The Improper Life of Bezillia Grove Read Online Free PDF Page B

now and then, Nana reminded me of Mother, saying something mean and unexpected. But fortunately it wasn’t often. And fortunately it was never meant for me.
    Mother genuinely tried to convince my sister that she would have a wonderful summer out by the lake, but Adelaide couldn’t hear anything comforting amid all of her whining and fussing. Mother finally smacked her hands together and warned her little girl that she did not have the patience or the energy for this ill-timed, overly zealous display of emotion and that Adelaide’s dramatics were causing her head to hurt. My sister just lay on the floor kicking and screaming, and Mother went and fixed herself another gin and tonic.
    I was never sure if it was chairing the gala or talking to Mrs. Hunt on the telephone every day that delighted my mother most. Mrs. Hunt was a beautiful woman, as all Mother’s friends were. Her hair was light blond and stylishly short, curled and teased into a very attractive bob. She never went anywhere without wearing high-heeled shoes and two-piece suits, and always pinned to her jacket’s lapel was a large, diamond-encrusted H. My mother admired that pin very much. And before long, she was consulting Mrs. Hunt about everything—invitations, caterers, menus, even her children.
    Adelaide and I quickly found ourselves wearing matching taffeta dresses and waltzing every Tuesday afternoon with a bunch of other kids who looked as perfect and as miserable as we did. My sister, however, learned almost on the spot that if she’d stomp and snort loud enough, Mother would leave her at home. Oh, Mother would threaten Adelaide with a spanking that she would never forget, and my sister would retaliate by screaming even louder and clutching Baby Stella tightly against her chest. Then Mother would, inevitably, leave them both behind, but only as she reminded me that I was very privileged to be dancing with Mrs. Hunt’s children.
    One afternoon I simply refused to go. I told my mother that there was nothing particularly privileged about holding some boy’s sweaty hand while he stood on my left foot. She immediately lowered her body so her face was directly in front of mine. And with her finger pointed sharply in front of my nose, she said that when she was a little girl she would have given her left foot to dance with a Hunt. And I obviously did not appreciate what had been handed to me on one very old, albeit slightly tarnished, silver spoon. Then she grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to the car.
    Besides, she said, I was now old enough to understand that worthwhile relationships were not rooted in the foolish affairs of the heart. She had learned the hard way that there were only three things of value to look for in a man. One, he wears cashmere. Two, he drives a convertible. And three, he glides across the dance floor. Anything more than that, Mother said, should not be of any importance to me, now or ever. I asked her if that was all she had looked for in my father. She simply tilted her head back and laughed. But from where I was sitting, it seemed that being a good wife had much more to do with impressing other wives than it did dancing with your own husband.
    Mrs. Hunt flew to New York to buy a triple strand of pearls with a diamond clasp. She came to Grove Hill straight from the airport so she could flaunt her bejeweled neck in front of her dear, envious friend. My mother took one look at that necklace and then demanded that my father send her to Tiffany too. It wasn’t right, she shouted later that night behind their closed bedroom door, that her neck was always bare. It was simply embarrassing that the only pearls she owned were fake—cheap, cultured impostors. And it was very, very rotten, she screamed, that the one strand of pearls my father had ever seen fit to give to anyone had been presented to his baby daughter. Mother must not have liked what he had to say, because I heard a loud thud and the sound of shattering glass. A week