Free Jane Austen in Boca by Paula Marantz Cohen

well.”
    “I doubt that.”
    “Doubt all you please. It’s true.”
    “Then we’ll have to play again, so I can get the benefit of one of your few talents,” said Stan.
    “Perhaps,” said Flo archly. She was relieved to see Norman and May strolling toward them, and she raised her hand to urge them forward. Flo considered her match with Stan Jacobs effort expended in a good cause if it would assist the happiness of her friend. But having done her part in allowing May personal time with Norman, she now felt perfectly within her rights to head back to Boca Festa.
    “So how did the sparring partners do on the tennis courts?” called out Norman as he approached with May on his arm. “Looked to me like she was beating the pants off you.”
    “She did,” said Stan. “She’s a damn good player. You should have told me.” He directed this to May.
    “I’m afraid I don’t keep up with tennis,” May apologized.“But I could have told you that Flo does everything well.”
    “That’s not what she said,” said Stan. “She claims to have very few talents.”
    “Well,” said Flo, who felt the discussion had gone on long enough, “if you must know, I’ll give it to you succinctly: I play tennis, I read, I do the
Times
crossword in ink, I write a good letter, and I know the Dewey decimal system inside out. But that about covers it. Now, May here has a far more useful and extensive array of skills. She cooks and sews, she’s a sympathetic and tolerant mother, and an even better mother-in-law—quite an accomplishment under the circumstances; she’s an excellent and supportive friend, a superb bargain shopper, and she grows the best tomatoes I’ve ever eaten in a planter on the balcony of her condo, in direct violation of club rules—which I take to be a sign of healthy rebelliousness within the proper limits.”
    “Really?” said Norman to May. “I hope you’ll save some for me.”
    May blushed. “They’re just plum tomatoes. Nothing special. I like to garden, that’s all, and that’s about all I can do here, short of the flowers in the window boxes.”
    “I know what you mean,” said Norman. “We had friends who used to complain about it all the time. They used to say how much they envied Stan and Elsa. Stan’s an excellent gardener—his wife taught him, of course, like everything else he can do. He has a wonderful garden in his backyard, though it’s not what it was since Elsa died. She made the best rhubarb pie to boot.”
    “Strawberry-rhubarb,” said Stan softly.
    “Well, I hate to garden,” said Flo, “and I hate to cook.”
    “I never met a woman who hated to garden,” murmured Stan.
    “How exciting—now you have,” announced Flo, then turned abruptly. “May, we’ve got to get going. I can feel myself fading as we speak. All I need is to get behind a Lincoln TownCar going twenty miles an hour, and what with the lunch, the sun, and the tennis, I’ll be asleep behind the wheel and Norman will be saying kaddish for us.”
    “I wouldn’t like that,” said Norman.
    “Then let us go.” She turned for a moment to Stan and, extending her arm in a mock-dramatic gesture, declaimed, “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” Startled, he took her hand and seemed to be considering what to do with it when she removed it from his grasp, grabbed May, and strode off toward the Broken Arrow parking lot. The liveried attendants quickly brought their car. It was the Escort—Flo’s Volvo had overheated after the South Beach trip and was in the shop—and it looked like a poor relation among the imposing Lincolns, Lexuses, and Mercedes. An attendant helped them in and waved them through the iron-and-bronze-filigreed gate onto the highway.
    Norman and Stan stood where they had been left, looking after the two women. “Delightful!” Norman declared happily. Stan said nothing. It was unusual for Stan Jacobs not to make a summary comment, but Norman was too content to probe, and the two men sauntered