The Private Lives of Pippa Lee by Rebecca Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

then, turning, half-laughing, she said in her mocking tone, ‘Am I cured now?’
    *
    Pippa stared out the window of Herb’s Mercedes and thought about Grace. It had been three months since she’d been to see them, before her trip to Afghanistan, her second in a year. Pippa had butterflies in her stomach. She always did, these days, whenshe was going to see her daughter. Seeing Ben was like putting on your favorite old pair of jeans. Seeing Grace was like … like bumping into someone you had a crush on. No, Pippa thought, that can’t be it. And yet it was, a little.
    Herb had chosen the Gotham Bar and Grill so he could have a decent meal. The kids had loved to go there around Christmas when they were little. It was absurdly expensive, but there was something reassuring about the heavy cloth on the tables, the superfluous busboys, the quiet conversations, the fine silk and wool of the customers’ suits. It felt like going back in time. Herb and Pippa were early, as they always were, and Pippa was teasingly trying to distance the bread basket from Herb’s big hands. She saw Grace through the window as she approached. She had cut her wild blond hair short. It looked like underbrush. Her nose looked sharper somehow, a little beakish, Pippa thought, as Grace shoved the heavy door open with too much force, walked up the steps, and stood raking the room with her cool gaze. Pippa waved at her, and Grace approached with long strides, unwinding a scarlet silk scarf from around her neck. Herb stood up and hugged Grace hard. Grace then leaned across the table and brushed Pippa’s cheek with her lips.
    â€˜Am I late?’ she asked.
    â€˜I had time to eat all the bread,’ said Herb.
    â€˜Your hair looks wonderful,’ said Pippa.
    â€˜Thanks,’ Grace said, running her hand through the light blond mop.
    â€˜So. Tell us,’ said Herb.
    â€˜Oh, Dad, give me a second. Ben said to start without him. He’s stuck in the library. He’ll be here as soon as he can.’
    â€˜It must be that paper,’ said Herb.
    â€˜Yes. That paper ,’ said Grace, making loving fun of her brother. ‘Can I have lamb chops, please? I’m starving.’ They ordered for themselves and for Ben, then Grace put her portfolio on the table.
    â€˜These are just work prints, but anyway it gives you anidea …’ She set the pile of photographs in front of Herb. Pippa had to look at them upside down. As Herb finished examining each picture, he slid it over to her. In one, a little boy bent over another, prone child, as if protecting her, his face pinched with fright. In another, a man pushed a bicycle, his large, dark, haunted eyes staring into the camera. The front wall of the house behind him had been entirely torn off; on the second floor, a bed, chair, and mirror were arranged like a stage set, open to the world.
    â€˜Were you alone when you took these?’ Pippa asked. She could feel Grace bristle.
    â€˜No, I hitched a ride with Giles Oppenheim.’ Two-time winner of the Pulitzer Prize, Oppenheim was a legend among war photographers.
    â€˜How did you manage that?’ asked Herb.
    â€˜It’s pretty common, people look out for each other there.’
    â€˜Well, you’ve got courage, we know that much,’ said Herb. He was nearly exploding with pride, and Grace knew it.
    â€˜These are the best yet,’ said Pippa.
    â€˜Thanks,’ said Grace, little red spots appearing on her pale cheeks.
    Ben arrived, pleased to have his lunch laid out for him. ‘Has she told you about the bomb?’ he asked, pleasantly.
    â€˜Ben,’ said Grace.
    â€˜What bomb?’ asked Pippa.
    â€˜She was with that Oppenheim fellow, and the translator, and they heard a bomb go off down the street, and Oppenheim tried to drag her left, but she ran down an alley to the right, and he and the translator followed her, and a van exploded right where he was trying to