Balance

Chapter 1

1

New York

September 5th, 1954

            Frieda Dredge finished another glass of champagne, careful not to smudge her lipstick. “Really,” she drawled with breathless gratitude, “it is an honor and a wonder that I could win this award. Amongst so many talented folks—” she wrinkled her nose. “The inflection on ‘Many’…it’s too much, isn’t it? Especially after I do the wave on ‘So’?”

            Her husband shifted in his black leather seat. “It just doesn’t sound sincere.” His champagne splashed the floor as the limousine took a sharp turn. “Perhaps just take that sentence out of the speech.”

            “Harrison. If I take that sentence out, the speech will be too short. Then I will seem like I don’t want to be there accepting the award. Do you want me to look disinterested?”

            “You won’t look disinterested,” Oliver moaned, his eyes rolling with the words. “So far, you sound so unrealistically interested that I don’t think a single audience member will believe it.”

            Frieda’s mouth shrank and her eyes narrowed. The brown-haired beauty crossed her arms, scrutinizing her son. “Is that true, Oliver? And just how many speeches have you given compared to me? Do you doubt my way of delivering and writing these?”

            “I do, actually.” Oliver straightened his lapels and folded his hands. “Deliver them how you want—that’s your department. But let Eleanor write one for once! She’s better than you or me or even Dad at it.”

            Frieda switched her gaze from son to daughter. Eleanor Dredge had taken to a far corner of the vehicle. Unlike her brother, Eleanor’s looks strayed from the fine features their mother carried. Her chin was squarer, her nose rounder, and her hair thicker and browner. She had missed the whole of the conversation; her attention utterly consumed by the paperbound novel resting in her lap. The girl only realized all eyes were on her when her mother cleared her throat and tapped a heeled foot against the floor. “Eleanor,” the woman began, eyes closed. “Where is your hat.” It was a flat, curt statement demanding response.

            Eleanor set her book down and retrieved the feathered accessory from her purse. “Here,” she answered meekly.

            “Why is it in your purse, instead of your hair.”

            “Um,” She thumbed a green plume. “I didn’t like the way it looked on me.”

            Frieda splayed slender fingers over her thighs. She met Eleanor in her identical hazel eyes. “I don’t care, Eleanor. Your hat matches your dress, which complements my outfit and complexion. This is the system we have always worked by. Why won’t you cooperate tonight?”

            “I wanted to choose what I wore tonight. You already have me in these ridiculous heels and the shawl. Can we omit the hat for once?”

            “No, we cannot omit the hat! This outfit has been planned for weeks. Without the hat, it doesn’t work, Eleanor.”

“But it covers up most of my face!”

            “Perhaps that was the point.” Her voice took on the edge Eleanor knew meant no further arguing. “Oliver, help your sister pin her hat in place.”

            The older child took his sister’s accessory and stuck it in her hair. “Lighten up,” he muttered as he pinned, “I have to wear this idiotic green cravat. You should have to wear this hat.” He spread the black netting over her brown curls and pale face. Their mother had taken to practicing her acceptance speech again. Eleanor didn’t touch her book the rest of the ride.