Iris had screamed on the day after the dinner party, when Fran informed her that she’d have to return the four-hundred-dollar sunglasses.“That sort of language is unacceptable, young lady,” Fran had said.But Iris had simply turned and run upstairs to her room, slamming her door.Will turned to Fran. “Young lady?”“I know.” Fran sighed. “I sound like my mother. In fact, it’s entirely possible that I’ve morphed into my mother, as horrific a thought as that is.”Will had to agree. Fran’s mother, Inga, was a dour, disapproving woman. Her great ambition in life had been to be an opera singer, but an unexpected pregnancy—followed by a hasty marriage—stymied her career plans. Inga never recovered from this disappointment and set about running her household with a humorless, absolute authority.“Are you going after Iris?” Will asked. In their family, the role of disciplinarian had always fallen to Fran. It was the way they’d always done things. He took out the garbage every Monday and Thursday morning, and Fran grounded the girls.
