Free The Polka Dot Nude by Joan Smith Page B

till I had five pages full—also one ashtray. After I emptied it, I opened the fridge for a beer, to reward myself. Then, after the store was closed, I remembered I was out of beer. I opened the door again to clear away the smoke, and was surrounded by the tantalizing smell of garlic and onions, oregano and chicken, which did not smell like livers at all. I closed the door again and made coffee, to drive away the other odors.
    I turned on the TV and sat staring at the moving pictures, without really seeing them. I looked at the phone, which didn’t ring; at the door, which was silent; then I looked within myself for entertainment. There was only one possible subject to consider, so I thought of it.
    I’d shown him a thing or two. He must feel like two cents, and the wretch didn’t even have the manners to apologize, or try to explain. You’d think he’d phone up and say he was sorry at least. After all, we were both adults. I didn’t expect a man to be a saint. God, after Garth I didn’t expect much of men, but this went beyond even Garth Schuyler’s duplicity. There’s some excuse for passion; this was a coldly, carefully planned deception. It was Belton’s fault, for offering him so much money. It wasn’t, though.
    Belton hadn’t told him how to get his research. Belton hadn’t told him to call me “sensational.” Hadn’t he meant any of it? By nine, I decided that if he came suitably attired in sackcloth and ashes, we might discuss the matter. There would be no forgiving, but we could discuss. By nine-thirty I realized the elegant Mr. Mason wouldn’t be caught in sackcloth, even if it had a Gucci label.
    At nine thirty-five, he went to his car, wearing a light-colored suit. A man didn’t put on a suit to go out alone, say to a drive-in movie. A suit like that was for a date—maybe dancing. I felt as angry and cheated as if he’d broken the date, instead of me. At least he wasn’t writing tonight. I had already worked past the saturation point, so in a fit of boredom, I opened Love’s Last Longing, and became lost in the perils of an innocent child-woman bearing the unlikely name of Melora with eyes of an unconvincing turquoise shade. She was taken captive by a Mogul emperor during some long-ago war.
    I read till my eyes ached, marveling how Rosalie Wildewood could ever conceive of such a heroine, who juggled the moon and stars with one hand, while the emperor nibbled from the other. She nobly spurned his offer to wear the empress’s crown, choosing instead to be a kitchen slave. Easy for Melora. She knew a prince was lurking in the next chapter. I wondered what he was like, and before I knew it, I was reading again. I literally couldn’t put it down.
    Lorraine Taylor didn’t phone back. I went on hoping for quite a while, because of the time difference. When my eyes got too tired to read, I went down to the dock to look at the moon and the water. No emperor or prince sailed up to kidnap me. I must have been crazy to come here, out in the sticks, with nothing to do once the sun set. I drove into town and had a bottle of beer alone at a bar. I left half of it when some Neanderthal in a leather jacket tried to hit on me. I drove home by a circuitous route, in case he took it into his head to follow me. Brad’s car still wasn’t back. The Simcoes’ curtains juggled, timing me in. Old Simcoe would be regretting this rift between us two red-hot lovers.
    I wondered what Brad had said to him, to give him the idea we were an item. I felt suddenly frightened, alone in the cottage. I locked the door, but the Neanderthal from the bar, or someone like him, could get in without much trouble. I wouldn’t go out alone again at night. But I’d make sure to get in a supply of beer and Coke.
    I wanted to hear a human voice, and made the mistake of phoning Mom. She asked three or four times how I was, meaning was I suicidal about Garth and Helen. When I convinced her I was all right, she told me about some new