Free The Ladies' Man by Elinor Lipman

dinner.”
    He hesitates, letting Adele walk onto the elevator first, then says wryly, “Which would never do.”
    â€œI agree.”
    â€œEven though I haven’t eaten all day.”
    Adele says, “Third floor.”
    Nash asks where these sisters work.
    â€œLois works for the state, and Kathleen owns a shop downtown.”
    â€œOne at a time. What does Lois do at the State House?”
    â€œNot actually at the State House. She works for D.E.S.”
    â€œWhich is?”
    â€œDivision of Employment Security—‘Unemployment’ in the vernacular.”
    â€œAnd what kind of a shop does Kathleen own?”
    â€œLingerie. High end.”
    Nash conjures crude images of low-end lingerie, but doesn’t share them with Adele. “Does she enjoy that line of work?” he asks.
    Adele ignores the question, which sounds insincere to her, and suggestive. When the doors open, she leaves the elevator as purposefully as her sore midsection allows. Nash follows her to the end of the hallway. He can hear the phone ringing, but it doesn’t seem to incite any urgency in Adele. Nor does she rush for the phone when they get inside.
    â€œIs your machine on?” he asks.
    â€œWe don’t have one.”
    Nash doesn’t know anyone without an answering machine. He asks how people living together—women, he means, single women who need to know which men called—get by without an answering machine.
    â€œPeople know we’re at work during the day, so they call when we’re home.” He is standing in the foyer, waiting to be invited deeper into the apartment. He asks, “How long have you lived here?”
    â€œFour years.” She doesn’t volunteer the circumstances: We kept the house after our parents died, but sold it when Lois married, thinking it was just Kathleen and I.
    â€œIt reminds me of your house,” he says.
    â€œAll the furniture is from Dean Road. We didn’t buy one thing.” He follows when she walks through one predominantly blue parlor into a second rose-colored parlor, which leads into a green-flowered dining room, and finally a yellow kitchen.
    â€œNice place,” says Nash.
    â€œIt’s not very interesting,” says Adele, who has opened the refrigerator door and is staring inside.
    â€œCan I help?”
    Adele says, “Help how? I’m not making you lunch.”
    â€œNo,” says Nash. “Of course not.”
    She takes a carton of brown eggs from a shelf, and says, “Here. You be the chef. Scramble yourself some whites.”
    Nash doesn’t know how to cook, let alone get the whites out of an egg. “Got anything else?” he asks.
    â€œLook for yourself. Take whatever appeals to you.”
    â€œWhere are you going?”
    â€œTo change into something loose,” she says, but without a trace of the usual innuendo Nash associates with the phrase.
    â€œCould I run you a hot bath?”
    â€œI run my own baths,” she says.
    Nash takes an apple from a fruit bowl on the kitchen table and bites into it.
    â€œThey’re not washed,” she says.
    â€œIf you’re lucky,” he says, raising his eyebrows, “I might get poisoned.”
    Adele doesn’t answer. She rearranges a few bottles in the refrigerator, exposing a covered earthenware casserole. “Here—last night’s leftovers,” she says. “We had some kind of veal. Kathleen always makes too much.”
    â€œReally?” he asks. “I wouldn’t be taking someone’s dinner?”
    â€œSo what? She’ll be honored. Put what you want in the microwave. Plates are in the cupboard over the dishwasher.”
    He slides the casserole from the shelf, compliments its Japaneseglaze, takes its lid off, and smiles happily at the congealed, monochromatic lumps of meat and potatoes. “Looks fabulous,” he says.
    Adele says, “It’s not. We gave it a B-minus,