Free A Certain Age by Tama Janowitz

he was being sarcastic. "No. Why would that be so shocking?" Before she knew it he had picked up two sets of silver wrapped in napkins, gesturing that one was for her, and Florence followed him outside to one of the little café tables, ignoring Charlie, who was still hovering wistfully nearby. She was spreading her blue-and-white-plaid napkin over her lap when Natalie emerged from the house and, looking across the patio, steamed toward her.
    "What do you think you're up to?"
    "What?" Florence said.
    "The only reason I was ever friends with you is because our mothers were friends; my mother's always asking how you're doing, did I help you find a boyfriend. In less than twenty-four hours—as my guest—you've screwed my husband and almost drowned my daughter."
    Florence looked around the patio, panic-stricken, but none of the other guests were looking in her direction.
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    "I don't know what you're talking about, Natalie, really. I said I was sorry about the accident with Claudia." The others dining on the patio ceased talking. Three waiters had gathered by the pool bar, motionless, straining to hear. Florence turned and went back inside.
    "I think you know what I'm talking about." Natalie was not giving up; she had followed her into the house. "John's not without blame, but you're a total slut; you didn't have to come on to him. And you lock him in your bedroom just before I have a party? Is that supposed to be funny? I don't even want you on my property. I think maybe you should leave."
    A droplet of liquid fell onto Natalie's forehead and rolled down her nose. Oblivious, she brushed it away and did not seem to notice when a second appeared. Surreptitiously Florence looked up. The water was coming through the ceiling. A bubble of plaster, like the blister on a burn, bulged ominously, tender and swollen. Another drop of water plashed down.
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    6
    The third-floor Carpeting was squishy underfoot. She packed and came down the back stairs into the kitchen; hopefully, she would avoid running into Natalie—or anybody else. Perhaps there would be a train schedule or the jitney timetable. Through the kitchen window she saw Charlie in the side garden. He was staring in a somewhat slow-witted, doltish way at a dish-shaped pink flower the size of a dinner plate. Both were illuminated in the glare from the building's security lamps. She put down her suitcases and went out the door. "Oh, Charlie!" she said. She tried to drape her
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    arms around him, but he stepped back, so she knew he had already heard. "This is so awful! I didn't sleep with Natalie's husband—and I never meant for anything to happen to Claudia. Please say you believe me."
    "Ah . . ." he said, half turning but not looking at her. "I'm just waiting for my driver. I told him to be back around now." She looked at her watch. To her surprise, it was after eleven.
    "What am I going to do?" she said. "I don't think the trains or the jitney back to Manhattan run this late, do they?"
    "Oh, are you . . . going back to the city?" he asked. "Well, if I don't see you again, have a great . . . trip." He still avoided her gaze and looked nervously through the French doors that led to the dining room, as if he might be under the observation of someone indoors.
    "I don't know what to do," she muttered.
    "I don't think there are any trains this late," he said, as if he were just now receiving her question through a telephone on the other side of the world.
    "What a pretty flower!" she said desperately. It was hideous, the flat pinkness of it, with a wibbly-looking phallus in the center.
    "My favorite." He brightened slightly and cupped the bloom in both hands. "Malva." There was the sound of car wheels on the gravel behind them, and both turned as a dark maroon Jaguar pulled up in the drive. "Well, there's my car. I never stay out late when I'm in the country."
    "Would you be able to give me a lift to the station?"
    "What are you going to do there?" he said. "You'd be better off