Once More With Feeling Read Online Free Page A

wend her way through a party
tent on the lawn of any East Hampton mansion. She could converse at
length with the Four Hundred's brightest butterflies and never
utter a meaningful word. She was known in the exclusive circles in
which she moved to be a "brick," or a "rock ," ironically suitable
for a woman who had allowed her architect husband to design her
narrow world.
    "It's one of those things the wives of
successful men learn by paying close attention to the wives of
other successful men," she said with inbred tact.
    "You've never needed to pay attention to
anyone. You were born for this."
    "I'd like to think I was born for a bit
more." Her words were clipped. The sentiment behind them was
lengthy.
    His thumbs began a slow massage, exactly
where tension had tied her shoulder muscles into knots. "Don't
disparage yourself. You make everyone comfortable. You have such a
knack for it. I've never met anyone who so completely puts others
at ease. You're a sensational hostess."
    She didn't know how to tell Owen that he was
making everything worse. There had to be more to life than knowing
what wines to serve and how loud to set the volume on the sound
system. Gypsy Dugan came to mind. Gypsy could probably entertain
the entire United Nations in a South Bronx tenement, serve root
beer with prime rib, play Eminem at top volume, and by the next day
no one would remember.
    But they would remember her.
    The doorbell rang and the comforting fingers
stilled. "Georgina stayed for the evening. She'll get it," she
reminded Owen.
    "I guess I'm supposed to station myself
somewhere and wait."
    "Mom?" Grant's voice drifted in just ahead
of him. He appeared in the doorway. "Bet you're spraying the
lightbulbs with White Linen."
    Owen corralled their son in a huge bear hug
before Elisabeth could move. At twenty-four Grant was six-foot,
slender but solid, with shoulders that were broad enough to take
his father's playful abuse. His hair was the pale brown of his
eyes, and the strong slash of his cheekbones were a carbon copy of
Owen's.
    Grant broke away from his father, embraced
Elisabeth, and kissed her cheek. "The house looks wonderful. I like
what you did in the entrance hall."
    She squeezed her eyelids shut in
resignation. "Oh God. That was the florist. I forgot to look. What
did he do?"
    "You'll see. Am I the first one here?"
    "You are," Owen said. "Were you hoping to
get an early start on the hors d'oeuvres?"
    Grant manufactured a waif's pathetic smile.
"I live on a teacher's salary, remember? Unless I'm invited to the
homes of the rich and famous, I can only eat dinner on alternate
Wednesdays."
    Owen slung his arm over Grant's shoulders.
"Careful what you say or your mother will package up every bite the
guests and the dogs don't eat and send it home with you."
    "This is my baby you're talking about,"
Elisabeth said. "No gallows humor, please."
    Although Owen and Grant were both joking,
there was a kernel of truth to their exchange. Grant's existence
was hardly hand-to-mouth, but he rarely had money to spare. He
taught English in a public high school in the Bronx, where security
guards routinely roamed the hallways and the only poetry his
students were familiar with was spray-painted on subway walls. In
his second year on staff he had moved into the neighborhood so that
he could be available to his students after classes.
    "Hi, am I too early?"
    Elisabeth looked up to see Anna. Georgina
had obviously let her in before she rang the bell. Elisabeth's
welcoming smile was as automatic as the stab of betrayal she felt.
"Of course not."
    She watched Owen abandon his son and move
toward Anna.
    Anna Jacquard had begun working for Owen one
year ago. She was thirty-two, with dark hair and eyes, a milkmaid
complexion and a restless, artistic temperament that drew men to
her like honeybees to the lone lily in a field of daisies. Tonight
she was dressed in velvet leggings and a silk tunic she had
probably dyed herself. Her hair hung in an unfashionably