have gotten married.”
“Probably? Intriguing. What stopped them?”
He could have started down that bump-riddled road to a pretty good story, but the sight of Cat, gilded by the light that shimmered off the lake, had him sinking into the pillows with dreamy satisfaction. She looked like one of Degas’ bathers, all golds and irresistible pinks. He retrieved Cat’s phone from the jumbled bedding and snapped a quick photo. She turned at the sound of the old-fashioned shutter click and, with a clowning moue, held out her palm. Unapproved photos were not part of her contract. With a frown of his own, Benji surrendered the phone and said, “Your sister thinks we’re playing house.”
“I love my sister,” answered Cat, pausing as one does before equivocating the unequivocal, “but she can be a bitter, bitter pill.”
“She said you don’t know how lucky you are.”
“Because I’m not a waitress, right? I’m so lucky. What she calls luck, I call the death of my parents.” Cat gave Benji a dispirited smile and started on her elbows. “She acts like she doesn’t know where that money comes from. How did I pay for the BFA or the summerhouse or any of the other things she thinks I’m so lucky to have? The same way she paid for a Range Rover and two divorces. A big fucking insurance policy.”
Benji breathed deeply. The perfume of Cat’s soap and body lotion worked its way into his system, rocketing every available drop of blood between his legs. He felt light-headed, ashamed to be fully erect in such close proximity to Cat’s dead parents, but undeniably ready to fuck all the same. He folded his hands over his lap and did his best to look attentive and grave.
“She has dreams for me,” Cat went on. “Mama Rose dreams. Which makes me either June or Gypsy. It’s unclear which. I haven’t tried stripping yet.”
“If ever you want to practice.”
She gave him a quick, teasing kiss and hopped off the bed. Shimmying across the room, she danced an impromptu burlesque behind her towel before dropping it to the floor and stepping into a pair of striped cotton panties.
“Molly wanted to be an actor?”
“No, but she was always the one bound for the spotlight. Or so everyone thought. Or my dad, at least.”
“And what was Molly’s talent?”
“Resentment? She won the science fair one year, and that was it: she was going to be a doctor. Find the cure for cancer. That kind of thing.” Cat pulled on torn jeans and a fitted sweater with flared sleeves while she talked, then sized herself up in the standing mirror.
“She’s a rich biotech researcher. What does she have to complain about?”
“Her money’s pretty much gone. And she tells people she’s a biotech researcher. She’s an assistant, actually. She isn’t curing cancer. She’s watching bacteria bloom.” Cat ran a wand of colorless gloss over her lips and pressed them together, more or less satisfied with the result. “She told me she could have won the Nobel Prize if only my parents hadn’t died.”
“No pressure there.”
“Right? My parents’ dying is all she ever needed to explain why her life has been so—I don’t know what she’d call it. Ordinary.”
Benji understood completely where Molly was coming from but, because this was a fledgling nemesis they were talking about, felt compelled to set his camp on the other side of the fence. “Like winning the Nobel Prize is the only way of making a name for yourself.”
Cat turned to Benji with an arched brow. “Like you never feel that compulsion?”
“What?” he answered innocently. “I don’t want to win a Nobel Prize.”
“No, just all the other ones.” She batted her eyelashes and, with a southern accent, drawled, “If only I were famous.”
Benji supposed she meant to imitate him, but, seeing that he wasn’t gay or Blanche DuBois, he thought she fell short of the mark. “But you—you actually belong in a spotlight.”
“At least my sister thinks so. Which
“Probably? Intriguing. What stopped them?”
He could have started down that bump-riddled road to a pretty good story, but the sight of Cat, gilded by the light that shimmered off the lake, had him sinking into the pillows with dreamy satisfaction. She looked like one of Degas’ bathers, all golds and irresistible pinks. He retrieved Cat’s phone from the jumbled bedding and snapped a quick photo. She turned at the sound of the old-fashioned shutter click and, with a clowning moue, held out her palm. Unapproved photos were not part of her contract. With a frown of his own, Benji surrendered the phone and said, “Your sister thinks we’re playing house.”
“I love my sister,” answered Cat, pausing as one does before equivocating the unequivocal, “but she can be a bitter, bitter pill.”
“She said you don’t know how lucky you are.”
“Because I’m not a waitress, right? I’m so lucky. What she calls luck, I call the death of my parents.” Cat gave Benji a dispirited smile and started on her elbows. “She acts like she doesn’t know where that money comes from. How did I pay for the BFA or the summerhouse or any of the other things she thinks I’m so lucky to have? The same way she paid for a Range Rover and two divorces. A big fucking insurance policy.”
Benji breathed deeply. The perfume of Cat’s soap and body lotion worked its way into his system, rocketing every available drop of blood between his legs. He felt light-headed, ashamed to be fully erect in such close proximity to Cat’s dead parents, but undeniably ready to fuck all the same. He folded his hands over his lap and did his best to look attentive and grave.
“She has dreams for me,” Cat went on. “Mama Rose dreams. Which makes me either June or Gypsy. It’s unclear which. I haven’t tried stripping yet.”
“If ever you want to practice.”
She gave him a quick, teasing kiss and hopped off the bed. Shimmying across the room, she danced an impromptu burlesque behind her towel before dropping it to the floor and stepping into a pair of striped cotton panties.
“Molly wanted to be an actor?”
“No, but she was always the one bound for the spotlight. Or so everyone thought. Or my dad, at least.”
“And what was Molly’s talent?”
“Resentment? She won the science fair one year, and that was it: she was going to be a doctor. Find the cure for cancer. That kind of thing.” Cat pulled on torn jeans and a fitted sweater with flared sleeves while she talked, then sized herself up in the standing mirror.
“She’s a rich biotech researcher. What does she have to complain about?”
“Her money’s pretty much gone. And she tells people she’s a biotech researcher. She’s an assistant, actually. She isn’t curing cancer. She’s watching bacteria bloom.” Cat ran a wand of colorless gloss over her lips and pressed them together, more or less satisfied with the result. “She told me she could have won the Nobel Prize if only my parents hadn’t died.”
“No pressure there.”
“Right? My parents’ dying is all she ever needed to explain why her life has been so—I don’t know what she’d call it. Ordinary.”
Benji understood completely where Molly was coming from but, because this was a fledgling nemesis they were talking about, felt compelled to set his camp on the other side of the fence. “Like winning the Nobel Prize is the only way of making a name for yourself.”
Cat turned to Benji with an arched brow. “Like you never feel that compulsion?”
“What?” he answered innocently. “I don’t want to win a Nobel Prize.”
“No, just all the other ones.” She batted her eyelashes and, with a southern accent, drawled, “If only I were famous.”
Benji supposed she meant to imitate him, but, seeing that he wasn’t gay or Blanche DuBois, he thought she fell short of the mark. “But you—you actually belong in a spotlight.”
“At least my sister thinks so. Which
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