Free The Covenant by Naomi Ragen

time in L.A. She could introduce him around. And Leah’s granddaughter Elise with her nice doctor husband and their little sabra and the new baby due in a mont h or two, had never seen California. Ho w lovely it would be to have little kids running around again, making noise, tracking up the Aubusson, putting sticky little fingers on the polished antiques, giving this museum a little life… she thought, looking at her pristine living room.
    Only last night she’d dreamed about her own granddaughter. The dream had started with a knock on the door. Whe n she’d looked through the peephole, Elizabeth had been standing there, angry and impatient, wheeling a baby carriage while two little ones clutched her side. And whe n Esther had opened to let her in, Elizabeth had shouted angry accusations and explanations at her. Instead of defending herself, she’d just gathered her granddaughter into her arms and cried and cried and cried.
    It had felt so incredibly real.
    She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, getting black mascara on the Belgian lace. Her daughter Marietta, Elizabeth’s mother, had dealt with the situation much better than she had. Marietta and Elizabeth were not only in touch, but mother and daughter saw each other every few months—althoughMarietta couldn’t actually travel to visit Elizabeth; they didn’t let Jews into Saudi Arabia.
    From the pictures Marietta had brought over, the children were beautiful, with Elizabeth’s blue-green eyes, and her husband’s black hair and swarthy complexion. Beautiful Elizabeth. How she longed to see her!
    But even if she could bring herself to invite her granddaughter, would Elizabeth agree to come? And if she did, would she insist on bringing the Arab with her? She felt her blood pressure rise and her face flush at the thought of one of her offspring, a convert to Islam…
    The interviewer coughed politely, leaning forward. “Ready?”
    “No! Wait. Give me a mirror, Morrie,” she called out.
    “Gran… really!”
    Whatever they said about Morrie not being the brightest star, he was her favorite; her choice to take over the company when she died. She kept him by her side.
    “I just want to check if my mascara streaked.”
    “Gran, don’t worry about it. This is not going to be broadcast on the Fashion Channel. It’s for history.”
    “Everything you do when you are seventy-five and the head of Elizabeth Estay Cosmetics is for history, Morrie.”
    “Seventy-eight, Gran,” he murmured, handing her a mirror.
    She eyed herself, taking in her still remarkably unlined complexion, the lovely blue eyes, the beautifully cut silver hair.
    “He never lets me get away with anything, do you Morrie?” she said with a sidelong glance and the barest of smiles. “All right, all right. Seventy-eight. But even when I’m one hundred and twenty, lying in that expensive, silk-lined oak box, I still want people to look at me and say: ‘That Esther Gold! I should only look as good alive as she does dead. Maybe I should buy her creams and potions…’ When the time comes, I could be a great advertisement, Morrie. Don’t forget.” She handed him back the mirror.
    He looked pained. “Really, Gran…”
    A small, wicked smile curled the ends of her perfectly made-up lips. “What do you think of this color?” she asked, turning to the interviewer, pouting. “Just in from the laboratory. They don’t even have a name for ityet,” she said, taking in the young woman’s pale lips and colorless cheeks, her ringless fingers with their chewed-off nails. Hearing these horror stories day after day would take the curl out of anyone’s lashes. Still… “You are a lovely young lady. You should pardon me, but you should take time from your important work to be nice to yourself. Put on a little moisturizer, some mascara, blush…”
    “Really, Gran…” Morrie protested.
    “I know what you think. Frivolous. Vain. But sometimes a woman’s looks can be a matter of life and death. In