interesting.
Art's waist had acquired several inches since age thirty-five, but nothing that rendered his belt line grotesque. He rummaged up some size-thirty shorts worn almost as soft as flannel, so old the tags had faded to complete blankness. They smelled not soiled, but old, unused. Dusty, like antique clothing. When Suzanne reached out for them, the towel tucked across her breasts unfurled, and Art snatched his gaze away so quickly and automatically that now he felt like a genuine fool.
He hadn't seen a thing, anyway.
He wondered where he'd left the party flyer he'd discovered in the mailbox yesterday morning. That made him recall Derek's cryptic postcard, which also proved that Derek had merely mailed a card, not shown up for an evening of hail-fellow-well-met drinking, dining, drinking, man talk, and drinking. Which led, inexorably, to the message in a bottle, with all its unnerving portent and signposts hinting at Art's potential for "diminished capacity.'' The day, the vague madness, had begun when he found the bottle. It was empty now, perched on the mantel, having spent a month in the sand and a year in the surf, or more, only to find its way here.
"You know Price?'' Suzanne had selected a spot close to the fire, and drifted directly to it, the sweats too big on her, but therefore warmer. She resembled a kid in jammies, feet and all.
"Price." Information scrolled in Art's head. No matches found.
"Price. I forget his last name. That's his house, down the beach from yours, past the place that looks haunted."
"The party house," said Art. "Does he know somebody named Michelle?"
"They're supposed to be married but I don't think they really are," said Suzanne. "God, Michelle is like… gorgeous. She's perfect. She's smart. She deserves better." Suzanne bugged her eyes slightly whenever referencing Michelle's bottomless list of attributes, every single one of which, apparently, was designed to make lesser beings give up in humiliation.
"She some kind of actress or model?"
"I don't think so." Suzanne genuinely did not know. "I think she's the sort of chick who turns down movies and modeling." She assumed a lotus position on the couch and planted the beer bottle between her heels. "Michelle is that rare and scary woman who always wins, and Price is the guy everybody wants to know. He's this big guy, used to be a biker, used to be a bodyguard, knows all the right numbers-who to call for the best drugs, who to call if you need a bullet pulled out of you with no hospital, that kind of borderline underworld shit."
"Friend of yours?"
"Not really. I mean, he was never like my boyfriend or anything. I went to his party because Dina went. Dina's my bud; I think she's sweet on Price, but fuck that, it's like: Get in line."
"What's the party for?"
"Bastille Day? Full moon? Cinco de Mayo? Who knows. Enough time passes, Price throws a party."
"Not around here."
"No, it's usually in a different place every time, and it's usually a lot closer to the city. I think he did this one to test who would actually make the drive. Weed out the hangers-on." She disappeared into introspection, just for a second, then ruefully added, "Yeah, that worked out like a dog turd in the champagne. Not you sweetie."
Blitz approached, head low, willing to sniff, probably doomed to make friends with dismaying speed.
The only-virtually sole-party Art had hosted in this house had been long ago. He and Lorelle had finagled nearly thirty-five friends into "making the drive" on Halloween, a workweek night, or "school night," as Lorelle liked to call them. Most had shown up in costume; fully half had lingered until dawn. They'd organized a huge Big Chill breakfast outside on the deck and turned the kitchen into a free-for-all. One guy (either Grant Chastain or Ernie Lawlor, from Art's old design firm) drove
Art's waist had acquired several inches since age thirty-five, but nothing that rendered his belt line grotesque. He rummaged up some size-thirty shorts worn almost as soft as flannel, so old the tags had faded to complete blankness. They smelled not soiled, but old, unused. Dusty, like antique clothing. When Suzanne reached out for them, the towel tucked across her breasts unfurled, and Art snatched his gaze away so quickly and automatically that now he felt like a genuine fool.
He hadn't seen a thing, anyway.
He wondered where he'd left the party flyer he'd discovered in the mailbox yesterday morning. That made him recall Derek's cryptic postcard, which also proved that Derek had merely mailed a card, not shown up for an evening of hail-fellow-well-met drinking, dining, drinking, man talk, and drinking. Which led, inexorably, to the message in a bottle, with all its unnerving portent and signposts hinting at Art's potential for "diminished capacity.'' The day, the vague madness, had begun when he found the bottle. It was empty now, perched on the mantel, having spent a month in the sand and a year in the surf, or more, only to find its way here.
"You know Price?'' Suzanne had selected a spot close to the fire, and drifted directly to it, the sweats too big on her, but therefore warmer. She resembled a kid in jammies, feet and all.
"Price." Information scrolled in Art's head. No matches found.
"Price. I forget his last name. That's his house, down the beach from yours, past the place that looks haunted."
"The party house," said Art. "Does he know somebody named Michelle?"
"They're supposed to be married but I don't think they really are," said Suzanne. "God, Michelle is like… gorgeous. She's perfect. She's smart. She deserves better." Suzanne bugged her eyes slightly whenever referencing Michelle's bottomless list of attributes, every single one of which, apparently, was designed to make lesser beings give up in humiliation.
"She some kind of actress or model?"
"I don't think so." Suzanne genuinely did not know. "I think she's the sort of chick who turns down movies and modeling." She assumed a lotus position on the couch and planted the beer bottle between her heels. "Michelle is that rare and scary woman who always wins, and Price is the guy everybody wants to know. He's this big guy, used to be a biker, used to be a bodyguard, knows all the right numbers-who to call for the best drugs, who to call if you need a bullet pulled out of you with no hospital, that kind of borderline underworld shit."
"Friend of yours?"
"Not really. I mean, he was never like my boyfriend or anything. I went to his party because Dina went. Dina's my bud; I think she's sweet on Price, but fuck that, it's like: Get in line."
"What's the party for?"
"Bastille Day? Full moon? Cinco de Mayo? Who knows. Enough time passes, Price throws a party."
"Not around here."
"No, it's usually in a different place every time, and it's usually a lot closer to the city. I think he did this one to test who would actually make the drive. Weed out the hangers-on." She disappeared into introspection, just for a second, then ruefully added, "Yeah, that worked out like a dog turd in the champagne. Not you sweetie."
Blitz approached, head low, willing to sniff, probably doomed to make friends with dismaying speed.
The only-virtually sole-party Art had hosted in this house had been long ago. He and Lorelle had finagled nearly thirty-five friends into "making the drive" on Halloween, a workweek night, or "school night," as Lorelle liked to call them. Most had shown up in costume; fully half had lingered until dawn. They'd organized a huge Big Chill breakfast outside on the deck and turned the kitchen into a free-for-all. One guy (either Grant Chastain or Ernie Lawlor, from Art's old design firm) drove
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