Sedalia Grill is generated by coal-fired turbines, another unscrupulous waste of fossil fuel!”
I had to hand it to her, she had her consumption of the Earth’s resources spot-on. I began to wonder if she had,
in fact, adopted a low-impact lifestyle and wasn’t just freeloading off of a rich man. Was every last cosmetic in the case she was carrying environmentally friendly? Or was there a little petrolatum hiding in one of her tubes or jars? I said, “I hate to tell you, but the resins in the Fiberglas your cart is made out of probably came out of an oil well.”
Gilda opened her mouth to deliver additional invective, but she hung fire in mid-curse, her eyes going blank with thought. Suddenly her brow unkinked and her cosseted lips softened into an O. In the blink of an eye, her manner changed from shrewish to polite, even winsome. Fetching. Coquettish. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Why don’t I just ride with you to Salt Lake City in your airplane?”
Michele said, “I flew commercially. It’s Em here that came by private plane.”
Without missing a beat, Gilda turned and focused her charm on me. “Oh, then can I hitch a ride to Salt Lake City with you?”
I glanced at Michele, hoping for a cue as to how she wanted me to play this. “I, uh … don’t own the airplane. I was flying a charter, see, and—”
Gilda’s charm evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. “Then just into town will have to do. Unless you’re going as far as Denver, in which case you can drop me there. Shall we go?”
It was Michele’s turn to put on a winning smile. “What do you need in Salt Lake City?” she inquired. “Perhaps I can save you the trip.”
Gilda gave her a “You dummy” look, then quickly transformed it into one of bereavement. “The sad task I must do can only be done by me,” she said. “You see”—she paused for dramatic emphasis—“I have to claim my husband’s body.”
Michele said cheerily, “I didn’t realize you and Dr. McWain were married.”
Gilda raised her chin regally. “Common law, my dear. We were man and wife under Colorado common law. Now, will you be so kind as to give me a ride to town … from my ranch?”
EIGHT
MARY ANN NETTLETON DROVE DOWN THE ROAD IN search of retribution. None of the men she had telephoned had returned her calls, and that made her angry, and that anger was now all mixed up in the anger she felt about her well going dry.
If they couldn’t return her calls, she would pay calls on them.
She would go first to Hugo Attabury, the real-estate agent who had helped her and her dear Henry purchase the now waterless property, and, if she didn’t get the answers she needed from him, she’d go to Todd Upton, the real-estate lawyer, and if that did not bear fruit, she would visit her banker, Wayne Entwhistle, at Castle Rock Savings and Loan. She did not know much about how these things worked—that had always been dear, departed Henry’s domain—but it seemed reasonable to her that a purchase as expensive as real estate should come with some sort of guarantee, and if that guarantee was not backed by the real-estate agent who showed them the property and helped them sign all those papers that tied up their life’s savings to
purchase it, why then, a lawyer could tell her who was responsible, and if the lawyer was no help, then surely the banker would understand that it was in his interest as much as hers that she be able to maintain the value of the property. Thirty thousand dollars to drill a well—ridiculous! She needed every penny she had just to make the payments on the mortgage!
Mary Ann hit the button to raise the windows of her SUV now that the air-conditioning unit had blown out the cauldron of hot air that had formed in it as it stood waiting for her in front of the garage with its windows up. The world around her receded as her rolling bubble of separation enveloped her with its steel- and vinyl-encrusted sense of well-being. She made
I had to hand it to her, she had her consumption of the Earth’s resources spot-on. I began to wonder if she had,
in fact, adopted a low-impact lifestyle and wasn’t just freeloading off of a rich man. Was every last cosmetic in the case she was carrying environmentally friendly? Or was there a little petrolatum hiding in one of her tubes or jars? I said, “I hate to tell you, but the resins in the Fiberglas your cart is made out of probably came out of an oil well.”
Gilda opened her mouth to deliver additional invective, but she hung fire in mid-curse, her eyes going blank with thought. Suddenly her brow unkinked and her cosseted lips softened into an O. In the blink of an eye, her manner changed from shrewish to polite, even winsome. Fetching. Coquettish. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Why don’t I just ride with you to Salt Lake City in your airplane?”
Michele said, “I flew commercially. It’s Em here that came by private plane.”
Without missing a beat, Gilda turned and focused her charm on me. “Oh, then can I hitch a ride to Salt Lake City with you?”
I glanced at Michele, hoping for a cue as to how she wanted me to play this. “I, uh … don’t own the airplane. I was flying a charter, see, and—”
Gilda’s charm evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. “Then just into town will have to do. Unless you’re going as far as Denver, in which case you can drop me there. Shall we go?”
It was Michele’s turn to put on a winning smile. “What do you need in Salt Lake City?” she inquired. “Perhaps I can save you the trip.”
Gilda gave her a “You dummy” look, then quickly transformed it into one of bereavement. “The sad task I must do can only be done by me,” she said. “You see”—she paused for dramatic emphasis—“I have to claim my husband’s body.”
Michele said cheerily, “I didn’t realize you and Dr. McWain were married.”
Gilda raised her chin regally. “Common law, my dear. We were man and wife under Colorado common law. Now, will you be so kind as to give me a ride to town … from my ranch?”
EIGHT
MARY ANN NETTLETON DROVE DOWN THE ROAD IN search of retribution. None of the men she had telephoned had returned her calls, and that made her angry, and that anger was now all mixed up in the anger she felt about her well going dry.
If they couldn’t return her calls, she would pay calls on them.
She would go first to Hugo Attabury, the real-estate agent who had helped her and her dear Henry purchase the now waterless property, and, if she didn’t get the answers she needed from him, she’d go to Todd Upton, the real-estate lawyer, and if that did not bear fruit, she would visit her banker, Wayne Entwhistle, at Castle Rock Savings and Loan. She did not know much about how these things worked—that had always been dear, departed Henry’s domain—but it seemed reasonable to her that a purchase as expensive as real estate should come with some sort of guarantee, and if that guarantee was not backed by the real-estate agent who showed them the property and helped them sign all those papers that tied up their life’s savings to
purchase it, why then, a lawyer could tell her who was responsible, and if the lawyer was no help, then surely the banker would understand that it was in his interest as much as hers that she be able to maintain the value of the property. Thirty thousand dollars to drill a well—ridiculous! She needed every penny she had just to make the payments on the mortgage!
Mary Ann hit the button to raise the windows of her SUV now that the air-conditioning unit had blown out the cauldron of hot air that had formed in it as it stood waiting for her in front of the garage with its windows up. The world around her receded as her rolling bubble of separation enveloped her with its steel- and vinyl-encrusted sense of well-being. She made
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