“Jinx should have had the right to tell Foster the news, should have been entitled to see his face. Trace it for a hint of remorse. “How long will you wait for him to come in from the harbor?” “I don’t know, Mother.” Jinx sat in the dining room, the bronze and crystal Doré-style chandelier dripping light like tears upon the table. Landscape panels depicting a dark and fertile French countryside suggested a more baroque existence than her own. A clock—a wedding gift from the Astors—chipped away t...he late hour. She should have ordered a fire in the marble-carved fireplace, for the early July breeze had a bite that had collected in the corners of the room before they’d closed it for dinner. “You’ll just let him sit out there, scandalizing you with his boatloads of trollops, chorus girls, and cabaret singers.” Her mother put down her fork, letting it rattle on the Dresden china, a purchase from Jinx’s last trip abroad. Upon her own plate, Jinx’s broiled quail had turned chewy.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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