5.17 Pulp Friction episode addition. Some years later. Fluff free. Now Complete.
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One
It was raining.
Rory could see the heavy sheets of it coming down as she looked out through the thick plate glass window of the silver-webbed high rise. The seventeenth floor. Not that she was at all damp. Far from it. With a doubly-confirmed interview appointment, she'd sailed right into the parking garage and then gone straight up the elevator. Dry as a bone.
Sitting now, waiting for him, she twitched slightly in her leather seat.
Just the short walk from said elevator to this specific office suite had revealed right away that her shoes were all wrong. Too delicate for the sophistication of this office. And her bag. Wrong too. Although pricey (a gift from Emily), the proportions were wrong for the uber professional woman she hoped to become.
She sighed. Oh, well. Nevermind.
She was well aware that this interview, her interview, with Mitchum Huntzberger (The Mitchum Huntzberger) was only a formality.
The job was a cinch.
There'd be time to research and edit her clothing faux pas later.
It hadn't really been until the last few weeks before graduation that she'd begun to clearly grasp the magnitude of the privilege that was hers.
Before that she'd only thought of herself as lucky.
Fortunate.
Or, as One Who Worked Hard for what she got.
She'd been naive in this regard. Most people are, though it would be years before she'd figure that out.
And, she had been lucky, fortunate, and a hard worker too, of course. No one gets any where without these.
But it had taken four years of Yale: The sorting out of The Academy, of Hormones and Guys, of negotiating Self Respect (then renegotiating it all over again)to really come to the understanding of The Privilege she hadAnd that her mother had given up.
It wasn't about the money (though she'd been given that freely as one watered a beloved antique rose.)
It wasn't about always having a car to drive.
Or lovely frocks to wear (she knew, after all, that Lane didn't wear a four hundred dollar dress to a Friday night family dinner), or exclusive parties and clubs to wear them to.
It was about The Privilege.
The privilege that came of having a certain last name.
And how that drew the attention of certain others with other certain last names. And how those with those other certain last names also happened to have extremely important fathers who had it within the power of a mere lifted brow to make all your dreams come true. To consider you. To interview you for, then naturally bestow upon you too (one would progress from the other), the job you covet most in the world, only a day after graduating with a BA in English from Yale.
Thinking about The Privilege made her squirm in her seat again. Well, that and the job interview before her now.
Of course, she's qualified, she thinks (The most qualified? her conscience pricks. Well, no.)
Of course, she's got the right education (Fully taken advantage of? Ah, no. But close.)
And of course, she's worked hard (Harder than Paris? Than Doyle? Crap.)
She sighed and had to acknowledge The Privilege again. The certain last name privilege that had her sitting in Mitchum Huntzberger's office right now. The knowledge that she can comfortably call him Mitchum when he comes in (they've met socially which is where such things usually begin.) The knowledge that he was to play golf with her grandfather on Saturday.
It was enough.
Because of The Privilege she knows too that he will only glance cursorily at her resume when he comes in to join her.
Though many sharper and much more well-rounded resumes than hers, even now, sit it an enormous pile in an obscure office, next to a bathroom, seven floors below.
She looked at the Louis XV clock on the mahogany desk before her then. It ticked loudly at her as she thought, This is where having privilege can land you. Seven floors above those resumes sadly lacking certain last names.
She's not stupid. She's not going to turn down this shot because of her certain last name. She's not that noble. But she does have a conscience (and enough Stars' Hollow within) to hate the knowledge that Class Matters.
She re-crossed her legs then, switching the right one to the top.
This had been the formula: Money and Hard Work got her to Chilton.
Money, Hard Work, and Her Grandfather (and his father before him) got her to Yale.
And now, Money, Hard Work, Her Grandfather, and The Privilege of a certain last name were going to land her the career of her dreams within the Huntzberger publishing family.
All this had brought her to this point today. Sitting in an office right smack in the middle of the most expensive real estate in the world, wearing the wrong shoes, carrying the wrong bag (knowing that it won't matter), and waiting for her real life (the adult one) to begin.
It had been like this for people (well, men) like her for generations she knows.
All this had led her here today. To this seminal point in her life.
Well, all this and her mother, of course.
Oh, and the letters.
Two
When Lorelai isn't feeling well (like now, though she won't admit it) and drifts off to sleep, she sometimes, even to this day, will wake with a start. The scent of Chanel Number 5 heavy in her nose. It is an evening perfume. Emily schooled her well in that. Much too heavy for the day.
In her dreams (and again, only when she is sick) Emily sails back and forth before her open bedroom door issuing orders to the staff before going out, as the Chanel wafts in. Lorelai is sitting in her bed as the nanny (she cannot remember which one) tries to feed her soup. Her nose is fine. It's her ears and head that throb with an intensity that bring tears to her eyes. The perfume smell makes the soup taste funny. She knows this on one level, but is unable to convey it so that anyone will believe her. They think she is willful.
She only wants a peanut butter sandwich. And her mother.
But listens as Emily's heels click down the stairs until the thud of the front door seals off all visual and auditory evidence that her mother had been there just a moment before.
The Chanel, however, remains.
She's lying in bed now, thirty odd years later, the dream only something she is aware of feeling at this point, and not something she can specifically remember in a detailed way, and longs for Luke to come home.
She wants to be held and knows this is silly.
He was right there holding her hand all through the chemotherapy that morning. Overcoming his revulsion with Herculean effort. She cannot call him back from his only few hours at work just to hold her now because she wants it. She has no excuse. She hasn't thrown up this time, she isn't having an especially bad reaction today, she is just tired of it. It's the Chanel in the sick dream that's bothering her really. And the wanting. And the not-having that are making her ache.
So, she turns her mind, by way of distraction, to her beautiful daughter and smiles in spite of herself. Thinking about her upcoming interview with Mitchum Huntzberger. She woulddazzle him with her brilliance and beauty, she had no doubt. How could anyone not see this in Rory? The way her quiet eyes took things in with empathy. The way she carefully weighed her life.
How could anyone miss seeing The Important Life she is meant to lead?
She wants it all for Rory. The Important Life. Real, rich, funny. Without the haunting of childhood to make her second guess herself. To trip her up. She could even openly be grateful for the Gilmore name and money for this. If they helped get Rory to The Important Life, so much the better for it. It was well and good that it could be used in this way for such a one as Rory. She, having always done the right thing by her mother and by life, was worth it.
Here in Stars' Hollow, where Lorelai's happily lived her refugee life, things turn more slowly. Not with the rapidity The Important Life would surely take on for her daughter. Which is an odd thing, because once you get past forty, life (just when you've got the knack of it, just when you come to a maturity of understanding) goes fast, fast, fast.
Capricious, she thinks. And, tricky.
Poor Luke, she thinks then, and probably for the millionth time in the past six months. So in love with her (heaven help him), yet for so long resistant to marriage. Well, he'd always been one for stewing (hee, stewing–he's a cook!)
She holds no blame for him on this though. Not now. Not then. Being in love finally and for all at forty meant that she could love him and take this on as well. It was after all, him. And now, two years later, though the Chemo was practically a formality now (the surgery very successful and she even still has her hair) and her prognosis as ideal as it possibly could be, he, poor slob, had been vindicated in the most awful of ways.
It was as though his dread of formalizing their union foretold the cancer.
At least in his mind, she knew this to be true; 'Never make plans. Take what you have now. Appreciate it'. He'd watched too many brilliant women slip elusively away from him in his life. To cancer, to addiction, to wanderlust, to other men.
Making it real. Marrying Lorelai out loud and in public could tempt all that back to him again.
It was too risky.
So he clung tightly to her, but did not want a wedding.
They were married in their hearts. They both knew that. And once they could say this to one another without prevarication, it had been enough. In fact, it had filled her up. She slowed down, he smiled more. There was routine.
So, it was ironic that he showed up with a ring in hand the day after her diagnosis, filled with remorse. Thinking he'd cheated her out of something special. She'd laughed at him. She wasn't cheated out of a damn thing. She'd hit the jackpot with him, with their home, and now with the conquering of cancer too.
They'd be happily ever-aftering for a long, long time.
So, funny as it was, she was the one who now needed to squeeze his hand in a reassuring manner and promise him that as soon as the Chemo was over they'd go to the Courthouse and make it official.
So now there'd be that for them too.
And Rory would have The Important Life.
Win.Win.Win.
Right?
She rolled over in bed to try and rest some more, drowsy from the drugs drilled into her chest earlier that morning, and half sniffing the air for heavy evening perfume.
Three
Richard hadn't taken time to dig through the large manilla envelope of letters after he finally found it in the back of the filing cabinet. He couldn't be bothered with nostalgia right now thank you very much, what with the merger being moved to the front burner, so to speak.
He'd merely handed the packet over to Rory the following Friday evening, as requested. Though what kind of senior project would require them, he had no idea. In his day, a senior project required a great deal of library time and a well-thought out essay on a subject of great import.
But whatever Rory wanted, it was his cheerful duty to serve.
xxx
November 5, 1926
My dearest Lorelai,
I miss you very much, my brave little girl. I want you to know that Mother has been very brave too. I have told you the stories of the good work of Miss Alice Paul and the others as we sought, and finally won, our right to vote. When you are a grown woman you will not think it extraordinary at all to go to the polls and pull the lever, thereby casting your power onto destiny itself. When that happens, dearest, I want you to remember that women before you, dear friends of your mother's in fact, died so this might happen. We stood in cold wet prisons and starved for our civil disobedience, but in the end prevailed, in our country and in England too.
Always remember this, Lorelai, and preserve and cherish your independence accordingly.
Today, I go to the old Settlement House in Brooklyn. There are children there without mothers today, Lorelai. Poor women who worked in a thread factory there, seventeen of them in all, died horribly when a fire began, the doors being locked to keep them at their work. I say women, though some were as young as ten years. There are twenty-three lonely orphans afresh today, my daughter. Surely you can spare your mother another month so that she might go and see how she might help them.
I do not shield you any of this, Lorelai. I do not gild a portrait of what it is to be a woman or poor in our times. If I belittle the suffering only apathy will follow in future. Therefore, our duty is clear.
The vote has been won, but there are other battles for women and children still to be fought. And as long as they must labor in factories for a fraction of the pittance men are paid. And as long as there is no safe and affordable accommodation for their children, we must strive to help.
Be a good girl for Nonnie, sweetheart. I received your French conjugations yesterday and found them to be very well done. Next, I hope to hear glowing reports of the little etude you have been laboring on as well.
I hope to see you before Christmas. Take care that Nonnie does not take you to the zoo again, the influenza is still dreadfully about.
Your most loving Mother,
Victoria Gilmore.
Four
She sighed a puffy cloud onto the cold window as she looked out upon the drifts.
When it snowed things were always at their worst.
She and her sister could not go outside to play in the garden, or visit friends, or go the library. It was too cold for there to be any concerts in the park.
And they must preserve their shoes.
Shoes cost money, Leigh would snap, her lips tight.
So Emily would roll her eyes at Hope and the two would go in to do the jigsaw puzzle in the study before the fireplace again. The leather heels of their oxfords would tap over the cold marble of the entry and then onto the smooth wide-planked oak of the study floor where once expensive Persians lay. The rugs were long sold now, the sisters knew.
Things disappeared from their large house in this way all the time.
The Dutch oil in the gilded frame from the dining room a few months ago. The large Hunt table her grandmother had brought over from London before The Crash gone since summer (School fees, Emily hypothesized to her sister.) And the Revere Tea Set that was supposed to have been hers when she married had been sold to pay the taxes.
It was expensive to maintain their lives in even the most superficial of ways.
The girls knew this because they spied at closed doors when their parents argued.
And they always argued about the money, of course.
It was the only subject.
Hope would declare she hated money, when the arguments began, and that when she grew up, she would live in Alaska with the Eskimos and never need money at all. Only fish.
Emily, older and more practical, would sigh at her in irritation.
"You'd still need money, Dopey Hopie."
"No, I wouldn't," stomped Hope.
"Well, I'm going to have it," resolved Emily, looking away from her.
For she knew that in order to not disappear herself (as all precious things must), she'd require the money, and to such a degree as to not have to worry about it ever again.
Because, clearly, if not for the money, her mother would not need to harangue her father in the awful closed door scenes and then they could be happy..
If not for money, or the loss of it, they would be happy, this she was sure of. And then she'd be riding to school behind a chauffeur just like the Lott sisters with their perfect blonde curls and new patent leather pumps.
For what pretty girl does not hate that her school uniforms must be mended again and again?
That the sleeves of her winter coat are far too short.
That hems have been repeatedly let down.
That snickers from girls at The Academy must be borne when she and her sister were walked to school by the Housekeeper and not dropped off by a chauffeur in a black hat.
A Parisian Scene the puzzle was called.
They'd done it a thousand times.
Upside down and sideways for variety sometimes.
Once, backwards even. That had been a challenge, to figure out how the plain gray cardboard backs fit together by shape alone, no beautiful colors or gaily dressed ladies perusing paintings along the left bank to cheer them on.
Hope worked out the border. Emily liked to begin with the lady in the lilac dress which seemed to billow out into the bright sunny morning. The lady looked as if she hadn't a care in the world. As if no one ever said, No-you-can't-have-it to her at all.
And she wore a pearl necklace.
Truth was the Peal money had pretty much gone in The Crash years before.
The girls knew it. In fact, everyone knew it.
It was well known in all the upper circles of Hartford that the Peals were essentially broke (had been for years) and that Daniel Peal failed at every venture his misbegotten enthusiasm led him to.
Such things happened to the best of families, of course, and the Peals, under the steely fortitude of Leigh Bourke Peal, had hung on with greater tenacity than most.
It had, fortunately, been possible during the war to economize in the guise of nationalism.
In fact it had been quite chic to do so.
But when Daniel failed to get rich again off the war like anyone with an ounce of brains would, things got embarrassing.
Giving up their opera box had been a terribly public and painful tell.
At least the little girls were still in the right school tsked the ladies at bridge.
Emily shivered then as she popped the pearl necklace piece into the lilac lady's heart place, then sighed over the dark head of her sister and wished they could put another log on the fire.
Five
November 1, 1963
Dear Mrs. Gilmore,
My daughter Emily is quite overflowing with happiness! As are we.
The cause, of course, is her engagement to Richard. It seems that he has everything that she's always longed for in a husband and, after a lovely speech from your son requesting her hand, my husband Daniel and I could not deny them.
I would like to invite you and Charles to dinner Monday the twelfth at seven to discuss the wedding details.
We are very pleased with Emily and Richard's decision. He is clearly the finest of young men with a bright, bright future before him.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Leigh Bourke Peal
xxx
December 8, 1926
Dear Mama,
I was so happy to receive your letter! I am sorry that you must still be gone but understand that the orphan children need help. I do think it is hard on the children whose Mamas are the helpers though too for I miss you very much. I promise to be very independent when I grow up as you said and to remember the women who died for voting but I think I would like to learn to ride camels and might be on long trips sometimes when there is an election.
Nonnie says that my etude is going well and I practice very hard so please I hope you will come home for Christmas.
Your loving daugher,
Lorelai Gilmore.
Six
Rory loved the young Women's History professor.
Most of the girls did. Who wouldn't? She was inspiring. A PhD. A young mother. She had a hot husband in the Political Science Department. She was published. Appeared occasionally on Nightline. And wore cool clothes.
Feminism: The Needful Resurrection.
The seminar title had intrigued her and the time slot was right for her schedule, so she went for it.
Her last semester at Yale. Her last chance to wring out every juicy bit of what was to be learned.
The first class had been the same old tired debate on what it meant to be a Feminist. And Rory's jaw literally dropped when she found that there were actually two young women at Yale who'd bought into some sort of pop culture crap that to be a Feminist meant to hate men.
"Bullshit," leveled Professor Roth with a twinkle in her eye, adding, "then what are they doing here?" as she pointed to three male graduate students in the class.
"Trying to pick up women?" batted the sparkly purple lashes of one of the aforementioned anti-man-haters.
After the laugh, the real work of the class began.
The dawning of understanding that men and women both needed to be promotive of the Feminist cause. How it benefitted all that women be equally compensated, that they got the benefits they deserved. That children got care that was beyond merely safe and affordable but was nurturing in the real sense as well.
Then the usual writers (Freidan, et al). The necessary cannon.
But then something really interesting: The Project.
The Personal Women's History Project.
Now this could be interesting...
Seven
When Rory was a little girl, Lorelai made sure that she saw Santa Claus every couple of months.
"Look there he is now!" she'd point excitedly to a white-bearded man at Dooses.
Five year old Rory would turn to stare at Santa then, in her solemn and unblinking manner, and then turn back to her mother.
"Why is he buying bananas?"
"He isn't," Lorelai assured her.
"He isn't?" Rory looked back at Santa, confused.
"Nope," whispered Lorelai conspiratorially, as she leaned down to her daughter's level, "He's just pretending to buy bananas. In actuality he came to sneak a look at the best little girl in the world."
"Me?" The impossibly blue eyes widened even further.
"Oh, yes. Every once in awhile he needs an example of a truly good child to cheer him up and help figure out who really is naughty and nice."
"Oh," said Rory quietly, a little worried about the responsibility this bestowed upon her, as she watched Santa pick up a can of prunes.
Eight
January 2, 1964
Em,
Don't make a moue!
Of course I'll be your Maid of Honor, silly! I'll fly home the week before. You're crazy to marry into that Gilmore clan, though. The grandmother was some sort of old time suffragette. Was in prison and all, I heard!
And his mother! Darling, the woman is the terror of charity committees everywhere. Eileen Foster's mother walked out of the War of 1812 Society Summer Meeting when Lorelai Gilmore suggested that they cancel that stuffy old Annual Ball, give all the money to charity, and just have afternoon tea instead! Ha!
Gotta admire the old bat's courage!
Well, one more semester at the Sorbonne Salt Mine and I'm going to Milan for the Gypsy Music Festival in the summer.
But, I promise, February the 14th (such a cliche, Em, really) in Hartford (though wouldn't you rather get a job? It's not too late for law school! Ha Ha.)
Kiss that tall, big shouldered man of yours for me!
Love, Hopie
xxx
WESTERN UNIONTELEGRAM12-22-26
FROM WESTGATE HOSPITAL BKLYN NY
TO FREDERICK GILMORE ESQ
SIR stop REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT VICTORIA GILMORE DIED AT NINE AM TODAY stop CAUSE INFLUENZA CONTRACTED DURING CHARITY WORK AT SETTLEMENT HS stop SUFFERING BRIEF stop PATIENT ASKED FOR HUSBAND AND CHILD AT END stop PLEASE NOTIFY ARRANGEMENTS stop
Nine
Leigh could only close her eyes and rub at her temples in frustration.
The girls simply would not go.
She could not make them go. And Daniel would be soft and want to let them out of it. But she knew that the Lott's Annual Children's Christmas Party was not an event to be missed.
Heavens, but she was tired of this.
"My old blue velvet is creased from all the hem droppings," twelve year old Emily sulked. "Caroline Lott has a new organdy with a burgundy sash, and her brother Frank and all his friends have had dancing lessons! I'm not going!"
And she meant it.
And even though she had heard the practically true rumor that the hired Santa would be giving real Tiffany silver lockets to all the little girls as gifts, she still would not go. For once Hope was on her side in this too (though she didn't care a hoot that she only had the old tartan to wear), for her it was much more about the principle.
"Lynny Lott said all the boys get real leather bound illustrated copies of Treasure Island this year!"
"What is your point, Hope?" sighed Leigh, beyond exhaustion now.
"Why do the boys get keen books and the girls only get stupid lockets?"
Leigh gave up then and went to make the apologetic telephone call to Francine Lott.
Ten
Damn, if it hadn't been Luke who found the lump.
It is often the boyfriends or husband who do.
And their case was no different.
He'd come home late from the diner and found her curled up on the couch watching an old black and white movie.
"I brought you the blueberry pie," he smiled from the living room archway.
"Shhhh.."
"What are you watching?"
"Bombardier!"
"What?"
"It's a World War II propaganda film in which the epic conflict between Pilot and Bombardier is examined."
"They had an epic conflict?" he asked as he settled next to her.
"Oh yes, my friend. See, the pilots are Officers and the Bombardiers only enlisted, but they have to do all the hard math. It's riveting: Who should be in charge? Will the Bombardiers be given officer status?... Will the dumb guy sell bombardier secrets to the Nazis?"
"What happened to the Jerry Springer you were going to watch about men with really long hair finally getting haircuts?"
"Pre-empted."
Luke reached forward and clicked off the remote.
"Hey!"
"Let's go upstairs," he smiled.
She caught on quick.
"Can we play Pilot and Bombardier?" she teased.
"No."
"Come on! We can struggle for dominance."
"Still, no."
"You are not fun," she pouted.
"Are you sure about that?" he quirked a brow over his shoulder as he climbed the stairs ahead of her.
"Yeah, I probably shouldn't be," she wisely amended.
Eleven
January 10, 1927
To: Miss Rhonda Lewis
From: Frederick Gilmore, esq.
Re: Miss Lorelai Gilmore
Nonnie,
In light of my wife's recent passing, I am forced to acknowledge that I must consign the care of my only child to your experienced and continued excellent service to an even greater extent than has been previously expected. You will, of course, be recompensed accordingly.
I do not doubt your devotion to my daughter and know that the late Mrs. Gilmore had the greatest of faith in you.
In the fall Lorelai will begin at The Brickstone Academy as previously determined by my wife and myself.
Until then Miss Gordon will continue to tutor her in the little upstairs library and Mr. Rincon come twice weekly for piano lessons. I have also had Miss Gibbons contact The Bridle Club concerning riding lessons. Lorelai seemed quite interested in them last October when I spoke to her. Therefore they will begin on the nineteenth and continue on Thursdays at two pm.
Mrs. Palmerton also mentioned at the Memorial Service that it was time Lorelai began dancing lessons which I have no objection to at this time. Miss Gibbons will follow up on details of this at a later date.
I wish that my daughter would return to her previous productive routine. This seems wisest. The passing of her mother will be more easily forgotten if her name and memory are not mentioned before the child. I have therefore directed Mrs. Hoskins to ensure that the servants oblige me in this.
I will be setting out to settle several business interests in the Orient on the first of February and will return at the end of July at earliest. I can, as usual, be reached by wire through my office should need necessitate.
My daughter's weekly pocket money is to be increased by ten cents if she remains accurate in the accounting book I gave her for this purpose. The accounts at Masons remain, as usual, at your disposal for her clothing and other incidentals.
Please bid Lorelai goodbye for me.
Sincerely,
Frederick Gilmore, esq.
xxx
February 1, 1964
Darling Richard,
Two weeks!
It is only two weeks away and I can hardly breathe with the happiness of it! I can think of nothing sweeter than the prospect of a future with the man I love so much! How can I not respond to one such as you who so clearly loves me with his whole heart?
And, my dearest, you should not have spent so much on a diamond tiara for me when I only mentioned in passing how I loved it. It was not a hint, I promise you, though Hopie will say I am shameless. It was only that it caught my eye when I was picking up our invitations at Tiffanys. I'd just never seen anything so glorious in my life that I could not help but talk of it.
(You alone know the sad story of my family in financial matters. And, I know, I know, you promised to make the pain of that a distant memory, dear man. I won't speak of it again as I know it upsets you.)
Oh, Richard, I do love it so! The diamonds just sparkle and sparkle. And I love you too, you silly impulsive Prince Charming. Mother is cancelling the veil (looked hideous on me anyway) so that I might wear my beautiful wedding gift from my wonderful fiancé on our wedding day! (The Misses Agate are still having fits over my fittings! I am an impossible bride!)
Emily, your spoiled sweetheart who loves you so much!
PS Can Bobo still get the good champagne for the rehearsal dinner?
PPS Do not, I implore you, wear the yellow cravat to the Club tea! You do not want to risk my wrath on this again, sir!
PPPS I love you so much!
PPPPS Will your mother be attending?
Twelve
Christmas. Something about it.
About the time of the year, about the bustle and the smell. The Apple Turnovers. The tree.
The snow.
But most importantly, something about the Christmastime of year had always made her mother almost, well, jovial.
An observant child, as Lorelai was, must be made happy when her mother becomes so uncharacteristically... jolly.
Well, perhaps jolly wasn't exactly the right word.
But at Christmastime Emily Gilmore laughed and joked more. Was more willing to think it charmingly precocious when Lorelai tried mixing a Christmas cake of her own invention, at five years of age, in the Limoges punch bowl (flour because it was a cake, talcum powder because it smelled good, glitter to make it pretty, and half a bottle of gin to make it grown up.)
Emily's eyes had actually crinkled up to hold back tears of laughter as the cook bellowed and sputtered on the outrage of children being allowed in the kitchen. But Emily smoothed things over with aplomb, sent the cook back to the kitchen appeased, and had then taken Lorelai out to see an ice skating show.
An ice skating show!
The astute child realized immediately that it was well worth it (at Christmastime) to wear the big stiff organdy dresses (layers of crinoline beneath) and lilac bows in her hair if only so that her mother would be amiable over the holidays.
The flip side of this was the knowledge that it would all go back to normal soon enough.
"I want you to wear the little seed pearl necklace too," Emily commanded, upon inspection.
And little Lorelai obliged her.
"Every year there was a big party for Christmas," she told Luke as he held her in bed. "Just for the children. Which was so not typically Emily because all the other events during the year were very grown up and formal. Birthdays even. But at Christmas all the kids came. There was a guy who made balloon animals. And games. She hired a Santa and had him give out books and gifts to all the kids, and then Dad would send him with another load of stuff over to a large Group Home on the other side of town."
"Sounds nice," said Luke as he squeezed him arms more tightly around her, and then, "Have you lost more weight?"
"It was nice," she sighed as she thought about it, and then wiggled free, stretching to grab the phone, then dial, on impulse.
"Mom?
...Hey.
...I'm fine.
...No, really.
...Doing better.
...Yes, I am. Really.
...Say, what are you and Dad doing for dinner on Sunday?
...I just thought you might want to join us here. You know, in the evening, for dinner. Rory's coming too. She wants to ask you some family stuff for a school project. Seven-ish.
...No, nothing's wrong, Mom, except Emily Post is now flipping in her grave.
...Ha. Ha. Very funny (Lorelai rolled her eyes).
...Yes, I assure you it is I.
...Yes, Lorelai Gilmore. The One. The Only.
...You're pushing it now, lady.
...All right, all right, fine! My middle name is Victoria. Satisfied? Identity confirmed? Will you require a retinal scan as well?
...Yes, thank you. We look forward to seeing you too."
When Lorelai turned back around to Luke after she hung up, she took in his expression.
"What?"
"You just invited your mother for dinner, that's what," he returned mildly.
She bit her lip and looked down a moment, her fingers picking at the quilt.
"Is that all right?" she asked before looking up at him again.
"You can invite Taylor if you want. The whole damn town, too. I don't care. Though, on second thought, please don't. Look, the Chemo's over. You're free and clear. To hell with dinner, I'm so relieved right now I'd throw you a frickin' circus if you wanted it," he told her.
She smiled and had to marvel again at where she was and what she had.
"Would you wear one of those tight little Trapeze Man Outfits?"
He blanched slightly, but she caught it.
"Uh, sure."
"Uh hunh. Right."
God, this is wonderful. He is wonderful. We are wonderful.
"Well, how about I make the artichoke ravioli your mother likes just for the occasion instead?"
"But you would be serving it while wearing the tight little Trapeze Man Outfit, right?"
"Absolutely," he assured her as she clicked off the light and scooched back down into his arms.
"Really?"
"No."
"Luke?"
"Hmmm?"
"I love you."
"Mmm... love you too."
Thirteen
Notes/Ideas/Jottings. Rory Gilmore, Senior Project...
I. Thinking about the women in the family. Generations apart. Some who never knew each other (like me and Leigh, etc.)—How can we have so much in common in some ways and be so different in others? Nature/nurture? Nah, been done too much.
II. The Mothers wanting to give their daughters what they themselves lacked. Parenting for the previous generation's deficit? No, that's stupid. Question: Do mothers now take more time to try to understand their children as individuals? Does every generation think they are the first to try?
III. Do we ever just appreciate our mother's good intentions?
IV. Are good intentions enough to overcome natural mother/daughter friction? And, should they be?
Note: Check usual sources for quotes on motherhood—Plato, Shakespeare, etc. And go find a frickin' woman to quote for a change! Sheesh, Gilmore.
V. Theme to Consider (discuss with Prof. Roth—hah! a rhyme): All these women before me have helped create who I am. Therefore I owe them, and myself, to give the world the best that I can. To pay it forward. Or: Out of the Friction, the rubbing together of wants and lacks, we become the women we are from the mothers we've had, or from the women who mother us.–?
VI. Is the above too pedantic? vague? corny?
Ooo, corn...
I am hungry!
VII. Buy: Cookies, Cheetohs, Coke, and Corn Nuts. All things 'C'. Long night of reading more letters ahead.
VIII. Ask Grandma about Aunt Hope.
Get Coffee and Chocolate too!
Call Lane.
Fourteen
It had about broken Leigh's heart to sell her grandmother's pearls and the three tiny eighteenth century portraits which had come to her from the Steventon side. They were about all she'd had left of her family, after all. But the Sorbonne for Hope had not been cheap, even with the scholarship, and now, of course, there was Emily's wedding to be paid for. And trousseau. And they'd have to settle something on their daughter when she married as well (One such as Lorelai Gilmore would insist on that, no doubt.)
Well, there were still the Georgian candelabra, she supposed, as she made a few inward calculations. So, they might just squeak by.
She suddenly had a fervent wish that when Hope's time came, she would elope.
Knowing Hope, she would.
Leigh sighed and tapped her pen against the desk edge. The wedding seating chart fanned out before her.
The Gilmores were Old World. Had that pre-Edith Wharton-esque quality that just slid shivers of dread down her back. The balance between discretion and opulence must therefore rest on the finest of needle points. There must be no mistakes. Gilmores do not brook them.
Leigh wanted what was best for Emily. She did. She wanted her to have The Grand Life she coveted. She never saw a girl who was more suited to it. But when this was all over, she decided there and then, she was going to sell her mausoleum of a house (always cold, and what was it she'd sold to pay for heating last winter?), grab Daniel by the ear, and move to a small town in Maine. Preferably on the coast.
Once there she would read novels and listen to jazz.
Perhaps take up smoking, she thought with a glint.
Fifteen
November 2, 1986
Mom and Dad,
I am so sorry and I know that in a thousand years I will never be able to make you understand, but I have to leave. I just do. Rory and I will be fine and I'll be in touch as soon as I know where we will be. Please, please try to understand that I am very unhappy here and that I need to make a new life for my daughter and for myself somewhere else.
—Lorelai
xxx
February 16, 1964
Dear Hopie,
Just a note from the ship to say thank you again for all your help with the wedding. I don't think I could have dreamed anything more beautiful than the reality of walking down the aisle to meet Richard. The orchids, the silver, the dress. Just perfect. And, yes, Dopey, I have written to thank Mother and Dad too. What is this nonsense about Maine? Mother was rather tipsy at the end!
And, yes, I know the Gilmores can be quite formidable but I would bear anything to be with the man I love!
Have a safe journey back to Paris and be sure to send me a card when you get to Milan.
Your hopelessly in love sister,
Em
xxx
February 13, 1964
My Dearest Richard,
It is with a heavy heart that I write you this letter tonight, but I cannot stand by and let you make a terrible mistake.
Until now, I had thought, hoped, prayed that you would come to the same conclusion that I have.
But you have not and therefore I feel it is my duty as your mother to beg you to reconsider your impending marriage. I'm sure that Emily is a very suitable woman for someone, but not for you. She will not be able to make you happy. What she wants in life is very far removed from the Gilmore ideal, Richard.
I don't know the circumstances surrounding your break up with Pennilyn Lott, but it is still my belief that she is much better suited for you than Emily. I know that the timing of this is particularly awkward, since you are to be married tomorrow, but your happiness is too important to me, so timing be damned!
Dear boy, I have fretted and lain awake with heavy conscience on this matter and do not undertake this letter lightly, I assure you.
I must speak now and will then, ever after, hold my peace. Heed me, son, heed me.
Now you may well scoff and say 'Of course Emily is not a Gilmore, Mother!'
But you well know that I mean she cannot become one even by marriage. The Gilmores are an old and noble family dating back centuries. This, you know. And, more importantly, they have always worked hard in perfect comprehension of their duty and sense of Noblesse Oblige.
Our money. Our hard work. Our sense of charity. All of these have always been for the betterment of society, culture, and those less fortunate as ourselves, Richard.
Need I really remind you of that?
Consider that Emily's family has lost not one but two fortunes (Leigh Bourke Peal's from the Steventons is almost quite gone too, I hear.)
Good Lord, Richard, the Peals may well have need of the Gilmore beneficence themselves before long! How can this not turn out but for the worst, I ask you?
I never want you to forget the great history of struggle for suffrage in our family! It is, in fact, your obligation to remember your forefathers and mothers who were great orators and workers for the eradication of human suffering throughout history!
They were Abolitionists, for instance. And my own mother, who stood, hands clasped with Alice Paul, as they were force-fed on a hunger strike in prison for women's rights, metal tubes shoved right down their throats to their stomachs by prison guards!
Oh, the indignity, Richard! But all for the greater good! Money is nothing to this!
You have been well schooled in the catalogue of museums and hospitals and services for children our great wealth has funded, as well. I need not detail it all here. Institutions that have done the real and necessary work of the world. Tubercular Clinics long before anyone in Society would think of such a thing, Influenza research funding at Yale.
All of this is quite beyond the ken of one such as Emily Peal, Richard.
To be blunt, Son, and I feel I must be at this late hour: Emily is a Climber of the first degree.
Your children will either become vapid society flits, or rebel heinously against their shallow mother (and who could blame them?)
Mark my words.
Once married, Emily will rush about to D.A.R. functions and the like, spending her life hosting teas and balls for dying wildflowers and so forth, while trying to pull off perfect dinner parties for your business associates (good luck keeping a decent chef with her petulant ways, by the by.)
But, to what end, Richard? To what end!
Consider, before it is too late, that these parties and functions will be their own end for Emily. That filling your home with art and fine furniture will be its own end too. That dressing up whatever children you may have will be a thing for show.
Money, power, and position should be nothing if not to improve the world.
I am saddened beyond words, Son, at your choice of wife.
My God, Richard, I understand that she plans on wearing a diamond tiara to your afternoon wedding tomorrow, and that you actually indulged the silly flit by buying it for her!
It is all too gauche.
Richard, you know perfectly well that it is not appropriate for an American to wear a tiara! Tiaras are the entitled right of nobility. That starlet Grace Kelly waited until she was entitled (if only by marriage) before she wore her tiara. And she was only an actress!
Does Emily Peal lack so basic an understanding of the mores of society?
Is she that bent on imagining herself royal? Of playing princess?
(I just had a shocking vision of her in the future in which she spends all her free time shopping!)
What is the world coming to, I ask you, when an American feels it is appropriate to wear a tiara, which is no more than a crown, Richard?
Our ancestors died to create this country of freedom and equal rights, without the tyranny of royalty. They drafted the constitution. They got the vote for women. For heaven's sake, your father and I protested McCarthyism!
We did not wear crowns doing any of this, I assure you. Your father, may he rest in peace, would be scandalized.
When Phinneas Noah Gilmore spirited Dolly Madison away in the night, it was the portrait of George Washington they saved from the burning White House. Not a crown.
When the Gilmores came to this country, they gave up crowns and tiaras for something much grander.
Do you think an Emily Peal will ever understand that, Richard?
I do not think so. Moreover, I fear, she will cause you to lose sight of this as well.
Again, it is not too late. I will make all the arrangements. I will send away the guests and gifts. Whatever need be done, I will undertake it for you.
I beg you again, Son, do not forget the grand legacy of public good that belongs to a true Gilmore! Do not allow Emily to determine your focus to only the material in this world.
You, my love, are made for greater things!
Your Most Loving and Concerned Mother,
Lorelai Gilmore
Sixteen
"Rory, come in."
"Thank you for seeing me, Professor Roth."
"My pleasure. Did you want to go over your ideas for your project again?"
"No. Something else. Something that I've been thinking about. It's just... "
"What?"
"I've been finding out all these... things about my family. It's been a little overwhelming really. About the women in my family, actually. I've been reading their letters. My grandfather had them. And then I talked to my grandparents and..."
"And what? What have you learned that is upsetting you, Rory?"
"It's hard to say, really. They were just all so real, you know? All the women from before. They were walking around and their hearts were broken, and they wanted things, and made sacrifices, and got sick. Like my Mom did..."
"Rory, are you all right?"
"Yes, sorry, I didn't mean to come here and get all weepy. It's just that these women in my family tried so hard to be certain things, and tried to give their daughters certain things too. And some even did things, important things. My great-great grandmother was a suffragette even. But I..."
"But you're trying to figure out where you fit into all this history? What the legacy of being a Gilmore Woman is? And how it's supposed to impact your adult life?"
"Yes, that's it exactly! Thank you. What do I do with all this that I now know? And where does it leave me?"
"Where do you think it leaves you, Rory?"
"I don't know. But it's making me hungry."
Seventeen
She looked out the window across the yard at the way the little white buds were starting to pop out in the tree.
Wow.
She reached down then to lift the sash and feel the cool air chill her cheeks.
And smiled.
She wondered then if Kirk had hidden all the eggs and if he'd convinced Taylor to invest in a GPS system for locating those gone astray after all, before turning back into the room and heading into the kitchen with all its shining appliances.
"I want to help," she declared.
"No."
"Come on, Luke! Let me help."
"No."
"But the pasta thingy looks fun."
"We have discussed the use of the word thingy in all its applications."
"I know, I know."
"Go fix the flowers in the dining room."
"Did it already."
"Set the table then."
"Did that too."
"Not the Charlie's Angels plates..."
"No, Anita Bryant, I used the diner stuff."
"Last time your mother came she said she was going to order us a new set of dishes when we get married. Do they really make bone china out of bones? Sounds ominous. And gross."
"All the more reason to keep shacking."
Luke stopped cranking the pasta machine to look up at her.
"I'm kidding, Luke."
"We're going to the Courthouse next week, Lorelai."
"I know. Don't worry. Really."
Satisfied, he returned to his work, "How are you feeling?"
"I feel great."
He looked up at her and grinned at that.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," she grinned back, "C'mere and kiss me, Chef Stud."
"Lorelai, your parents will be here in half an hour."
"So hurry up and c'mere then."
Eighteen
It was an impossibly large room in an impossibly large house with a staff of five.
Its small single occupant completely unaware that her circumstances were extraordinary.
"Here is your cake, Mr.Armitidge," she said.
Her voice echoed off the plastered walls which began curving in a graceful arc at sixteen feet, then domed prettily, above elaborate crown moldings, at twenty-two.
The ceiling was painted a clear robin's egg blue, frescoed with gilt stars.
"China tea is best for your indigestion, Teddy," she turned to the bear beside her at the table then, "And, how are your poor ill children now that their Mother is dead?"
"Lorelai!" called a voice at the doorway.
"Yes, Nonnie?"
"It's time to go visit your Great Aunt Helen."
"Her house smells like cats," sighed the child.
"Nevertheless, we must go," replied the nanny matter-of-factly.
"All right."
"We can go over to the park across her road for awhile afterwards if you like."
"Oh! Will there be other children there?"
"I don't think so, dear. Most are in school now. The rose garden will be budding, though."
"Could we drive past the school to see if the children are playing in the schoolyard on the way home then?"
"Yes, very well."
"And may I bring Mr. Armitidge with me, please?"
"Yes, Lorelai, I suppose you may. Come downstairs to get your coat now."
The little girl picked up the doll dressed nattily in its three-piece tweed suit and bow tie.
"When I go to school, there will be lots and lots of other children there, Mr. Armitidge, you'll see," she told him as she adjusted his monocle.
She headed downstairs then, past the formal and public rooms (closed up for months now, the furniture draped in ghostly white dust cloth) and headed to the front door.
Nineteen
December 10, 1986
Dear Sis,
She will be fine, Em. She will be. You must believe this. She is a bright and resourceful young woman now. And, if she wants to make a life for herself, you must try to find room in your heart to be a little proud of her for it. You must try, darling. If not for yourself or Lorelai, or Rory, then for Richard who has quite gone out of his mind with the loss of three of the four women in his life.
I know, I know, it's easy for me to say.
But, dear old thing, you must rally. You must take up your life again. Make yourself presentable and strong so that if she or her little girl should need you again, you will be ready and able to do what is necessary.
And you must keep trying in any way you can to stay close to her as well. To at least try to resolve some of the issues that will be between mother and daughter. Did you think you would be exempt from them, Em? Did you think because you resolved to not be what you saw as weak and self-sacrificing in our own motherthat you would be strong and independent, yet brook no nonsense from your own child by contrast— that this would be the basis for no enmity between you?
Though I suppose that is not something one really considers as they gaze upon the beautiful innocence of their young child, it is something that always changes with maturity.
Emily, I am not a mother, but pretty much know despite this that mothers and daughters will conflict with the lightning bolts of Mt. Olympus between them at some point or other. However each new generation may resolve to do differently.
It is the nature of such intense love, darling, for there to also be this as well.
So, Emily, pull up your socks, for heaven's sake!
Pour some starch on your spine!
And get the hell out of bed!
Now!
I will write again soon. I've been thinking of you so much lately.
They've just hanged the holiday lights along the Champs Elysees.
Love, Hopie
Twenty
The final shove out the door had come when they argued over Rory's shoes.
Such a little thing to perch atop the iceberg of what all the big things were, yet, nevertheless, the one that sent her packing.
Emily wanted Rory's feet laced up tightly in either white or black patent leather kid shoes at all times. Preferably with little lace-edged socks above and neatly folded over.
Lorelai felt, as the toddler learned to walk, that she should do so bare-footed.
Emily would come into the nursery to find Rory stacking blocks, her feet naked to the world and purse her lips in exasperation.
Lorelai, after completing some inane homeschool assignment toward her GED, would go to retrieve her daughter from the nanny for her bath, and find her stumbling along the floor in heavy shoes that even wrapped around Rory's little pink ankles.
Watching her daughter in this miniaturized impression of Frankenstein was, to use the cliche, the final straw.
Lorelai'd just had enough.
And, she was eighteen now.
This had been her life for the past year: Emily had selected the nanny. Emily continued to invite Christopher over (despite the break-up.) Emily determined Rory's diet. Had already enrolled her in an exclusive pre-school she could not attend for another three years. Had set out the rules about visiting friends (those she had left). Regulated the telephone and the tv...
She was even lining up college applications and forbidding Lorelai to get a job.
And she bought Rory's overpriced shoes herself.
So, finally, when they came to the bitter verbal blows that ended it all, it had been over this.
The shoes, of all things.
"I am her mother!" Lorelai had finally screamed.
"And I'm yours!" Emily shot back.
And that was it in a nutshell.
Being a mother was damned near impossible with her own mother harping at her and constantly questioning her choices.
How long would it be before this affected Rory too? Something that must not happen at all cost.
Lorelai simply could not negotiate the becoming of a mother while being mothered at the same time.
Maybe there were saintly souls out there who could, but she sure as hell wasn't one of them.
So, it had been easy enough to sort through stuff and pack her car with just what she and Rory really needed. Easy enough to clean out her bank account. Easy enough to strap Rory into the carseat. Easy enough to just go.
Staying away, though, had not been easy at all.
There'd been many dark and frightening nights up late with a crying baby to come, followed by the gritty-gray mornings of getting up with the chickens to mop floors and fold towels.
Finding a sitter. How to pay taxes. Long waits in free clinics. Loneliness.
There were some aspects of reality that just majorly sucked in comparison to being a teenager of privilege and wealth in Hartford.
But now, as she looked across the new dining room table (found at Kim's just last week), in the beautiful home she and Luke shared, and watched as her daughter asked her grandmother questions about family history, she had to bite her lip a bit to keep from smiling too broadly.
She knew without looking that Rory, in one simple readjustment of movement, had slipped her shoes off under the table as she listened to Emily tell stories.
And she knew that her daughter was as essentially stable and happy as perhaps it was in the power for any one person to be.
And that right now she was wiggling her toes too.
Lorelai had no regrets.
"But what happened to your mother, Grandma? I didn't find any letters from her after she moved to Maine."
Emily frowned, "She didn't write many after she and Daddy moved. What was that Richard? About a year after our wedding?"
"That sounds right," he agreed and drank deeply of Luke's good coffee, "The coffee is, as usual, delicious, Luke. The pasta was wonderful too."
"Glad you liked it, Richard."
"But what happened to her? To my Great Grandma Leigh?" Rory persisted.
Emily shifted uncomfortably and took a sip of her own coffee before answering.
"Well, a few years after they moved, she got ill."
"Cancer," supplied Richard and glanced at his daughter sitting at the head of the table.
"Breast cancer?" asked Rory softly.
"Yes."
And they all sat quietly a moment over that.
Twenty one
It had been such fun!
Exciting too, and a surprise.
So, all in all, exactly what she wanted without knowing it was what she wanted.
How cool is that?
It was supposed to have been a simple dinner of friends. Everyone they loved together at Sniffy's the night before she and Luke went to the Courthouse, but Liz and Sookie and, she suspected, Rory too, had conspired against them, enlisted Maizie, and had taken the place over. They'd decorated, and bought flowers, and had funny stories to tell over toasts of good wine (and beer).
They'd even invited Emily and Richard for Rory's sake. And though they'd stood uncomfortably in the background, faces frozen in what were supposed to be polite smiles, they'd wisely held their peace.
It may well have been the world's first surprise wedding in which the bride and groom were the only ones not in on the plan.
And it had gone over great. Even Luke, tipsy and newly tolerant (such was his joy at Lorelai's good health), was glad for it.
Rory stood up for Lorelai, Liz for Luke.
And they were all swept away.
Miss Patty serenading them at the mike.
And when Sookie rolled out the giant coffee cake topped with wee garden gnomes (one sporting a homemade veil, the other a cap), they'd all laughed and laughed.
Twenty two
Senior Project: Conclusion/First Draft and Notes
"There is no mother who loves her child so much that she is not happy to see her go to sleep."
Anonymous
(Note: Perhaps the George Elliot quote here instead, though this one is funny)
There comes a point in growing up in which we must all acknowledge that we are part of something greater than ourselves. Some of us are fortunate enough to identify the legacy this brings, embrace it, and decide to dedicate our lives to honoring it. In the way we live and love, in unencumbered generosity, in social activism, and in the work we do.
My own personal epiphany about this has come about through the examination of the relationships between mothers and daughters within my family's history. The mothers unfailingly tried to improve the lives of their daughters in all cases. Two of them actively tried to improve the lot of women in general in order to improve the lives of their children specifically.
Sometimes these mothers were misguided in their efforts. Sometimes they made choices that distressed their children. And sometimes, frankly, they were wrong.
But I'd like to focus on the fact that they tried.
And that when their daughters grew to maturity, they tried too.
I am fortunate to be a very privileged woman in our society. I have never wanted for anything in my life, and have had many very fine opportunities that are denied to the rest of society in general.
In England, a social justice group calls itself '7/84'. This to illustrate the fact that seven percent of the population owns eight-four percent of the wealth.
(Note: Look up equivalent percentages current in U.S.)
It makes a compelling metaphor, these numbers.
For I am in that seven percent and am here to tell you that being the winner in an unfair game is no victory.
Looking closely at the motivations of the women in my family has sobered me. Has focused me, in fact, on a future that I know will be much more fulfilling than, say, yachting.
For, if in my journalistic career and personal life, I enlighten myself. If I choose to not focus my energy on generating more wealth for we lucky seven percent. If instead I turn my considerable resources to help the other ninety three percent (the overwhelming population of homeless in this country being women and children), I honor all the mothers who tried to make differences for their daughters. Not just the fortunate and not just those in my own family.
If I can do all this in my work and my life, I'll be able to perhaps look my own child in the eye one day and say, I tried too.
And I really want to be able to do that.
(Further Notes: Reference the interview I did with Kelly, a Yale graduate, I met living in the homeless shelter. What led her, and her daughter, from Yale to homelessness?
Reflect on what the mothers in my family have wanted for their children (vis a vis current social movements.) Mom wanting me to have The Important Life; Leigh wanting Emily to have The Grand Life; Lorelai wanting Richard to honor the family tradition of Noblesse Oblige. Victoria wanting Lorelai to be Independent and Aware of The Woman's Plight.
And what did Grandma want for Mom as opposed to what she wanted for herself? Question and think about this.
What would I want for my daughter one day? It is easy to say 'happiness' now, but I doubt it's ever that simple.
Finally, consider issue of childcare in this country. As social policy, as personal problem. If we demand that women on welfare work, where are they supposed to put their children when full-time minimum wage does not cover the cost of weekly childcare?
And why is this still considered a 'Women's Issue' when children should be an issue for us all? This is the core of what Feminism is—Equality Benefitting All.)
Call Dad. What is he thinking for Gigi? How can I make a difference for her?
Twenty three
"She could have been Extraordinary, Rory."
"But, Grandma, she is. She is extraordinary"
"You don't understand, Rory, and I don't know if I can explain it."
"Will you try? For me?"
"When I was young, girls, for the most part, still determined their future by the men they married."
"But the women's movement was pretty powerful then."
"Yes, I suppose it was. In some quarters. But not in Society. Not then."
Rory frowned and thought about the Huntzbergers
"Not now really, either, Grandma, I guess. In some quarters."
"No, I suppose not. Now, I wanted your mother to marry within our own circle. I don't deny that. It was how I was raised and I've never seen reason to question the value of marrying one's own kind..."
"But, Grandma..."
"Don't interrupt, young lady."
"Sorry."
"But, your mother was special, Rory. She was very bright and beautiful too, of course. And, even early on, had this verbal acuity that just floored people. She made a pun about nappies and sleeping when she was four. The nanny actually shrieked and came to find me when she heard it."
"Wow."
"That's right; 'Wow'. With her intelligence and beauty and charm, she could have grown up to be a very powerful and important woman in the world if..."
"...If not for me?"
"Now, get that out of your head right now. Your arrival, perhaps, waylaid the process temporarily, but no one is anything but grateful for you. No, it was all your mother. Your mother who could have been famous (for the right reasons), and great, and important. In social circles. In charitable circles. In diplomatic circles, even. Yes, it would have helped immeasurably for her to marry the right sort for this to happen. But she, my daughter, Lorelai Victoria Gilmore, she had it within her to be this on her own."
"Wow, again."
"Yes, 'Wow again'. That is quite a thing to a woman of my generation, I don't hesitate to tell you. To distinguish oneself away from one's husband. But she, stubborn little mule that she is, didn't want it. Her wretched independence was more important. And once she got that, she seemed to derive the oddest satisfaction from clipping coupons and living simply.
I don't pretend to understand it. And I never shall.
She seems happy enough, with Luke, with this new home, with her Inn. And certainly with you. But, between you and I, there has always been great potential within your mother—The Potential To Be Extraordinary, for which I find it hard to forgive her for wasting."
"Do you think you ever will, Grandma? Forgive her, that is?"
"Frankly, I doubt it matters," Emily arose from the porch swing then, signaling the end of the interview.
"It's cool out here on the porch now, Rory. Shall we go in? I understand Luke has made one of his delicious desserts."
"All right. But, Grandma..."
"Rory, I don't want to talk about it anymore. I don't really see the point."
"Okay."
Twenty four
November 26, 1927
To: Miss Lorelai Gilmore, The Brickstone Academy
From: Frederick Gilmore, Esq. The Ritz, Paris
My dear Lorelai,
Thank you for sending me your little essay on The Illiad. I enjoyed it very much and only counted two spelling errors.
I have recently, however, also received a letter from Headmistress regarding your behavior of late and, while I commend your philanthropy, you must understand that it is in no way appropriate for you to give your pocket money away to a housemaid, however sick her child may be.
There are appropriate places in the world for such unfortunates, Lorelai, as I know the Headmistress has instructed you. In future, please refrain from direct dissemination of charity.
I hope to be home for your holidays but cannot say that I will be able to catch the boat in time. As usual, my schedule is determined by my work. Your Great Aunt Helen, however, will be happy to see you.
I have bought the loveliest little French painting of dancers at auction for your present. Miss Gibbons is having it shipped.
Be a good little girl.
Fondly, your Father,
Frederick Gilmore
xxx
April 12, 1967
Dear Em,
Congratulations, dear!
I suppose Richard insisted on the name being Lorelai—hahaha! You are a martyr to that family.
I would have written sooner but Helene and I are only just back from Greece to find your telegram.
She sounds like a beauty! A curly-haired, blue-eyed beauty. I had my money on red hair but am always wrong in such things. I also thought she'd be a boy! And Lord help us all if she turns out to be as stubborn as her mother!
And, regarding your last letter, I don't care how puritanical or provincial Bobo and Totsie are, or what biliousness they spread around at the clubs. Helene and I are happy. End of story.
Besides, Bobo is a Jackass.
You can roll your eyes if you want, Em. Or chalk it up to turning 'French', or whatever. But I'm not going to live my life in hiding and neither is Helene..
Oh, my new poem is in Match this week!
I've enclosed a clipping as I know how hard it is to find in Hartford.
I'm also sending four adorably smocked little dresses for the baby, and a beautifully bound Peter Pan I found the other day by separate post.
Send a photo as soon as you can!
Congratulations again! I will write more soon.
Love, Hope
PS
Did I hear correctly that Lynny Lott married Chet Morgan? A small country could be funded on that merger!
xxx
November 16, 1993
Dear Grandma and Grandpa,
Thank you for sending me The Little Princess. I enjoyed it very much. I like the way she can be friends with the maid and that her father gets better and comes home to take care of her.
I am very busy with school and my friend Lane and I are going to be Pilgrims in the Thanksgiving Pageant. The exciting news, though, is that Mom has been promoted to Manager of the whole Inn!
We had a little party to celebrate with cupcakes and coffee. It was fun.
Mom says we will see you on Thanksgiving Day. It is always very busy for us.
Thank you again for the book.
Love, Rory
Twenty-five
"But, Luke thinks we're loading the dishwasher."
"Yes, he does."
"But we're not."
"Nope."
"We're eating the rest of the cake."
"Yes, we are. Problem?"
"Can't think of a one. Oops! Hand me another fork, this one snapped."
"So, you and Grandma talked for a long time."
"Yeah, we did."
"Did you get everything you needed to finish your project?"
"I guess."
"You guess?"
"Yeah, it was good. Mom?"
"Hmmm?"
"What is it you wanted most for me as I was growing up?"
"The ability to sing like Barbra Streisand."
"Seriously."
"Seriously? Rory, where is this coming from?"
"My senior project. And, just me. What is it you wanted me to have in my life when I grew up?"
"Whatever you wanted for yourself. But, you knew that, didn't you? Grandma always has a pretty clear idea of what others should be, and I wanted that choice to be yours to make."
"What about for yourself? What did you want for yourself?"
"You mean other than that Bangle dream?"
"Yes."
"Well, before The Great Miracle That is You, I think I just wanted to be loved."
"But, Grandma and Grandpa love you."
"I know they do. But, I wanted to be loved for who I was and not what I might be. It's too much pressure to be loved for your potential."
"Oh."
"I mean it was hard enough figuring out who I was in the first place."
"What about after The Great Miracle That is Me?"
"The space to be happy, I guess."
"Independent?"
"Well, that's what it amounted to. Pass me a napkin, will you?"
"God, Luke makes the best cake."
"Why do you think I'm marrying him?"
Twenty six
One of Luke's special breakfasts before she left for the city.
Just Mom and herself together in the old way with Luke hovering around the edges. Kirk dropping by with a new brochure. Taylor coming in to bluster and whine. All the usual background buzz to what could have been one of a thousand such breakfasts.
But they all knew that it was Goodbye in its way.
Not final and complete, of course, but in that 'You can never go home' vein nonetheless.
They didn't talk about that part, though. They laughed over graduation, and the wedding. Lorelai bragged to whomever would listen about her daughter winning the Hastings Prize for Excellence in a Senior Project.
Luke slipped chocolate chips into her pancakes.
And when she stopped out on the curb afterwards to look back over her shoulder and in through the window to the diner once more, she caught her breath and tried to swallow the little bubble in her throat.
If she squinted, and looked hard through dancing motes in the sunshine, she could imagine that they were all there, if she wanted to.
And she did. She did want to imagine that.
All there together where it was safe and warm at Luke's. All the mothers and the daughters. And the rest of her family too. All happy. Little Lorelai holding Mr. Armitidge up so that her mother could see him as Babette looked on. Leigh smiling as her two beautiful daughters put together a jigsaw puzzle, with Lane's help, sitting at Luke's counter.
Richard, Sookie, Davey, all of them...
Emily fondly resting her hand on her daughter's head, smoothing down the curls and placing a kiss where her hand had trailed.
And finally, she herself with Mom. Drinking coffee, laughing. Teasing Luke.
That's how she'd keep it all inside, she decided there and then.
Just like that.