“But you didn’t say I had to memorize —”
“Don’t make me tell you twice.”
Marguerite walked in small steps to the large trestle table that dominated the kitchen.
“May I take my glasses off?” she asked, before bending over. Hugo nodded and she put them down, then bent over and grasped the opposite edge of the table with her hands. She kept her legs straight and together, as she’d been taught. Hugo stepped up behind her and gave her one hard whack across each cheek with the flat of the spoon. Then he stood her up, so they could start again.
Two hours and one shapely pink, well-paddled bottom later, the kitchen was powdered in flour, and the cherry pie stood cooling on a rack. Then, still locked into her anklets, Marguerite was firmly marched up to bed.
The following morning dawned cloudy and raw. William, Laura and Susan were having breakfast in the dining room when the bell rang. William looked up from his paper annoyed, while Laura and her sister exchanged puzzled glances. When Laura went to the door she was surprised to confront Hugo and Marguerite.
“I hope we’re still in time to see Susan off,” said Marguerite, handing a ribbon wrapped pink box to Laura. “I baked this for her. Myself!”
“How sweet of you both,” Laura said, without meeting Hugo’s eyes. “Come in and have some coffee with us. What kind of pie is it?”
“Cherry,” Hugo told Laura; “Just like your lewd little sister wasn’t.”
“Did you expect her to save it for you?” Laura returned scornfully.
“Not at all. I knew she was a little slut the minute I met her. William up?” Hugo followed Laura confidently through the house, pulling Marguerite along behind him by the hand.
William was far from overjoyed to see his competitive neighbor settle in so cozily between his charming sister-in-law and lovely wife; however, he grunted at Hugo, let his eyes linger on Marguerite a moment, for she was well worth lingering over, sleepy-eyed and tawny in her fur; then reburied himself in the Wall Street Journal. He had no flair for small talk and disliked the gossipy, girlish hilarity which tended to ensue when two or more women who hadn’t seen each other in over twelve hours happened to converge.
Delighted at the surprise appearance of Hugo and Marguerite, Susan served the sweet, flaky pie. She knew better than to offer William any. Even so, he came out from behind the paper to volunteer the information that they were all about to consume mass quantities of “white death.”
When Hugo asked Susan how she was getting to Boston, it was revealed that Laura would be driving her, and staying with her for a few days. William had found Susan loft space in Back Bay and Laura was going to help her furnish it.
“You know,” Hugo said, “I was going up to Boston today myself. There’s an auction I want to attend.”
“Really, Hugo?” Susan was instantly aglow. “Won’t you consider driving in with us, then? We’ve got plenty of room.”
“I was going to offer to drive you girls in myself,” Hugo said. “I plan to be in town for several days.”
“If those are your intentions anyway,” William said from behind the paper, “then you can take Susan and settle her in. I’d rather not have to do without Laura.”
Susan looked at Hugo. If he was piqued at missing the opportunity of getting the two girls alone in the city with him, he didn’t show it.
“Fine,” Hugo said, giving Susan’s knee a sharp squeeze under the table that sent a rush through her stomach. “I’ll drive little Susan in myself.” Susan put her hand into his under the table, her heart pounding fiercely with joy. But she remained outwardly poised and let it shine from her eyes.
William lowered his paper briefly to note his wife’s reaction to his change in her plans. Marguerite also scrutinized her friend. Laura ate her pie without looking at any of them, her face a mask that disclosed no emotion.
Hugo whispered something in Susan’s ear that made her laugh. This annoyed William and Hugo was content.
Feeling that a new theme might be timely, Marguerite said, “I have a story ready for you to illustrate, Laura.” Laura pounced on the distraction, becoming animated at once.
“Maybe I’ll come with you and get the copy right after breakfast,” said Laura, “Since I’m not going to Boston with Susan after all.”
“Your story will have to wait, Marguerite,” William said, putting his paper down and standing up. “I need Laura to do some ad sketches for me this morning.” He put his jacket on. “Laura, I’ve left the photos I want you to work from in the studio. Get them done before two. I need them for a presentation. Okay?”
“Yes,” Laura said, with lowered eyes, but blushing fiercely at being spoken to in this manner before the others.
William was an architect who also owned Random Point’s largest construction firm. Because of her rendering abilities, William sometimes gave Laura the onerous assignment of sketching properties being offered by the company for sale, for trade publications and Sunday supplements throughout New England. It was a task that Laura equated with punishment.
Missing the trip to Boston didn’t disturb her. She was happy for Susan’s sake, for she knew how much her sister admired their elegant guest. It wasn’t even having to do William’s boring real estate drafting that Laura found so distressing. It was that William had humiliated her by issuing these commands in front of the others.
Having charged the atmosphere with tension, William kissed Susan good-bye, warned her to be good, excused himself politely to Marguerite and exited, ignoring Hugo.
Laura walked him to the door, as was her custom. He took her in his arms in the foyer.
“You’re pouting. I don’t like that,” he said, but kissed her red mouth anyway. Her lips were trembling and when he let her go she tried to hide her face. He turned her around. Her eyes were wet.
“What’s this?” he demanded. She shook her head and tried to push him away, wondering why he so seldom stepped out of the fantasy. Yet, all of her senses were athrill, to see how he would respond to the physical rebuff.
“I hope you’re not throwing a tantrum, Laura. Look at me!” He gave her a shake that opened her eyes. “I have no intention of letting you run around Boston with Hugo all week. Now get those drawings to me by two.”
Laura flashed her husband such a mutinous look then, that he was compelled to set his briefcase down, tuck his stubborn wife under one arm, and give her a hard half dozen smacks over the seat of her skirt.
“There,” he said getting her back on her feet. “Now you’ve got a reason to pout.”
She stood rubbing her bottom resentfully.
William put on his fedora, picked up his briefcase and went out the door. However, half way to his car he turned around to give her a wink. Laura still felt indignant but liked the way he looked in the fedora and reluctantly returned a small smile.
William was pleased when Laura arrived with the sketches at 1:00. He’d gone to lunch with a client
