Free Menage by Alix Kates Shulman Page A

on California time.”
    Mack indulged himself in a noisy yawn. “Not that I couldn’t go on talking all night, you understand, but tomorrow’s Monday.”
    â€œAnd Carmela is off tomorrow,” added Heather.
    â€œWell, bottoms up.” Mack drained the last drops of brandy from his glass and began cleaning up.
    While Mack stacked dishes on a tray, Zoltan crumpled the empty cigarette pack and tossed it onto the embers, watching to see the cellophane explode in a giddy burst of yellow spark and green flame. “If I may, I wish to propose a toast.”
    â€œOh, do,” said Heather, rising out of her slouch to lift her glass.
    Zoltan squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. He raised an eyebrow and lifted his glass, then immediately lowered them both. “First, I have question. It is obvious what I gain in this extraordinary situation you offer, this writer’s paradise, but not clear how you benefit.”
    â€œAs far as I’m concerned,” said Mack, settling down again beside Heather, “I’ll be happy just tosee you back on your feet able to write your book. That’s good enough for me.”
    â€œMost gracious benefactor,” said Zoltan, with a mock bow. Then, seriously, “But why? if I may ask.”
    â€œI like your work. I think it’s important.”
    Though he appreciated Mack’s confidence, Zoltan wondered if he could possibly produce what Mack expected of him—especially now, with the publishing world a shambles and the pressures that had driven him east beginning to ease. “When you invited me to live in your house, I believe you had something else in mind? Something, shall we say, less … altruistic?”
    â€œMack says you promised to teach us—what was it?—the art of living?” said Heather archly, tucking her legs back under her. “Something essential like that?”
    â€œAh, yes, the art of living,” said Zoltan pursing his lips in his signature smirk. ‘ “
Mon métier et mon art, c’est vivre
.’ Montaigne.”
    â€œMeaning?” snapped Mack.
    â€œÂ â€˜My calling and my art is to know how to live.’ But Mack will remember I told to him that is something everyone must learn himself.”
    Heather tilted her head and smiled coyly. “Then why
do
we need you?”
    â€œAsk your husband. It is he who invited me here.”
    â€œSince you’re here now, I’d rather ask you.”
    Zoltan lowered his voice to a croon and tossed it back to her. “Tell me what you desire of me, Mrs. McKay.”
    â€œToo soon to tell.”
    â€œThen say what you hope.”
    Her eyes shone with excitement as she returned the intense gaze the writer had locked on her. She could not remember the last time she had received such penetrating attention, or when she had felt such giddy exhilaration. She tried to think of something to say; nothing came. Then, feeling her throat begin to tighten, she asked in a small voice, “The truth?”
    â€œIf you dare,” said Zoltan.
    â€œCome on, Heather. Tell us what you want out of this,” said Mack.
    â€œOkay.” She reached for her glass. “This is easy. I hope to learn whatever secrets you have to teach us. But even if I turn out to be a lousy student, at least I’ll have someone interesting to talk to.”
    Zoltan nodded slowly, as if sealing a pact. Again he raised his glass, and again he fixed his glittering gaze on each of them in turn, bringing it to rest on Heather.
    â€œThe toast, the toast!” said Mack impatiently.
    â€œHere is the toast: that we each find what we are looking for.”
    Mack lifted his empty glass to his lips and said, “Hear, hear.” But Heather drank in silence, without taking her eyes from Zoltan’s. After a moment he nodded to each of them, then drained his glass, and tossed it with a grand flourish into the fire, where it