Free Chocolates for Breakfast by Pamela Moore Page A

up.
    â€œSee you, Al.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said again.
    â€œFor what?” she said. “What the hell, Al.”
    She shrugged and walked casually into the California afternoon to her mother’s villa, and seeing that no one was there, flung herself on the bed and cried.

Chapter 6
    T he late afternoon was quiet and thoughtful. Courtney was wearing those Levi’s which her mother disliked, the tight ones, and she was sitting beside the window reading Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal.
    As she watched Courtney, Sondra wondered what had depressed the child. She had been pleased that Al asked her to dinner. Courtney was so fond of Al, and she trusted in him so. Yet after dinner Courtney seemed even more upset. She was silent and withdrawn. But then Courtney had become more withdrawn than Sondra had ever seen her during this last year. Possibly that only meant that she was growing up and away from her.
    â€œCourtney—”
    â€œYes, Mummy.”
    â€œCourtney, I wish you would tell me what’s bothering you. Maybe I could do something about it.”
    â€œNothing’s bothering me, Mummy.”
    â€œI suppose you wouldn’t tell me anyway,” Sondra said wearily.
    â€œProbably not.”
    â€œWould you like me to have someone in for dinner? Would that cheer you up?”
    â€œMummy, I’m not depressed.”
    â€œOf course you are. Aren’t you having a good time? You have those nice boys to swim with, for a change.”
    â€œYes, they’re nice kids. They’re awfully young.”
    â€œYou’re not that old,” Sondra smiled.
    â€œMmm-hmm.” Courtney was trying to read.
    â€œWell, you can’t wallow in this mood,” Sondra said finally. “You’re an awfully dull person to have around.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mummy, if I bore you.”
    â€œWe’ll have a marvelous dinner at Scandia, and I’ll ask someone along.” Sondra thought a moment. “Barry Cabot, or Patrick Cavanaugh. They’re always amusing.”
    â€œMummy, that’s awfully expensive.”
    â€œNot really.” She looked sharply at her daughter. “What is this sudden concern for money? Last night you told me that you didn’t want a new winter coat, you said that your old polo coat would do. You’re getting to sound like your father.”
    â€œWe ought to—well, we’re kind of broke, aren’t we?”
    â€œDid your father tell you that?”
    â€œHe kind of mentioned it, but—”
    â€œFor God’s sake, what is he worrying you with money for?”
    â€œWell, Daddy wasn’t the only—”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œNick is going to star me in that next picture, so we don’t have to worry, even though the studio didn’t pick up my option. I think I’ll make more freelancing, anyway, so it’s just as well.”
    â€œCrap.”
    â€œI beg your pardon.”
    â€œI said, crap.”
    â€œDon’t talk to me that way.”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œWhat’s gotten into you, anyway?”
    Courtney shrugged. What could she say? There was so much to say.
    â€œI’m asking Barry to dinner. Why don’t you go over to the Thespian and ask him? The walk will do you good.”
    It was easy to predict that at four o’clock Barry would be at the Thespian, a bar a block away from the Garden. He didn’t come over to the Garden until he had managed to have someone buy him a Caesar salad (“Oh, no, I’ve eaten. But I’ll have a salad to keep you company while you have dinner, darling.”) to sustain him until breakfast at two the next afternoon.
    Courtney saw his car outside, a snub-nosed and defiant little ’41 convertible. She waited outside a few minutes, looking at the car. She was as nervous as though she were going in to see the headmistress. Finally she took as deep a breath as her tight