"It may be crowded," Oliver said, "but you get daffodils
three weeks before we do."
Oliver sipped his second Glenlivet and looked back from the darkening
harbor. "I wish I had known my grandfather," he said to his mother. "I
remember when he died. I was eight, I think."
"Yes, you were in third grade," she said. "It was sad. He was living in
Paris. When he wrote, I called him at the hospital--but he didn't want
me to come. He said that he wanted me to remember him as he was."
"When was the last time you saw him?" Oliver asked.
"Oh . . . I . . ." She looked at Paul. He raised his eyebrows
sympathetically. "I guess I never told you that story," she said to
Oliver. "It was a long time ago. My sixteenth birthday, in fact." She
sighed.
"It was at Nice, on the Riviera. He arranged a party on the
beach--wine, great food, fireworks . . . After the fireworks, he gave
me a bamboo cage with a white dove inside.
"'This is your present, Dior,' he said. 'You must let it go, give it
freedom.' I opened the cage, and the dove flew up into the dark. 'Very
good,' my father said. He hugged me. Then he said, 'Now, we will say
goodbye. You are grown, and I will not be seeing you and your mother
any more.
Pages:
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41