Page 55 of Letters From Victor

I folded Victor’s letter, replaced it in its envelope, and locked it away in the hand-carved wooden box he had brought me fromhis trip to Mexico. I traced my fingers over the intricate designs on the lid, lost in thoughts of Victor and what lay ahead for us.

The doorbell startled me from my reverie. I hurried out of my room, half expecting to see Phil with the surprise Victor mentioned in his letter. My heart quickened at the thought as I made my way to the door, smoothing my dress and checking my hair in the hall mirror.

When I opened the door, my excitement deflated like a punctured balloon.

“Mother,” I said, unable to mask my disappointment. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

My mother, the redoubtable Agatha Montgomery, stood tall and imperious, her eyes taking in every detail of the entryway with their usual critical sharpness. She wore a navy-blue overcoat and clutched a small handbag, her lips set in a thin line.

“Well? Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

I hesitated for a fraction of a second, wondering what she could want this time. I was never on her list of social calls.

“Of course,” I said tentatively, stepping aside to let her through.

Agatha slowly, deliberately removed her overcoat, revealing a slate-gray dress with black piped trim along clean, sharp lines. Her low-heeled black leather pumps matched her handbag. She handed her coat to me as she strode through to the living room.

“I see you’ve…redecorated,” she said as she surveyed the room down her nose.

“A little here and there. If you visited more often, it wouldn’t seem so drastic. Shall we sit?”

Agatha let out a short huff as she perched on the edge of the sofa and crossed her legs at the ankles. “It’s rather…austere.”

“I prefer to call it modern. Would you like some tea?”

“I’m not staying long enough.”

I settled into Frank’s armchair. “All right then, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Agatha’s eyes flicked toward me, cool and assessing. She unclasped her handbag, then thought better of it and clasped it shut again. “I was relieved to hear from Frank that you’ve set aside your little secretarial position and resumed your proper place at home.”

Of course Frank had run straight to Mother. The two of them had become thick as thieves. I braced myself for the lecture that was sure to follow.

“Left is not the same as quit,” I corrected. “It’s just a pause.”

“Whatever you call it,” Agatha said, sitting rigidly upright. “It’s good for your family. They need you here.”

“You’ve made your position abundantly clear, Mother. Surely you didn’t drive all the way out here to tell me that.”

Agatha tilted her head, lips pursed. “Frank tells me things between you are…strained.”

I gripped the arms of the chair, the rough fabric like steel wool against my palms. “Frank has been rather chatty, it seems.”

“He’s concerned, Barbara.” She paused, weighing her next words with uncharacteristic care. “As am I.”

I opened my mouth to retort, but Mother held up her hand to stop me.

“Listen, Barbara.”

I remained silent.

“Now it’s no secret that I didn’t approve of your marriage in the first place. You married beneath you when you could have done so much better. But what’s done is done.” She shifted her weight and recrossed her ankles. “And I will even go so far as to admit that Frank has proven himself to be a decent man, despite his less-than-stellar credentials.”

“How magnanimous of you, Mother.”

“What I’m saying is you chose him. You chose this life. So it’s on you to make it work. Our kind of people are never unhappy in marriage. At least not publicly.”

I studied her face, searching for some trace of the warmth other girls described when speaking of their mothers. Her features were as precise and unyielding as a marble statue—cheekbones carved high, nose straight as a ruler, lips a severe slash of red, gunmetal-gray hair scraped back into a tight bun—any trace of softness long sacrificed to dignity.

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