Free Girl on the Best Seller List by Vin Packer Page B

backyard with Freddy and Fern, neither man referred to the meeting. It was as though their silence on the matter was simply understood. And yet, until Freddy asked Milo about the saint who sold books, it never occurred to Milo that Freddy was deeply in love with Edwina Dare.
    Milo had simply answered, “St. John Port Latin is the saint you want.”
    “Thanks,” Freddy had said. He had clapped Milo across the shoulder, and they had gone back to join the others.
    That had been all there was to it.
    Now, Milo supposed, Freddy was somehow making it obvious to Gloria that he did not approve of her, making it obvious, undoubtedly, through Fern. It was a vote of confidence in Milo, but like all of them he had received in the past, it made Milo want to protect Glo, protect her even from his own inevitable pity.
    • • •
    He said nothing more to her. He walked from the living room with his sport coat hung across his shoulder, leaving her with Secora, thinking for the first time that day that he did not want any revenge, that, God help him, he was all she had, wasn’t he? The word Pitts came to mind, but he thought only of seedy old peach and olive pits, and of all things left-over and unwanted, things no one loved, and his anxiety and bitterness knew a respite in sadness and sympathy, which in fact had always been an asylum for him.

Seven
    Will began to be an obsession with her. When would they be alone together? Wasn’t she actually afraid of him? And the thought that she could be really afraid of any man made her tingle all over.
    — FROM
Population 12,360
    G LORIA reached into her frontier pants for her package of cigarettes. She lit one and blew smoke from her nostrils as she strode across to the picture window, feeling quite a lot like Bette Davis. Except for the stomach ache, another one of her damn nervous stomach aches. She could not forget Fern’s remark about Freddy being stuffy — the reason he was (how had she put it?) never “overly-fond of
you,
dear.” That’s rich, she thought, oh that
is
rich. Freddy Fulton stuffy!
    “And so,” she said as she stared out at the Japanese quince, “you want to be a writer, Stanley.” She sucked in smoke, turning then in a fast movement, facing him.
    Stanley Secora looked as though he were going to faint. Instead, he nodded. He was perspiring and his face was the color of a lobster. Gloria thought of the hero of Victor Hugo’s novel about Notre Dame — Quasimodo, the deaf, deformed, grotesque bell-ringer of the cathedral, who was in love with the beautiful Esmeralda.
    She said, “What have you written?”
    “A book. My war memories, Mrs. Wealdon.” He held out the manuscript box. A timid smile crossed his countenance. “Don’t be nervous, m’am.”
    “Nervous, Stanley?”
    “I’m sorry. I mean, I can’t thank you enough for giving up this time to read it.”
    “You mean read it right now?” She laughed. “I just can’t sit down and start to read it now.”
    She took the manuscript box and placed it on the end table. “I have a date for lunch.”
    Stanley fumbled in the pocket of his sweater jacket until he found the other box, the small one. “I brought you some candy.”
    “Is this a bribe? I
do
have a date for lunch.”
    She felt sorry for him, and irritated that she did.
    “Oh, it’s no bribe, Mrs. Wealdon. Oh no, m’am.” He shuffled his feet and held out the small box. “Coconut ice. Your favorite, I heard.”
    He had the top of the box off, and when he unfolded the tissue paper there were two pieces of candy.
    “Not now, Stanley. Put them by your manuscript.”
    “You don’t want any, Mrs. Wealdon?”
    “Not before lunch…. About the book, I’d be glad to read it. You’ll have to give me plenty of time.”
    “I made that candy myself, Mrs. Wealdon,” said Stanley, backing into a chair.
    “I appreciate it. Thank you. I’ll have it when I come home from lunch. For dessert. I really
do
have a lunch date, and I’m in a