Daisy Buchanan's Daughter, Book 2: Carole Lombard's Plane (Volume 2)
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She was born during the Jazz Age and grew up in Paris and the American Midwest after her father’s death on the polo field and her mother’s later suicide. As a young war reporter, she waded ashore on Omaha Beach and witnessed the liberation of Dachau. She spent the 1950s hobnobbing in Hollywood with Marlene Dietrich and Gene Kelly. She went to West Africa as an Ambassador’s wife as the New Frontier dawned. She comforted a distraught Lyndon Baines Johnson in Washington, D.C., as the Vietnam war turned into a quagmire. And today? Today, it’s June 6, 2006: Pamela Buchanan Murphy Gerson Cadwaller’s eighty-sixth birthday. With some asperity, she’s waiting for a congratulatory phone call from the President of the United States. Brother, is he ever going to get a piece of her mind.
except my husband could’ve possibly known. “Back among us, Pam? No bad dreams to speak of?” he murmured tenderly, too low for anyone else to hear, as he passed me a champagne flute. Then stood: “Do we all have champagne? All right, Kids on the Post. You can sing now.” Happy to be singled out as performers, since they weren’t champagne drinkers—your great-grandfather knew how to give even children their moments, Panama—they took a clustered big breath. “Happy birthday to you—happy
half full. While Hopsie was no weeper, which is putting it mildly, he’d stuffed his pipe very slowly and said, “Pam, we don’t often talk this way. But my favorite ancestor commanded a colored regiment in the Civil War, and I’ve always been fairly pleased I was named for him.” I digress, though. “Bless you,” Lyndon muttered. Posted by: Pam My guardian in Midwestern days—the future Brother Nicholas, dans les grand blés sanglotants—was fond of insisting that you can’t repeat the past.
thing I did was to open the Nenupharcophagus and retrieve Nicholas Carraway’s Under the Red, White, and Blue. Spent a couple of hours with the only eyewitness account of the Scandal and could see why he’d fibbed to Pammie about burning the typescript. Almost involuntarily, he’d kept painting my mother in hues less than lovely. Nick’s ridiculous infatuation with her pigheaded Narcissus of a bootlegger suitor had me more than once rolling the mimsies behind my fat lunettes. When I got to some
Martha to pop out Shelton Wiggins and then bury that bitch for good, tie up a few loose ends, and—I’ll be done.” Even to myself, I’d never said it before. Selflessly, Gerson wreathed me in smiles. By the next light, he’d grown a wee bit less selfless: I heard a tick of Gersonish mirth from the driver’s seat. Nudged him. “What, little man?” “I thought I was the only one who called her ‘that bitch,’” he said with amusement. “Never to her face, of course.” “I swear I’ll make it
Eddie. Let’s let him make time with her! We’ll never get through this on four wheels anyhow. God, I bet the Parisians don’t know whether to shit or go blind. They’ve hated the flics for centuries. Now the cops are the heroes of the insurrection.” “Don’t lose me, Pamita, I’ll drown in frogs. Say, what kind of country puts its goddam police headquarters opposite its cathedral?” “All of them, Eddie, don’t you know that? Just in different ways and sometimes you can’t even tell which is