a little action even in a town like Santa Barbara if sheâd meet him when she got off work.
Sheâd almost laughed in his face because his gray roots were showing and he was tipping only fifty cents a round. âSome other time, high-roller,â she finally told him.
Philo Skinner had sat there with yet another erection left to wilt. And at his age how many were left?
Madeline had a minor hangover from the Scotch and Dalmane. In the past she had experienced wretched ones from Scotch and Librium and Scotch and Valium. So far the Scotch and a small dose of Dalmane seemed the best way to sleep.
Victoria was certainly alive enough at eight a.m. She frisked in the kitchen, yapping and wiggling around Yolanda, the housekeeper, formerly a live-in with Madeline, now a day worker on Mondays and Fridays.
âVee-kee,â Yolanda grinned, showing golden Tijuana bridgework in front, a status symbol which, unfortunately, was as much a tip-off to Immigration officers as was the long shapeless hair, the cast-off clothes, the diffident bearing of the illegal aliens.
Vickie started leaping straight up, showing off, barking, begging for the liver tidbits she knew Yolanda would get from the refrigerator.
âMorning, Yolanda,â Madeline groaned, shielding her eyes from the morning sun as she shuffled into the kitchen and collapsed at the table, tolerating Vickieâs shrill and happy growls.
âJoo wan jus café, Meesus?â
âPlease, Yolanda. And perhaps a little orange juice.â
âJas, Meesus,â the plump young girl nodded, first giving Vickie another slice of boiled liver, humming with the Spanish music on the radio, too loud for Madeline, who nonetheless tolerated it as she tried to concentrate on the Los Angeles Times.
Madeline was distressed to read that one of the cityâs leading decorators was sick and tired of wicker and rattan and jungle plants and swore that it would be déclassé in six months. Madeline looked around at the white wicker chairs and rattan loveseat, and all the hanging fern which she had bought at great cost six months before when she saw a kitchen in the Los Angeles Times done by the same decorator. It was ever thus. She would finally get the courage or the impetus or the money to embrace a style about a month before it was déclassé, whether it be clothes or furniture or hairstyles.
Lord, she wished Yolanda would turn down that radio. The frequent commercials in machine-gun Spanish were unbearable right now. And Lord, she wished she could still afford to have Yolanda live-in and take care of the house as it should be. As it was when Mason was here, before she had to close off three of the upstairs bedrooms, and the guest house, to conserve gas and keep the soaring maintenance costs in check. Many Old Pasadena scions lived on modest trusts and inheritances in mansions remodeled by Sears or Montgomery Ward. Lovely tiles which had been painted, fired, and glazed fifty years before by Spanish, Portuguese, and Mexican artisans now lay side by side with fifty-dollar sheets of formica. Many an eight-thousand-square-foot Colonial or Tudor mansion didnât have enough furniture left to fill a three-bedroom apartment. They settled for leaky gurgling toilets, but kept their expensive club memberships, hence, their identities, intact.
One more year and the trust fund would be finished. As always, her stomach churned when she thought of it. One year. Who could have thought about such a possibility when she was Mrs. Mason Whitfield? Not even after the divorce. Her mother had always said the trust was constructed by Madelineâs father to endure throughout his only childâs lifetime. With âprudentâ management, of course. Always, Madeline had thought of the trust anthropomorphically: at first a guardian angel, later a kindly uncle who would always be there. Except that when her father designed that trust he didnât consider something as
Sheâd almost laughed in his face because his gray roots were showing and he was tipping only fifty cents a round. âSome other time, high-roller,â she finally told him.
Philo Skinner had sat there with yet another erection left to wilt. And at his age how many were left?
Madeline had a minor hangover from the Scotch and Dalmane. In the past she had experienced wretched ones from Scotch and Librium and Scotch and Valium. So far the Scotch and a small dose of Dalmane seemed the best way to sleep.
Victoria was certainly alive enough at eight a.m. She frisked in the kitchen, yapping and wiggling around Yolanda, the housekeeper, formerly a live-in with Madeline, now a day worker on Mondays and Fridays.
âVee-kee,â Yolanda grinned, showing golden Tijuana bridgework in front, a status symbol which, unfortunately, was as much a tip-off to Immigration officers as was the long shapeless hair, the cast-off clothes, the diffident bearing of the illegal aliens.
Vickie started leaping straight up, showing off, barking, begging for the liver tidbits she knew Yolanda would get from the refrigerator.
âMorning, Yolanda,â Madeline groaned, shielding her eyes from the morning sun as she shuffled into the kitchen and collapsed at the table, tolerating Vickieâs shrill and happy growls.
âJoo wan jus café, Meesus?â
âPlease, Yolanda. And perhaps a little orange juice.â
âJas, Meesus,â the plump young girl nodded, first giving Vickie another slice of boiled liver, humming with the Spanish music on the radio, too loud for Madeline, who nonetheless tolerated it as she tried to concentrate on the Los Angeles Times.
Madeline was distressed to read that one of the cityâs leading decorators was sick and tired of wicker and rattan and jungle plants and swore that it would be déclassé in six months. Madeline looked around at the white wicker chairs and rattan loveseat, and all the hanging fern which she had bought at great cost six months before when she saw a kitchen in the Los Angeles Times done by the same decorator. It was ever thus. She would finally get the courage or the impetus or the money to embrace a style about a month before it was déclassé, whether it be clothes or furniture or hairstyles.
Lord, she wished Yolanda would turn down that radio. The frequent commercials in machine-gun Spanish were unbearable right now. And Lord, she wished she could still afford to have Yolanda live-in and take care of the house as it should be. As it was when Mason was here, before she had to close off three of the upstairs bedrooms, and the guest house, to conserve gas and keep the soaring maintenance costs in check. Many Old Pasadena scions lived on modest trusts and inheritances in mansions remodeled by Sears or Montgomery Ward. Lovely tiles which had been painted, fired, and glazed fifty years before by Spanish, Portuguese, and Mexican artisans now lay side by side with fifty-dollar sheets of formica. Many an eight-thousand-square-foot Colonial or Tudor mansion didnât have enough furniture left to fill a three-bedroom apartment. They settled for leaky gurgling toilets, but kept their expensive club memberships, hence, their identities, intact.
One more year and the trust fund would be finished. As always, her stomach churned when she thought of it. One year. Who could have thought about such a possibility when she was Mrs. Mason Whitfield? Not even after the divorce. Her mother had always said the trust was constructed by Madelineâs father to endure throughout his only childâs lifetime. With âprudentâ management, of course. Always, Madeline had thought of the trust anthropomorphically: at first a guardian angel, later a kindly uncle who would always be there. Except that when her father designed that trust he didnât consider something as