Skyscape Read Free

was so polite and relaxed it was exciting. It was the way it was supposed to be, the way it so rarely was.
    They should have had help, someone to serve and wait for the guests’ needs to make themselves known, but there was always trouble keeping household help. Curtis was having a good day, but these were rare.
    Margaret didn’t mind having to serve the gazpacho herself—it gave her something to do, and this was important ever since, some ten years before, she had heaved a porcelain Buddha at her mother and smashed it to pieces. Granted, seventeen-year-olds do things like that sometimes, and granted, further, that the Buddha had been gaudy shlock, the gift of a lobbyist representing the canned food industry. Her mother was old-Sacramento, and her family still had some political weight.
    Still, the event lingered in Margaret’s mind as a defining episode. She was much nicer to her mother now, but she felt both apologetic and fervent in her dislike of what Curtis called Andrea’s “Betty Boop crossed with Vampira” mannerisms.
    Webber told a story about seeing a manta ray off the shore, and swimming along with it for awhile, and Andrea batted her eyelashes and made her wide-with-awe expression, a look she assumed was a man-killer. “Weren’t you afraid?” she said.
    Webber made a little shrug with his hands: afraid of what. But Margaret could tell he was flattered.
    â€œI lived in Hilo for awhile,” said Curtis. “It rained a lot. I remember toads. Hundreds of toads. And flowers. Beautiful flowers. And cockroaches. You wouldn’t believe these roaches—the size of Chevies.”
    â€œOh my,” said Andrea.
    â€œWhat am I doing—what a thing to talk about.” said Curtis.
    â€œBut the toads would help out with those,” said Webber.
    â€œOh, yuck,” said Andrea, enjoying herself.
    â€œCurtis used to eat bugs, didn’t you, Curtis?” said Margaret. She couldn’t help it. Her mother made being nice seem criminal.
    â€œI didn’t,” protested Curtis, looking at Margaret for help.
    â€œLarva,” said Margaret.
    â€œWe’re going to have to move in that direction,” said Webber.
    â€œIn the direction of larva,” said Margaret.
    â€œAs a source of protein for the world’s hungry,” said Webber.
    Instantly Margaret decided that Webber was someone she could like. A strong person who could still enjoy himself. The sort of man who could fire three people in the morning and then make a big contribution to Save the Children and feel fine. He was, perhaps, not a noble person, but he wanted to be. He had that comfortable way of talking, someone who said things just as he had read them or heard them on the news.
    â€œI act like this because my mother was so nice I knew I couldn’t possibly compete with her,” said Margaret. She took her mother’s hand, surprising even herself. She felt gracious. Her mother dimpled, looking at Margaret with something like happiness.
    â€œI love your goat,” said Webber.
    â€œYou astonish me,” said Margaret.
    â€œHe has such a smart expression,” Webber said.
    â€œI’m impressed that you’re so widely read,” Margaret replied, unable to hide her pleasure. Webber was referring to a character Margaret had created for a series of children’s books. Her stories were about a goat detective, Starr of the Yard.
    Webber smiled. “Your goat’s famous. Your mother said something about a TV series.”
    â€œI’m sure Starr would like you,” said Margaret.
    She wasn’t sure, exactly. She was being polite. It was easy to be polite to Webber. She was fairly certain, however, that none of her characters in any of her books would have been able to stand her mother for half a minute.
    It was enough to make things just a little uncomfortable in a pleasant way. Webber was almost flirting with Margaret.
    So it was hardly a