*
Hugh opened the door with unneeded energy and jumped up the steps to the hallway. He looked first in the library and saw his mother at the table poring over a fashion magazine. She looked up when she saw him and smiled at her son. Hugh smiled back looking up at the portrait of his father, gray hair on the temples hand on the chair ramrod straight.
"Mother,” he said, "you're looking beautiful today. I love your dress."
Grace was wearing a dramatic black silk crepe swing dress with chartreuse coloring on the shoulder. She put her finger on the page to hold her place and said to him, "My, you're in a good mood today."
He nodded, and said "Yes I am. I've been Midtown to our real estate office and things are going well with that unfortunate apartment fire. The fire marshal is no longer breathing down our necks, the tenants have found lodgings elsewhere, and Elmer is repairing the damage. So that's really good news. One less hassle." He put his hands in his pockets and turned around the room observing his parents' creation, as if he were appraising it. Then he stopped when he faced his mother again. "You know, Mother, you and father have made a beautiful room. But if I may say so, I have done as well or better in my office."
Grace spoke with a voice full of irony. "Yes, Darling, but none of it has been stolen." She put her face down to the magazine to hide the smirk.
Hugh tightened the muscles on his forehead. "I don't think that's very funny."
His mother leaned back in her chair and folded her hands on her lap. "No, I suppose you're right, but I just couldn't resist."
He knew she could care less whether her son bought the art from people who were forced to sell our people who took it without asking. He moved away from her and sat in his red wingback chair and spoke without looking at her. "I also went to Irving Trust and put my bullion certificates in the safety deposit box. I am sure it will be joined by many others in the future."
"I know you will be successful, Hugh. You are every bit as good as your father, and you are standing on his shoulders. The only thing I will dare say is that he married somewhat better than you did."
"Well, since we are on a first name basis now, Grace," he said, the irony in his voice matching hers. "Let me say, that I don't think it is your prerogative to pass judgment on my marriage." He stood and twirled to face her. "It's simply not your prerogative. As you say I have done very well handling my own affairs, and that includes my relationship with my wife, Mother." He put his hands on the chair and stared at her in defiance.
"And let me tell you, I have spoken to Hans Seifert and I am going to buy some more paintings and drawings. I am going to put them all over this house and perhaps you may see your home turned into something equal to the Frick."
"Why, I think that's wonderful. As long as you don’t turn my room into a public museum." She closed her magazine and stood to face him, then she moved around the table, taking her skirt in her hand and swishing it around as she came around the table. "I always knew you would come into your own man, Son. You are so much like your father. Now, if you can control your wife-“
His eyes flared. “Mother-“ He stopped at that, sure she would catch the hardness in his voice. He knew he had to control his mother first. But his father’s eyes in his father’s face stared at him. He changed his voice to a softer tone. “Mother, did something happen today? Is there some reason why you bring up the subject?”
Grace sighed. “It’s Elizabeth.”
“What about Elizabeth?”
“She’s uncontrollable and she’s giving me headaches.”
“Did you talk to Julia about it?”
Grace looked up at him in wonderment. “Didn’t you tell me a few minutes ago not to mess with your marriage?”
“All right,” he said, “just tell me what this is about. Why is Elizabeth giving you headaches?”
“She’s giving me headaches because she is wild.”
“I still don’t see why you can’t talk to Julia about it? She’s her mother.”
“I see,” Grace said, “and where is Elizabeth’s mother?”
“You don’t know?”
Grace’s voice rose. “I can well imagine, Hugh, where your wife is. What’s she’s doing there I have no idea.”
George Randolph Stuart bore down on his son.
Grace continued. “The problem is, you don’t know where she is or what she’s doing. That’s the problem.”
Hugh nodded. He felt caught.
Grace walked to him and put her hands on his chest. “You should go over there and see for yourself. It would be good for her to know that you are taking an interest. Maybe then she would take more interest in what’s happening in this house.”
Julia Page 18