alarmed. “A man needs a son,” he said, apparently forgetting he was speaking to one of his only two children, both of whom were girls. She sensed he was more concerned that Malcolm would leave her if she only had one child. Having two children made leaving more difficult. Maybe that’s why Father and Mother had stayed together all those years; maybe if Elinor and CJ had only been Elinor, or, better yet, had only been CJ, one child would not have been enough to keep the marriage glued.
Jonas had been Father’s idea.
“Let’s have them think the idea came from you, though,” he had said. “It will be better that way.”
So CJ and Malcolm thought the proposal was Elinor’s concept, Elinor’s coercion. Because it was what Father had wanted.
The mantra of her life was Father Knows Best .
Would he forgive me for not being as perfect as him, she wondered now if he were still alive ?
Snapping off the computer, Elinor sat back in her chair and let the tears spill from her eyes.
CJ was out in her studio, pretending to be painting but thinking instead about what to pack, as if she was going on vacation and not merely to Elinor’s. The batik sundress and matching shrug? The white swimsuit and hardly modest cover-up? Her favorite capris and crop top that made her feel sexy and young again? Certainly, a thick cardigan in case the air chilled at night.
She should be ashamed, she knew, for picking out the things she would like Malcolm to see her in.
She should be ashamed, but she was not. It was as if Elinor’s infidelity had instilled a new twist on the rules.
What would their mother have advised?
“Do you love him?” Dianne Harding had asked CJ when CJ was heavy with a pregnant belly. Dianne had walked into the greenhouse at Elinor and Malcolm’s new house in Washington and caught Malcolm and CJ in a kiss. Not just any kiss, but a breathless, tongue-touching, lip-melting kiss. Oh, and Malcolm’s zipper was undone and CJ just happened to be holding his throbbing member in her hand, or at least that’s the way Dianne Harding described it after Malcolm had zipped and CJ had turned red and they had pulled apart.
His throbbing member, CJ thought now with a hint of a smile. Her mother had sounded more like Poppy’s, as if CJ and Mac had been in the middle of a romance novel and not a real-life family drama.
“Yes,” CJ had answered. “I love him very much.”
Dianne had paced the narrow rows of the aptly called “hothouse” that smelled of earth and dampness and of Malcolm and CJ and family betrayal.
“It must be your hormones,” Dianne said. “When I was pregnant with you girls, I wanted to jump the mailman.”
Their mother always had tried to be more contemporary than their father. (“The world is changing, Franklin. If CJ wants to study at the Sorbonne, perhaps that’s where she belongs.”) Still, this was the first CJ had heard that their mother had even known what hormones were. CJ had not, however, had the heart to tell her mother that her feelings for Malcolm—indeed, their feelings for each other—had begun that first night they had attempted to conceive, when they’d “been one” according to Elinor’s plan and CJ’s ovulating schedule.
Dianne had stopped and turned and looked back at the lovers, at Mac, who was as frozen as the small statue of Saint Francis of Assisi that he’d bought to watch over the shoots and roots and buds of the offspring in the greenhouse.
“I love her, too,” he’d said before Dianne had a chance to ask.
She stood quietly for a moment, or maybe it was a year. Then she said, “Well, we can’t have this, can we?”
She had not reminded them that Elinor was fragile, that she’d been through so much, that she trusted her husband and her sister with her life and, good heavens, with her child. She had not had to tell CJ that the headmaster would never allow it.
Instead, Dianne left CJ and Malcolm standing in the greenhouse.
Three weeks later, Jonas was
Jonas had been Father’s idea.
“Let’s have them think the idea came from you, though,” he had said. “It will be better that way.”
So CJ and Malcolm thought the proposal was Elinor’s concept, Elinor’s coercion. Because it was what Father had wanted.
The mantra of her life was Father Knows Best .
Would he forgive me for not being as perfect as him, she wondered now if he were still alive ?
Snapping off the computer, Elinor sat back in her chair and let the tears spill from her eyes.
CJ was out in her studio, pretending to be painting but thinking instead about what to pack, as if she was going on vacation and not merely to Elinor’s. The batik sundress and matching shrug? The white swimsuit and hardly modest cover-up? Her favorite capris and crop top that made her feel sexy and young again? Certainly, a thick cardigan in case the air chilled at night.
She should be ashamed, she knew, for picking out the things she would like Malcolm to see her in.
She should be ashamed, but she was not. It was as if Elinor’s infidelity had instilled a new twist on the rules.
What would their mother have advised?
“Do you love him?” Dianne Harding had asked CJ when CJ was heavy with a pregnant belly. Dianne had walked into the greenhouse at Elinor and Malcolm’s new house in Washington and caught Malcolm and CJ in a kiss. Not just any kiss, but a breathless, tongue-touching, lip-melting kiss. Oh, and Malcolm’s zipper was undone and CJ just happened to be holding his throbbing member in her hand, or at least that’s the way Dianne Harding described it after Malcolm had zipped and CJ had turned red and they had pulled apart.
His throbbing member, CJ thought now with a hint of a smile. Her mother had sounded more like Poppy’s, as if CJ and Mac had been in the middle of a romance novel and not a real-life family drama.
“Yes,” CJ had answered. “I love him very much.”
Dianne had paced the narrow rows of the aptly called “hothouse” that smelled of earth and dampness and of Malcolm and CJ and family betrayal.
“It must be your hormones,” Dianne said. “When I was pregnant with you girls, I wanted to jump the mailman.”
Their mother always had tried to be more contemporary than their father. (“The world is changing, Franklin. If CJ wants to study at the Sorbonne, perhaps that’s where she belongs.”) Still, this was the first CJ had heard that their mother had even known what hormones were. CJ had not, however, had the heart to tell her mother that her feelings for Malcolm—indeed, their feelings for each other—had begun that first night they had attempted to conceive, when they’d “been one” according to Elinor’s plan and CJ’s ovulating schedule.
Dianne had stopped and turned and looked back at the lovers, at Mac, who was as frozen as the small statue of Saint Francis of Assisi that he’d bought to watch over the shoots and roots and buds of the offspring in the greenhouse.
“I love her, too,” he’d said before Dianne had a chance to ask.
She stood quietly for a moment, or maybe it was a year. Then she said, “Well, we can’t have this, can we?”
She had not reminded them that Elinor was fragile, that she’d been through so much, that she trusted her husband and her sister with her life and, good heavens, with her child. She had not had to tell CJ that the headmaster would never allow it.
Instead, Dianne left CJ and Malcolm standing in the greenhouse.
Three weeks later, Jonas was
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