Read Online The Violet Hour: A Novel by Katherine Hill - Free Book Online
Authors: Katherine Hill
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for the kids.”
“They should’ve been here already,” Eunice said, on to the next disappointment.
Cassandra forced a smile, refusing to let her mother’s spirit win out, though in this instance, they were pretty much in agreement. Elizabeth and Kyle were late, and part of her was starting to worry. “She’s had a busy couple of days. Anyway, shout when the water’s ready. I know you will.”
The front porch of Fabricant Funerals looked out over a busy intersection, coursing with SUVs that hurtled like rhinos escaped from the National Zoo. A cluster of office buildings, hotels, and posh new condominiums encircled her, rising taller than they did in downtown Washington, where zoning restrictions kept just about everything short and squat, which was supposedly more European. Kitty-corner from the Fabricant home was a high-end hotel and public plaza, complete with large sculpted bushes, a regular rotation ofstreet performers, and an elliptical fountain that was illuminated with pink and orange lights after dusk. At the front end of the plaza, just behind the fountain, a subway entrance spewed forth commuters, tourists who preferred sleeping in the suburbs, and teenagers in idle packs.
Abutting all this activity, the Fabricant porch was not the sort of place one sat for peace and quiet, but Cassandra took a stubborn comfort in watching the world expand while her parents heroically maintained their ground, clipping coupons and building saunas, as though their neighbors were still the butcher and the dentist, rather than the investment banker, the real estate attorney, and the uniformed concierge. She sketched a quick study of the hotel, a jagged early-eighties thing that was the opposite of a tree.
Her parents’ time had been the sixties, when the surrounding area still had a farm or two. Back then, there were large, airy spaces between buildings, family-run restaurants and gas stations, and ample parking on every street. The Fabricant house was a reminder of that past. Built in the colonial revival style in 1922, its white columns and red brick façade made it a kind of architectural driftwood, bobbing perplexedly on a glittering sea of mirrored office windows and flashing modern lights. It had remained largely through Howard’s perseverance, and because—such luck—its foundation cleared regulations when the Metro came to town. Washington and its suburbs had never felt old, but lingering among the sharp edges of new, her parents’ home was a relic.
She was adding the Metro entrance to her scene when Elizabeth and Kyle appeared, as though conjured, two sweaty torsos rising from the underground, laden with bags and leaning on the escalator rail. Waving to them across traffic, Cassandra congratulated herself for having resisted the urge to call to check on their progress.
In the front hall, she relieved them of their things.
“You must be exhausted!” she cried, kissing her daughter fervently on the cheek. “Was your train late?”
“Right on time,” Kyle said, receiving a hug of his own.
“Oh?” Cassandra looked at her watch. It was nearly four.
“We missed the early one because the subways were running local,” Elizabeth explained, wiping the last beads of perspiration from her forehead.
“How annoying!”
“Lizzie was annoyed, all right,” Kyle laughed. Elizabeth frowned. They’d been dating for almost two years.
“Well—you’re here now,” Cassandra stuttered. “Come in, come in. Come see Grandma and Grandpa.”
Eunice met them halfway to the kitchen, scissors still in hand. “There’s my granddaughter!”
“Hi, Grandma.” Elizabeth stooped and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. Eunice squeezed back, stiffly, then turned to take in Kyle.
“And who’s this?” She glared at him, as though no one had told her he was coming. He stood young and large, a full foot taller than she. The pinched corners of her mouth turned down.
“Mrs. Fabricant, I’m Kyle Christensen. It’s
“They should’ve been here already,” Eunice said, on to the next disappointment.
Cassandra forced a smile, refusing to let her mother’s spirit win out, though in this instance, they were pretty much in agreement. Elizabeth and Kyle were late, and part of her was starting to worry. “She’s had a busy couple of days. Anyway, shout when the water’s ready. I know you will.”
The front porch of Fabricant Funerals looked out over a busy intersection, coursing with SUVs that hurtled like rhinos escaped from the National Zoo. A cluster of office buildings, hotels, and posh new condominiums encircled her, rising taller than they did in downtown Washington, where zoning restrictions kept just about everything short and squat, which was supposedly more European. Kitty-corner from the Fabricant home was a high-end hotel and public plaza, complete with large sculpted bushes, a regular rotation ofstreet performers, and an elliptical fountain that was illuminated with pink and orange lights after dusk. At the front end of the plaza, just behind the fountain, a subway entrance spewed forth commuters, tourists who preferred sleeping in the suburbs, and teenagers in idle packs.
Abutting all this activity, the Fabricant porch was not the sort of place one sat for peace and quiet, but Cassandra took a stubborn comfort in watching the world expand while her parents heroically maintained their ground, clipping coupons and building saunas, as though their neighbors were still the butcher and the dentist, rather than the investment banker, the real estate attorney, and the uniformed concierge. She sketched a quick study of the hotel, a jagged early-eighties thing that was the opposite of a tree.
Her parents’ time had been the sixties, when the surrounding area still had a farm or two. Back then, there were large, airy spaces between buildings, family-run restaurants and gas stations, and ample parking on every street. The Fabricant house was a reminder of that past. Built in the colonial revival style in 1922, its white columns and red brick façade made it a kind of architectural driftwood, bobbing perplexedly on a glittering sea of mirrored office windows and flashing modern lights. It had remained largely through Howard’s perseverance, and because—such luck—its foundation cleared regulations when the Metro came to town. Washington and its suburbs had never felt old, but lingering among the sharp edges of new, her parents’ home was a relic.
She was adding the Metro entrance to her scene when Elizabeth and Kyle appeared, as though conjured, two sweaty torsos rising from the underground, laden with bags and leaning on the escalator rail. Waving to them across traffic, Cassandra congratulated herself for having resisted the urge to call to check on their progress.
In the front hall, she relieved them of their things.
“You must be exhausted!” she cried, kissing her daughter fervently on the cheek. “Was your train late?”
“Right on time,” Kyle said, receiving a hug of his own.
“Oh?” Cassandra looked at her watch. It was nearly four.
“We missed the early one because the subways were running local,” Elizabeth explained, wiping the last beads of perspiration from her forehead.
“How annoying!”
“Lizzie was annoyed, all right,” Kyle laughed. Elizabeth frowned. They’d been dating for almost two years.
“Well—you’re here now,” Cassandra stuttered. “Come in, come in. Come see Grandma and Grandpa.”
Eunice met them halfway to the kitchen, scissors still in hand. “There’s my granddaughter!”
“Hi, Grandma.” Elizabeth stooped and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. Eunice squeezed back, stiffly, then turned to take in Kyle.
“And who’s this?” She glared at him, as though no one had told her he was coming. He stood young and large, a full foot taller than she. The pinched corners of her mouth turned down.
“Mrs. Fabricant, I’m Kyle Christensen. It’s
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