Free Ice by V. C. Andrews Page B

been cheated and scammed by some con man or woman. In this case, the villain was Mother Nature who had offered a contract with the calendar and then broken it with northerly winds and heavy clouds.
I wore a light-blue sweater and skirt along with a pair of black buzzin' boots with three-and-a-halfinch heels. I liked feeling tall. I heard some catcalls and whistles from men in passing cars. but I kept my eyes forward. Once you look their way, they think you're showing some interest.
A gust of wind brought tears to my eyes as I quickly whipped around a coiner and headed down Balwin's street. I was practically running now. When I got to his door and pressed the buzzer, he opened it so quickly. I had to wonder if he hadn't been waiting right in the entryway the whole time.
"Looks nasty," he said glancing at the way the wind had picked up some discarded paper and chased it up the gutter.
I took a deep breath and nodded.
He looked nervous and started to talk so quickly, I thought he would run out of breath.
"I should have taken my father up on the car offer. He put a dollar value on my weight, offering to deposit so much for every pound I lost. I was to be weighed every morning before he went to work and he was going to keep this big chart up in his home office. but I never cared if I had my own car or not and he withdrew the offer."
He smiled.
"Maybe eating was just more important. Sorry. I could have picked you up tonight if I had my own car. My father won't let me use his car, and they took my mother's car tonight, which was the car I used to take you home from the Kit-Kat. They went to New York to see a show and have dinner," he said finally pausing for a breath. "Let me take your coat and hang it up for you."
I was shivering. but I gave it to him and he put it in the hallway closet. Whenever I visited anyone who had his or her own house. I understood Mama's constant longing to get us into something better. Odors from whatever other people on your floor were cooking didn't permeate your home. Noise and clatter were practically nonexistent. You had a true sense of privacy.
Balwin's house was a little more than modest. His parents had decorated it well. The furniture looked new and expensive. It was all early American. There were thick area rugs, elegant coffee and side tables, interesting pole and table lamps and real oil paintings on the walls, not prints. A large, teardrop chandelier hung over the rich, cherrywood dining room table.
"You want anything warm to drink? I'll make you some coffee or tea, if you like."
"Tea." I said nodding.
"Milk or sugar or honey?"
"Honey."
"That's good. That's what singers should drink," he said smiling.
I followed him into the kitchen and gazed at the modern appliances and the rich cabinets. When he ran water into a cup and immediately dipped in a tea bag. I gasped.
"You forgot to heat the water," I said.
He laughed.
"No, this faucet gives boiling water
immediately."
"Really?" I took the mug and felt the heat around it.
"C'mon, I'll show you my studio," he said proudly and led me back through the hall to a door. We went down a short flight of stairs to a large room with light oak panelling and wall-to-wall coffeecolored Berber carpet. The piano was off to the left. On the right was a bar and a pool table, a built-in television set to the left of the bar, and a small sitting area consisting of a settee and two oversized chairs, one a full recliner.
Against the wall on shelves were neatly stacked tapes. records and CDs. below them was Balwin's sound system.
"These amplifiers are four hundred watts," he began, beaming with pride. "I've got multitrack recording capability with nonlinear track mixing and editing as well as digital mixing on this sixteen-track, twenty-four bit studio recording workstation."
One look at my face brought a laugh to his.
"Sorry," he said. "I get carried away sometimes and talk the talk."
"I don't know much about these things."
"It's all right. The main thing I'm trying to