Free Golden Orange by Joseph Wambaugh Page B

said, handing the valet-parking kid her ticket. “You’re my guest.”
    Old son. He loved it. They talked like that on Masterpiece Theater !
    She drove a Mercedes, but not a new one. Winnie correctly guessed it was six years old, a four-door sedan without chrome wheels or pinstripes. Not a Golden Orange kind of car at all. A diesel, for chrissake!
    She seemed to read his thoughts.
    â€œOne of my ex-husband’s cars,” she said. “The one he didn’t want. The one that he gave me as a wedding gift, he took back. It was a Porsche nine-thirty Cabriolet. Red. My father did the same thing to me once. It’s the way of men like that. The Lords giveth …”

7

    The Nymph
    T he restaurant was on the oceanfront. It was one that Winnie had passed a thousand times. Once he’d even stopped for a drink and to watch the sunset on a day he was wearing a Sail America sweatshirt that didn’t pass dress code: no collar. But the guy on the door, a mustachioed Parisian, who’d long since learned not to act like one, told Winnie not to leave. The Frenchman disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a Members Only windbreaker whose stand-up collar passed muster in The Golden Orange except at weddings. But the drinks were $3.75, so Winnie only had a couple.
    Now he was back there at twilight with Tess Binder. The first thing he noticed was that the bar was jammed but nobody paid much attention to the magic hour light show. The sky looked eerily blood streaked, moments before the fireball floated down into the inky sea, always faster than Winnie expected.
    â€œForty-five seconds,” Winnie said after they found some standing room by the big window facing the ocean.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œTook her forty-five to drop past the horizon tonight. I can see her from my kitchen if I stand on a chair and peek over the roof next door. Took her forty-five seconds tonight.”
    â€œThe sun’s feminine?”
    â€œOh yeah, without a doubt,” Winnie said. “Can’t live without her, but she’s dangerous.”
    The Frenchman aimed his prominent Gallic nose at a pair of yuppies sitting at one of the tall cocktail tables and they jumped up and followed him. Winnie grabbed the two vacated stools and a leggy blonde in a tuxedo jacket, black tie, shorts and high-heeled pumps took their drink order.
    Outside the window, on the beach, an Asian lad flew his electric-blue and amber batwing kite. The kite looped and climbed, soared and dove. The boy made the kite dance along the sand and pirouette over the bodies of a pair of lovers lying on a beach blanket. Then the kite fluttered and hung in midair above the window of the restaurant, a brilliant jewel hovering in the twilight.
    Perched on a high stool with her legs crossed, Tess didn’t seem to notice as her full-split white skirt fell open. Winnie loved white stockings! The shawl-collar blouse was white linen, and Tess reflected red dusk back at Winnie. It was a bewitching moment: this vision in white glowing a creamy pink from reflected blood-red twilight.
    When the drinks arrived, she touched his glass with hers. He figured she’d say “Cheers,” but she fooled him.
    â€œChin chin,” she said.
    He caught himself gulping, forced himself to put the glass down and tried conversation. “Too bad you don’t sail,” he said. “I really dream of a racing boat but I got my eye on a more practical thirty-six-footer. Way she’s designed, one guy could sail her round the world. Self-steering vane on her stern controls the rudder. Built in the early sixties and modified with all kinds a stuff. She’s a heavy boat. Won’t go fast, but very stable. Doesn’t oil-can when you go to weather.”
    â€œWhat’s that? Oil-can?”
    â€œYou know that hollow sound the boat makes in a chop? Baloom, baloom, baloom. Got lots a headroom down below. No engine. That blew up, but who