Mrs. Lurie mounted the sagging steps of their villa, which she cheerfully if a bit resignedly called her Victorian relic. Elated that she had managed to finish her classes and her teaching ahead of schedule, she was particularly pleased with herself at having resisted the temptation to rehearse her aria.
“No,” she had said with a faint tinge of regret. “I have a date with my daughter. We’re going to the Pool. She’s been looking forward to it for weeks. Tomorrow, perhaps?”
The front door of the house was unlatched as was the trusting custom of all dwellers in Aspen. “Judy!” she called. There was no answer. Even the piano was silent, the warm sunny day having apparently won the battle between the students’ struggle, duty versus pleasure.
Mrs. Lurie was annoyed at not finding Judy at home, but she knew she herself was to blame. In the argument over the camp this morning, she had overlooked telling Judy she would try to be home early. It was only two-thirty. There was ample time, she reflected. She would, in the meanwhile, get ready: put on her yellow sunback cotton, long reserved for this occasion, her yellow and gold sandals. She lightly brushed her brown hair, yellow where the sun had bleached it. She was grateful that nature had provided her with hair that fell in soft, natural waves. Mrs. Lurie was far from vain, but she was pleased at her image reflected in the mirror.
Another trip to the sidewalk and still no sign of Judy! Mrs. Lurie re-entered the house, laid out Judy’s shorts and sleeveless blouse. This was a slight risk she felt impelled to take. Her daughter had for years made a fetish of selecting her own things and rebelled at any infringement of her rights. Mrs. Lurie had encouraged her to do this. But time and again she wished Judy’s taste wasn’t so lurid. That skirt, for example, she wore this morning—not even shortened. Mrs. Lurie glanced at the clock and concluded this was no time to think about such matters. The car that was to fetch them to the Pool would arrive in ten minutes.
She made her third trip to the sidewalk, scanning the street as if by sheer wishing she could conjure up Judy into appearing. At last! There she was, dawdling along at a snail’s pace, walking with an abstracted air as if in another world.
As soon as Judy was within hailing distance, her mother called in a voice that would have roused a Valkyrie from her mountain fastness.
“Hurry, Judy! You’re late!”
Judy looked around, startled at the familiar voice, then seeing her mother, she quickened her steps to a run. There was no thought or remembrance of a visit to the Pool. Her mother was home. She would tell her about Karl. The need to talk was overpowering.
“Mother, I want to tell you something exciting!”