Lisa with Peter Lindenfeld at a show of Lore Lindenfeld’s work
I first met my future mother-in-law in 1996, when my boyfriend at the time, Marc Aronson, brought me to Westchester, where he was giving a talk on Edith Wharton to his mother’s book reading group, which was reading House of Mirth. Marc and I had met many times over the years–I an all-in-black aspiring novelist, he an editor at Henry Holt–mostly at the home of Shashi and Minu Tharoor. On one fateful occasion, we sat perched on a sofa and were soon immersed in a conversation about Edith Wharton and Henry James. Marc had recently finished his dissertation on William Crary Brownell, who edited both authors. (I am a James fan; he a Wharton, and we still have not resolved the issue) At the time, I think Marc was surprised that he was talking to someone who not only knew all the works, but even cared!
What followed was a very Jamesian or Whartonesque courtship–take your pick–a long date at the Metropolitan Museum, where we both had wandered as children and now shared our favorite rooms, literary readings, strolls and high and low meals talking books in our beloved New York City; proffered and refused gifts and many, many conversations, heady and otherwise. Over the course of that time, he mentioned his parents a few times–once at an Israeli restaurant in the East Village he said something about his parents ‘working in the theater.’ Then one evening, standing at the bar at Gramercy Tavern, after an event at the National Arts Club, he began to explain his fascination with Brownell, how he was drawn to figures who are on the borderline or cusp of cultural change, since of course, that was who his father, the set designer Boris Aronson, was. At that moment, I thought to myself, “I will never be bored with this man. I will always want to hear what he has to say,” and simply put–fell in love.
Shortly thereafter we rented a car and made our way up to Westchester, where I met his elegant, snowy-haired mother and her fellow book group. Marc gave his talk and then we followed Lisa back to her home, across the river, in Nyack. At the time, Lisa was about 75 years old, and she drove like a speed demon, swerving around the winding roads. As we stepped up to the door, he paused, and said with a sigh, “Welcome to my family. Welcome to the avant-garde.”
The door swung open. Continue reading
