The Other Side of Love Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Jacqueline Briskin
wished her good luck, assuring her in various accents and languages that she would win both of her races.
Til tell Wyatt to be sure to look you up and give you some pointers,”
Humphrey added.
“What a magnificent sprinter, that boy!”
As they started for the front door, Euan planted himself squarely in front of his son.
“Aubrey, you’re not to take the wheel.”
“The chauffeur’s turned in,”
Aubrey said.
“Then, you better keep a sharp eye on yourself, you hear? I don’t want you crashing your Uncle Alfred’s motor up, too.”
Euan’s eyes were piercing, and his rather high-pitched voice had taken on volume.
Aubrey helped Kathe into the car, stammering an explanation that he had dented the bonnet of his Morris Minor up at Oxford.
“Since then Father’s positive that I’m a menace on the road.”
Euan had always demanded perfection from his only son. Just as he had felt obligated to punish Aubrey’s childhood misdeeds with a caning, so now his son’s occasional ineptitudes spurred him to tongue-lashings. And Aubrey on his side, despite his stammering and mildness, possessed an inner courage that \*uld not permit him to back down from his bellicose sire. The two we* forever at loggerheads.
“Parents,”
Kathe said sympathetically.
Aubrey drove slowly.
“After the end of the Games, would it be all right if I get some tickets for the Philharmonic?”
Td love it, but what about Araminta?”
Araminta made no bones that classical music bored her silly.
“By then she’ll have any number of boyfriends begging to take her around to parties and nightclubs.”
“Then, do let’s.”
“If Aunt Clothilde doesn’t object.”
“Why would Mother say anything?”
“Just the two of us.”
Aubrey mumbled the explanation.
“No chaperon.”
Even though nineteenth-century decorum was bred in Clothilde’s rather-too-large bones, she would never kick up a fuss about her daughter going to an evening concert with Aubrey.
“That rule doesn’t apply to brothers and cousins,”
Kathe laughed.
It was too dark for her to see Aubrey’s hurt little grimace.
25
Chapter Four
CN
The first round of the basketball tournament would start in ten minutes.
Wyatt hunkered on low benches with the other tall men wearing grey sweatsuits stencilled USA. The shack smelt of woodrot and fresh paint: the German Olympic Committee, who considered the sport negligible, had painted basketball markings on an old clay tennis-court, converting the two sheds where the nets were stored into locker rooms. The players, trapped in pre-game tension, watched the coach diagramming a play on the blackboard. Wyatt stirred restlessly, scratching between his shoulders. Ever since he’d arrived in Deutschland his sense of being persona non grata had physically manifested itself as a skin irritation. Even here, among other Americans, he felt distinctly itchy.
What the hell am I doing in Berlin anyway1?
Wyatt never would have asked himself such a question before this
July—
The coach was repeating the strategy of the play. Wyatt didn’t hear the earnest voice. He was remembering a hot July night a bit over a month earlier, a muggy night on the island of Manhattan when his vision of Wyatt Kingsmith had been irrevocably shattered.
II
He had come home to the commodious apartment on 72nd Street and Madison at a little before ten. The corner windows were open,
26
and the hum of Madison Avenue traffic had covered the sound of the front door opening and closing. Buoyed with elation, he had paused in the foyer, smiling fondly at his parents”
predictability. They had been in the brightly lit L of the big living-room, facing each other across the cabriolet-legged games-table. Though they worked together, they seemed more than content to spend most of their evenings at the games-table, fitting together thousand-piece jigsaw puzzles, playing
Til tell Wyatt to be sure to look you up and give you some pointers,”
Humphrey added.
“What a magnificent sprinter, that boy!”
As they started for the front door, Euan planted himself squarely in front of his son.
“Aubrey, you’re not to take the wheel.”
“The chauffeur’s turned in,”
Aubrey said.
“Then, you better keep a sharp eye on yourself, you hear? I don’t want you crashing your Uncle Alfred’s motor up, too.”
Euan’s eyes were piercing, and his rather high-pitched voice had taken on volume.
Aubrey helped Kathe into the car, stammering an explanation that he had dented the bonnet of his Morris Minor up at Oxford.
“Since then Father’s positive that I’m a menace on the road.”
Euan had always demanded perfection from his only son. Just as he had felt obligated to punish Aubrey’s childhood misdeeds with a caning, so now his son’s occasional ineptitudes spurred him to tongue-lashings. And Aubrey on his side, despite his stammering and mildness, possessed an inner courage that \*uld not permit him to back down from his bellicose sire. The two we* forever at loggerheads.
“Parents,”
Kathe said sympathetically.
Aubrey drove slowly.
“After the end of the Games, would it be all right if I get some tickets for the Philharmonic?”
Td love it, but what about Araminta?”
Araminta made no bones that classical music bored her silly.
“By then she’ll have any number of boyfriends begging to take her around to parties and nightclubs.”
“Then, do let’s.”
“If Aunt Clothilde doesn’t object.”
“Why would Mother say anything?”
“Just the two of us.”
Aubrey mumbled the explanation.
“No chaperon.”
Even though nineteenth-century decorum was bred in Clothilde’s rather-too-large bones, she would never kick up a fuss about her daughter going to an evening concert with Aubrey.
“That rule doesn’t apply to brothers and cousins,”
Kathe laughed.
It was too dark for her to see Aubrey’s hurt little grimace.
25
Chapter Four
CN
The first round of the basketball tournament would start in ten minutes.
Wyatt hunkered on low benches with the other tall men wearing grey sweatsuits stencilled USA. The shack smelt of woodrot and fresh paint: the German Olympic Committee, who considered the sport negligible, had painted basketball markings on an old clay tennis-court, converting the two sheds where the nets were stored into locker rooms. The players, trapped in pre-game tension, watched the coach diagramming a play on the blackboard. Wyatt stirred restlessly, scratching between his shoulders. Ever since he’d arrived in Deutschland his sense of being persona non grata had physically manifested itself as a skin irritation. Even here, among other Americans, he felt distinctly itchy.
What the hell am I doing in Berlin anyway1?
Wyatt never would have asked himself such a question before this
July—
The coach was repeating the strategy of the play. Wyatt didn’t hear the earnest voice. He was remembering a hot July night a bit over a month earlier, a muggy night on the island of Manhattan when his vision of Wyatt Kingsmith had been irrevocably shattered.
II
He had come home to the commodious apartment on 72nd Street and Madison at a little before ten. The corner windows were open,
26
and the hum of Madison Avenue traffic had covered the sound of the front door opening and closing. Buoyed with elation, he had paused in the foyer, smiling fondly at his parents”
predictability. They had been in the brightly lit L of the big living-room, facing each other across the cabriolet-legged games-table. Though they worked together, they seemed more than content to spend most of their evenings at the games-table, fitting together thousand-piece jigsaw puzzles, playing
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