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Authors: Tunnel Vision
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with a toddler in her arms, turned red
and hung her head.
It
dawned on me with dreadful certainty that she wasn’t the nanny, but Deirdre’s
daughter. Her broad forehead and wide cheekbones might have been stamped from
Fabian’s face. The resemblance was so obvious that my failure to notice it when
she’d stood next to him in the front room seemed unbelievable.
I
tried to remember if I’d said anything that would make her realize my mistake.
And at the same time I wondered how Deirdre could be so cruel as to put her
into one of her own dresses. The pink wool not only fit the girl badly but was
clearly designed for an older person, a matron, not a child. Dressing her to
look like an adult only added to confusion about Emily’s status, especially
since she seemed consumed with child care.
The
toddler, who looked about two, squirmed in her arms. Emily tried to distract
him by pointing at the chandelier, a massive piece whose pendants cracked light
into winking blues and yellows. The child refused to be placated.
The
late hour, the noise, the strangers, all turned him fractious. He whimpered and
lunged in his sister’s arms, but neither Deirdre nor Fabian paid any attention.
Finally
the main table sorted itself out, with Fabian at one end and Manfred Yeo at the
other. Donald Blakely, the Gateway Bank president, and Alec Gantner sat near
Fabian. Women were sprinkled along the table like poppies among penguins. They,
too, may have been distinguished jurists or business owners, but they looked as
though they had been invited strictly as decoration.
Two
small tables each seating six were tucked into the bays at the south end of the
room. I dubbed their denizens the rising stars—young, well dressed, and
self-assured, they gaily discussed the end of the skiing season and the start
of sailing.
Joshua,
perched on a couple of dictionaries, was sitting by an empty chair at the main
table. I assumed his mother would move next to him, but as Fabian finished
seating his dinner partner, Deirdre planted herself aggressively at my table.
This could present a golden opportunity to discuss housing for Tamar Hawkings
and her three children, but Deirdre didn’t look up to discussing anything more
major than another bottle of wine.
Emily
had been hovering near me with the toddler while people found their places. As
soon as Fabian got settled she brought the child over to him. Her father made
an impatient gesture and pointed down the table at Manfred. Emily flushed and
dragged the boy down to him. The professor showed the usual enthusiasm of
dinner guests for small children; after a quick look at her father, who ignored
her, Emily headed from the room.
Deirdre
called her back and fiddled clumsily with the child’s pajamas. “Yes, Nathan.
Now that your daddy has proved to Manfred what a virile guy he is, coming up
with a baby son at the age of forty, you can go to bed.”
She
spoke loudly enough for everyone at Fabian’s end of the long table to overhear.
There was a brief pause in the conversation, like a momentary drop in current.
The woman on Fabian’s right gave a little scream of laughter and everyone began
talking feverishly. Fabian was laughing, too, but for a brief instant fury had
carved terrifying lines around his eyes and mouth.
Emily
stumbled from the room again. The two bartenders joined the waitress in handing
out cold carrot soup. By the time Emily returned to take the empty chair next to
Joshua the staff was serving the main course. The food was excellent—a
surprise, given Deirdre’s drunkenness and the rubbery hors d’oeuvres.
Deirdre’s
back was to the center table, close enough to Fabian and Gantner that she could
hear much of their conversation. The two men talked across the women between
them, with Donald Blakely chiming in. The women made a few attempts to join in,
but were shut out so effectively that they had to lean across the table and
speak to each other like small planes flying under jumbo
and hung her head.
It
dawned on me with dreadful certainty that she wasn’t the nanny, but Deirdre’s
daughter. Her broad forehead and wide cheekbones might have been stamped from
Fabian’s face. The resemblance was so obvious that my failure to notice it when
she’d stood next to him in the front room seemed unbelievable.
I
tried to remember if I’d said anything that would make her realize my mistake.
And at the same time I wondered how Deirdre could be so cruel as to put her
into one of her own dresses. The pink wool not only fit the girl badly but was
clearly designed for an older person, a matron, not a child. Dressing her to
look like an adult only added to confusion about Emily’s status, especially
since she seemed consumed with child care.
The
toddler, who looked about two, squirmed in her arms. Emily tried to distract
him by pointing at the chandelier, a massive piece whose pendants cracked light
into winking blues and yellows. The child refused to be placated.
The
late hour, the noise, the strangers, all turned him fractious. He whimpered and
lunged in his sister’s arms, but neither Deirdre nor Fabian paid any attention.
Finally
the main table sorted itself out, with Fabian at one end and Manfred Yeo at the
other. Donald Blakely, the Gateway Bank president, and Alec Gantner sat near
Fabian. Women were sprinkled along the table like poppies among penguins. They,
too, may have been distinguished jurists or business owners, but they looked as
though they had been invited strictly as decoration.
Two
small tables each seating six were tucked into the bays at the south end of the
room. I dubbed their denizens the rising stars—young, well dressed, and
self-assured, they gaily discussed the end of the skiing season and the start
of sailing.
Joshua,
perched on a couple of dictionaries, was sitting by an empty chair at the main
table. I assumed his mother would move next to him, but as Fabian finished
seating his dinner partner, Deirdre planted herself aggressively at my table.
This could present a golden opportunity to discuss housing for Tamar Hawkings
and her three children, but Deirdre didn’t look up to discussing anything more
major than another bottle of wine.
Emily
had been hovering near me with the toddler while people found their places. As
soon as Fabian got settled she brought the child over to him. Her father made
an impatient gesture and pointed down the table at Manfred. Emily flushed and
dragged the boy down to him. The professor showed the usual enthusiasm of
dinner guests for small children; after a quick look at her father, who ignored
her, Emily headed from the room.
Deirdre
called her back and fiddled clumsily with the child’s pajamas. “Yes, Nathan.
Now that your daddy has proved to Manfred what a virile guy he is, coming up
with a baby son at the age of forty, you can go to bed.”
She
spoke loudly enough for everyone at Fabian’s end of the long table to overhear.
There was a brief pause in the conversation, like a momentary drop in current.
The woman on Fabian’s right gave a little scream of laughter and everyone began
talking feverishly. Fabian was laughing, too, but for a brief instant fury had
carved terrifying lines around his eyes and mouth.
Emily
stumbled from the room again. The two bartenders joined the waitress in handing
out cold carrot soup. By the time Emily returned to take the empty chair next to
Joshua the staff was serving the main course. The food was excellent—a
surprise, given Deirdre’s drunkenness and the rubbery hors d’oeuvres.
Deirdre’s
back was to the center table, close enough to Fabian and Gantner that she could
hear much of their conversation. The two men talked across the women between
them, with Donald Blakely chiming in. The women made a few attempts to join in,
but were shut out so effectively that they had to lean across the table and
speak to each other like small planes flying under jumbo
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