The hat had been a black cloche, with a tiny bit of veil over her left eye. The pin was one of Beatrice’s treasures, an Art Deco tiger, in a prowling pose, with bits of topaz for the eyes. She’d bought it for twenty dollars at a store on South Street.
“That is quite a look,” Diana had said. Beatrice knew when she was being humored, and could tell that Diana was sincere. “Are you interested in fashion as a career?”
Beatrice had shrugged. But then, instead of asking the predictable follow-up question—“Well, what are you interested in?”—which, of course, would segue into what most of her parents’ friends really wanted to know, which was “Where are you thinking about going to college?” Diana had said, “You’ll have to tell me where the good vintage stores in Philadelphia are.”
“Oh, Beatrice knows them all,” said her mother, who of course had to jump into every conversation to prove how well she knew her daughter, and how great a mother she was.
“Do you like vintage clothes?” Beatrice had asked Diana. Nothing from the other woman’s appearance hinted at her tastes inclining in that direction. Diana was wearing dark-rinse jeans, a silk blouse, and no accessories except for the gold cuff on her wrist and diamond stud earrings. Her shoes were plain velvet flats, but probably designer—Tory Burch or even Chanel.
“I like vintage textiles and prints. Vintage postcards,” Diana had answered. And she’d looked almost shy when she’d said, “I decoupage seashells with them. And I’ve been learning how to embroider.”
“Beatrice makes shadowboxes. And she does taxidermy!” said her mom, and actually managed to sound proud about it, even though Beatrice knew for a fact that she wasn’t proud, at all.
Ignoring her mother, Beatrice had asked Diana, “Do you have any pictures?”
Diana had pulled out her phone, flicked at her screen, and showed Beatrice a shot of six oyster shells, edged in gold, decoupaged with fleur-de-lis or patterns of lobsters or starfish or bits of paisley print, and then samplers, squares of plain white linen embroidered with birds and flowers and, in one case, the word BULLSHIT in elaborate cursive. “I lived near the beach for a while, and I picked up seashells when I walked, and I was looking for something to do with them.”
“Have you ever seen John Derian’s stuff?” Beatrice asked.
Diana had smiled. “I’ve actually met him a few times.”
Beatrice immediately abandoned any pretensions of being cool. “No way. Really?”
“Really.” Diana looked delighted by Beatrice’s pleasure. “Maybe someday, you guys will come visit me, and I’ll take you to his shop.” Diana had turned to Beatrice’s mother. “Do you know his work?”
Beatrice’s mother looked thoughtful. “He’s got a shop in Provincetown. I’ve been there a few times.” She was probably delighted that Beatrice was being “pleasant,” as she’d probably put it, to one of her friends. “Have you ever been there?”
Beatrice thought she saw Diana stiffen. “To Provincetown? Not recently.” Then Diana turned back to Beatrice, saying, “I would love to see your taxidermy,” and Beatrice had led her upstairs. Before she’d left, her mother had invited her to the dinner party, and as soon as Diana had gotten in the car her mom had started planning the meal.
Cooking was her mother’s business, and her mom hosted a number of parties every year as a way of attracting new business and showing off her skills. There was Thanksgiving, where everyone from both sides of the family came. Her mom roasted ducks and ordered a smoked goose from some place in North Dakota. In December, there was a Christmas cookie exchange. Her mother would bake for weeks, and invite everyone from the neighborhood over, and send them all home with a specially printed tin that had her name and the address of her website on a sticker on the front. There were the parties on the long weekends that bracketed summer: the Memorial Day barbecue, and the Labor Day Goodbye to the Cape clambake—and then the May Day dinner, which celebrated Grandma Judy’s birthday, and her dad’s.
Beatrice had already decided what she’d wear on Saturday night—a black tulle dress with crinolines, fitted at the bodice, flared at the hips, that she’d found at Goodwill for eight dollars. She would wear sparkly gold heels with it, and her black hat. Her mom was making one of her favorites, the coq au vin that took hours to prepare, and the dish her mom only served to her very favorite people.