Jakob’s Colors by Lindsay Hawdon Read Free Book Online Page B

exuded confidence rather than arrogance, a quiet authority that was unchallenged, unassailable. And though it was Vivienne who filled the chatter of a room, though it was she who delivered the stories that entertained, there was about him an unconscious shine that had him stand out amongst a crowd as if he were made of some other metal. People fell silent when he spoke, fell silent simply when he appeared. He ignored Vivienne’s reveries. Chose not to witness her bouts of decline. They were a tall, graceful couple who locked arms when people were watching.
    At the end of the summer, they planned a party in the hope of prolonging the frivolity that came with the warmer weather.
    Vivienne took Lor to buy new wineglasses from the market, five different sets: Waterford glass, Baccarat glass, Boston Crown, Steuben, and Bohemian crystal, a mishmash of double- or single-footed rims and baluster stems. Some were perfectly intact; others were chipped.
    â€œIt isn’t the done thing,” she had said. “But let’s start a trend. Pretend it’s some new fad from America.”
    On the day of the party the skies were clear and filled with birdsong. Vivienne wore an ivory chemise that was matte in the shadows but which shone in the light. The garden was full of orange blossoms that did not smell of oranges. The new glasses gleamed, filled to the brim with white wine the color of her mother’s dress. Lor and her mother picked handfuls of honeysuckle and sat on the lawn together,their legs tucked up beneath them, sucking up the sugar water that came in such tiny quantities they were left always wanting for more.
    â€œNature’s sweets,” Vivienne said. Her dark hair was cut sharply around her face, bobbed just below her cheekbones. She wore lilac eye shadow that flashed when she blinked. Her lipstick was so red it looked as if it hurt. “Stay close,” she whispered in Lor’s ear. “Stay close.” Then she tipped back her head and laughed at nothing at all. Her laugh was something that should be discarded. Like a veil. But Lor did not know that yet.
    â€œ So I walk a little too fast ,” Vivienne sang. “ So I laugh a little too loud. But what else can you do, at the end of  . . .”
    Andrew stood by the rose garden that was due its second bloom. He stood tall, his dark hair shining. The woman he was now talking to wore a blue dress, pleated just below the knee. Her calves were long. Her ankles slender. She was almost as tall as he. They stood side by side, she touching his sleeve, just a forefinger on the cuff, the nail manicured and sharp. They were both smiling.
    â€œDon’t stare, darling,” Vivienne said, smoothing down her dress. “Why don’t you get Mommy another drink? Gin, please.” She held out her glass and cocked her head playfully. Lor took it, wove waist high through the chatter and the lacquered air. There were a multitude of shoes, stilettos that punctured the grass and soiled brogues. The man in a dinner jacket who exchanged the wineglass for a crystal tumbler, which he half filled with gin, half with lemon bitters, smelled of the oranges the orange blossoms should have smelled of.
    Lor took in the faces around her. She was familiar with them all. They came and went from one another’s parties, a vision of solidarity against whatever it was they were against. Conversation amongst them was like a story. It strove to be intellectual, but their intelligence was something that was sought out, muddled together and hoped for, rather than something they had been naturally blessed with. Quietly they competed with one another, each victory of erudition rejoiced over behind smiles of platitude. But within the confines of their group they remained obliviously unchallenged, and the superiority with which they spoke was merited only by the fact that they werewealthy—moneyed up, jazzed up, boozed up, “fabulous” as long as they