old would have broken her heart, a heart which, before she met her lovely husband, had been broken several times, once quite severely. But that was in the past.
Making up for lost time, Mary Jane entertained lavishly in both her houses. She enjoyed her daughters, saying they kept her young, which they probably did if they were not
How, Martha wondered now, sitting alone sipping her macchiato on a New York morning, could she ever find that again. It was part of her life, her background, her family. But times had changed; her parents were long gone, hopefully to what was called “a better place.” And with them went that way of life. Patrons Hall was still there, but there was no butler to ensure its upkeep, its “soul” as Martha liked to think of it.
The sisters often returned to their old home but there were no more times like the wedding anniversary dinner, at which the girls had been allowed to mingle with the grown-ups, and to choose what to wear, which resulted in the eldest sister in jeans and a Rolling Stones tongue T-shirt; the youngest in her mother’s strapless long red silk dress, hitched up with safety pins, and Martha in a short black velvet dress with a puffy skirt. Nobody warned her that a puffy skirt flipped up when you sat down and she still recalled the hot embarrassment of dropping onto a chair only to reveal her girly white cotton knickers to the entire room. She blushed even now, at the memory. She’d kept that dress, her first grown-up party dress; still had it sheathed in a plastic cover, though when she looked at its tiny waistline she marveled at how she ever fit into it.
That night had been the most magical of her childhood, both parents so good-looking; James Edward Patron, tall, dark, and handsome in the classic style, elegant in a dark blue dinner jacket, with tiny sapphire studs, a gift from his wife, in his shirtfront. The shirt, though, was not buttoned to the neck and bow-tied in the conventional way, because he was not “conventional.” He wore it open at the neck and removed his jacket halfway through dinner, with apologies to the ladies, getting up to prowl the tables, pour more wine, stopping everywhere to chat, making everyone feel welcome. Her mother was the best at that, though. Mary Jane Patron had the happy knack of making each person feel they were the most important guest, the most vital to the spirit of the party, the most interesting of all. Her wide pale blue eyes, which Martha inherited, sparkled with amusement, her laughter rang out across the dark night from where they sat beneath those red Chinese lanterns. It was, in Martha’s memory, as though they were touched by magic. And she was sure, even now, that they were.
Sadly, that magic had deserted them some years ago now, and life without them at Patrons Hall was simply not the same. Even when the girls got together, sitting on the red Turkey rug in front of the drawing room fire, toasting crumpets on a long fork, “like Jane Austen women,” they said, laughing at themselves, they did it from nostalgie, a wish to bring back that past, where they were all so happy. And so loved.
“Old-fashioned” was how Martha’s mother had described Patrons Hall when she first stepped through the door, brought there as a bride by the too-gorgeously good-looking husband, seven years younger than herself. She was twenty-eight, practically “on the shelf,” her already married friends warned, urging her to get a move on before it was too late.
“Too late? For what?” had been Mary Jane’s nonchalant reply.
And she’d turned out to be right. After all, look what she ended up with just by waiting a bit—a lovely husband; two lovely homes—there was one in London as well as the country house. And, best of all, three beautiful children, all girls. Mary Jane wasn’t sure how she would have dealt with boys—sending them off to school in that British way at seven years old would have broken her heart, a heart which, before she met her lovely husband, had been broken several times, once quite severely. But that was in the past.
Making up for lost time, Mary Jane entertained lavishly in both her houses. She enjoyed her daughters, saying they kept her young, which they probably did if they were not
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