society magazines. Perhaps she mistook access to their riches for riches of my own.
“Yes,” I said.
“I understand.”
“I don’t think you do.”
It might as well have been the Prescott family slogan. I smiled despite myself.
“You’re probably right.”
“Come to dinner tomorrow. We can talk like adults.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“Good night, Margaret.”
I ended the conversation. By ten, my parents were there. My father embraced me in silence; Mom surveyed the cartons, removed her coat, and asked, “Which closet?” I indicated the closet, and she began working
