An illustrated glance at the world of glamour, drink and darkness in Tigers in Red Weather. Photos (c) Kate Harvey.
Tiger House. “We’ll go to the Island. Just like our mothers. Houses right next door.” Nick smiled, thinking about Tiger House, its airy rooms, the expanse of green lawn that disappeared into the blue of the harbor.
Lobster print dress. I think that one,” Daisy said, pointing to one spread out on the bed. Navy blue, with lobsters printed on its full skirt. “To go with the Lobster Bisque.” “I agree,” Aunt Helena said, suddenly sounding cheerful and definite.
Bathing huts on Chappy Beach. Midmorning swimmers were already walking the shoreline of the Chappy bathing beach, with its red-and-blue-striped bathhouses, and behind him Hughes could hear the bell on the dock.
Put the gin in first, then the ice. The beautiful decanters, her grandmother’s crystal, each with a silver plaque that had the name of the alcohol engraved in swirling script. Her father had taught her to put the gin in first, then the ice.
E. Y. C. Tennis. Daisy unscrewed the wooden press from her racket and laced her fingers between the strings, pulling on the gut.
Moonlight. The ground was damp and I could see the moon. The first thing I thought was: Daisy.
Floating on the breeze. Hughes could feel the bridge of his nose crisping and he found himself squinting behind his sunglasses, already sticky with salt.
Daisy's wallpaper. Daisy huffed into her beloved bedroom, with the twin brass beds and the pink rosette wallpaper she had been allowed to pick out herself.
It was hushed back there. It was hushed back there at that time of day, deserted by the well-heeled on their way to the Yacht Club for cocktails, or evening sailors on their way to Cape Pogue with their picnics.
Rare blue flowers. Her mother said that the blue was rare and came from the way her grandmother had mulched them with coffee grounds.
The dark water. He thought of Nick, at home, perhaps getting ready for bed, the small sigh that escaped her lips when she sat at her dressing table at the end of an evening. He looked back out at the dark water and pushed the idea out of his head.
A good kind of day. It was the kind of day that you didn’t need to remember from a distance to know it was a good one.