The Gift Bag Chronicles by Hilary De Vries Read Free Book Online

Bryn Mawr, or at least this cross-section of it, seems to act like it’s the joke tie hanging around the neck of the body politic.
    “Oh gosh, yes,” I say, smiling into his bleary eyes. “I mean, I’ve been out there for what, five years now, and after all those Philadelphia winters, well, you can really get used to L.A.” I sound like I’m reciting the Chamber of Commerce handbook. Circa 1950. But then, I’ve had a martini or two myself.
    “Oh, well, sure the weather’s good,” Mr. McIlleney says. “But don’t you find —”
    “Of course, they don’t broadcast the Eagles games often enough, so yes, there’s definitely a drawback or two.”
    Mr. McIlleney blinks a couple of times. Like he’s trying to focus. Oh, got it. Sports. “Oh, well, yeah, and what a tragedy that was last year when their offense was so explosive,” he says, shaking his head, happy to be back on terra firma.
    “Yeah, Terrell Owens?” I say, arching my eyebrows. “Amazing.”
    “Did you see that Atlanta game?” he says, clapping a hand to my shoulder. “Of course you didn’t. Well, let me tell you, that was a game to see.”
    God, I’m getting good at this. Cutting them off before they get to whatever fill-in-the-blank objection and/or question they have about my having bolted the East Coast for Los Angeles. All of which are variations on (1) what’s the matter with Hollywood these days, but then that’s what you’d expect from a bunch of sex-crazed liberals, and (2) do I know any movie stars?
Real
movie stars. But then I’ve been doing this for the past two hours. I’ve had a chance to hone my technique.
    “Roger, now don’t go pestering Alexandra about sports teams. She’s got better things to do than listen to you go on about the Eagles.”
    I turn. Mrs. McIlleney, looking like a carbon copy of Helen in her version of the Mary Tyler Moore outfit from her
Dick Van Dyke Show
days — slim, pegged trousers, gold bracelet, flats, and perfect hairdo.
    “Hey, Mrs. McIlleney,” I say, reaching out to give her a hug.
    “Mary, please,” she says, sliding her arm around my shoulder. “So good to have you back home again. I know your mom is thrilled, even if you’re only here for a few days.”
    “Well, I’m embarrassed at how long it’s been. I mean, seeing you all I realize … Well, anyway, it’s just great to be home.”
    They both beam at me. “And your boyfriend?” she says, raising her eyebrows at me like I’ve just won the lottery. “I was just talking to him in the kitchen, and what a lovely young man. And so bright. I understand you both work at the same firm.”
    “Yes, he is very—” I start.
    “Yeah, but is he an Eagles fan?” Mr. McIlleney says, clapping me on the shoulder again.
    “Oh, Roger.”
    “No, but ask him about the Yankees and you’re good for an hour,” I say, realizing I’m quickly running out of sports talk. That my knowledge of the Yankees tops out at “Steinbrenner bad, Joe Torre good.” Even if I spent almost ten years in Manhattan after I got out of Brown, five years in L.A. on the Hollywood publicity treadmill and I can no longer recite the pinstripes’ lineup. I can name all the last five covers of
Vanity Fair, Vogue, InStyle
, and
Entertainment Weekly
, and list the release dates for all the studio films between now and Christmas, but I can’t name a single Yankees player.
    “Hey, there you are. I wondered where you’d gone.”
    I turn as Charles slides in next to me and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Hey,” I say, flashing him a huge smile. He looks even more fetching than I remember him at the start of this evening in his blue button-down shirt, navy blazer, and his green eyes with the crinkles around them, especially when he laughs. Or maybethat has more to do with all the martinis and the fact that Mrs. McIlleney is smiling at him very, very intently. I’d been so dreading this party, and now here I am, belle of the ball and with Prince Charming on my arm to