Daisy Buchanan's Daughter, Book 1: Cadwaller's Gun (Volume 1)
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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.
still wingless P-51s clanked on a conveyor belt behind a sweatily spit-curled, casually arm-grabbing, rosily riveting shout of indoctrination. But from coal mine to California—and like their more familiar office counterparts, looking up with unsinkably loose-lipped smiles to offer the leggy Regent’s visitor coffee as I waited for Senator Bavard or torpedo-toggling, WAVE-antipathetic Admiral Canute—the broads and the slow blondes and the farmers’ daughters did something so foreign to Pam’s past
got married first?” “I couldn’t care less. Does it matter?” “You tell me.” “She did,” I fibbed. “I just didn’t like her husband.” Posted by: Pam As for the cuckolding of Brannigan Murphy, which I’d better make haste to describe in all its why-Henry’d, cuke-encumbered detail, the only thing Bran’s lawyers got right was the city it happened in. It could also scarcely be called Pam’s doing, since I just wanted a quick quote on shipyard absenteeism to stick into “Liberty
about stealing one of these sausage links, little girl,” she said with a disturbing and unnatural attempt at making her keen features appear jolly. “That’s death! I’m ravenous. I’ll stab you in the heart with this knife!” “I’ve eaten,” I said stolidly. “And they’re made from pigs, not lynxes.” “Why, of course you’ve eaten! You won’t believe it, but I was a good little girl once too. I know they’ve got to get up early! Then quick as death, they’re off to…school?” she asked my
will of the fact that I had no desire to open it. “Yes?” “Do you remember when you were a very little girl, and you and Mummy used to bathe together? Lovely, long, cool baths? Wouldn’t that be perfect now?” I pondered. “Should I tell Nanna to run one?” “Oh, no! I’m sure she’s napping. I think we can manage by ourselves, don’t you?” I did feel shy about it. For one thing, I didn’t remember, not really. Plausible and pleasant was the closest my memory could come. For
really know Eugene O’Neill?” Message from a future edition of Pamela to a prior one: for Christ’s sake, act on any curiosity you’ve got about O’Neill now. Once you’ve married Murphy, you’ll learn he can’t abide the name. One of several major differences between them is that O’Neill will have no idea they’re rivals. In the meantime, the detectable narrowing of Miss Day’s eyes had mystified me. I didn’t know she disliked being reminded of her free-and-easy bohemian youth—concerned, so she