Getting Some Of Her Own by Gwynne Forster

toasted two bagels. She set the kitchen table and looked at Cassie. “I hope you don’t mind eating in the kitchen.”
    â€œI’m lucky that I’m getting coffee, not to speak of a hot meal. Kix only had orange juice. He usually cooks breakfast for me before he goes to the restaurant. He spoils me, you know.”
    â€œHow long have you two been married, Cassie?”
    â€œEight years. I can hardly believe it.”
    â€œAnd no children yet?”
    Cassie’s fair skin bloomed from a rush of blood, and Susan suspected that she had pushed the wrong button. She became more certain of it when Cassie said, “Don’t ever ask that question around Kix. I don’t know why it is that men think fatherhood is the only way to prove their masculinity. Seems to me that being able to take a woman to bed practically every night ought to be proof enough.”
    To Susan, that sounded like bragging. “I thought most women wanted children, too,” Susan said. “But . . .” She flexed her right shoulder in a shrug. “Different strokes for different folks. Do you work away from home, Cassie?” she asked in the hope of changing the subject.
    â€œI certainly do. I’m a graphic artist at Cutting Edge Stationers and Engravers.”
    â€œOf course. Jay said you designed his logo and stationery. I’m going to need some stationery and maybe a logo. Where’s Cutting Edge Stationers and Engravers?”
    â€œA block and a half from the Rose Hill School on Fourth Street East. You can’t miss it. I’m on the second floor. I’d better be going. Thanks for storing my groceries and especially for breakfast. I’m going to speak to Kix about a generator this very night.”
    Cassie left without mentioning the possibility of their getting together socially. “If she doesn’t want to be friends, it’s no skin off my teeth,” Susan said to herself. She straightened up the kitchen, phoned her supplier in New York City and ordered what she needed for her shop. Then, she sat in her living room, studying it to decide the changes that she would eventually make.
    A phone call from Cassie was the last thing she expected. “Hello, Susan, this is Cassandra Hairston-Shepherd.” Why did the woman insist on presenting herself as if she were royalty, or a trumpeter heralding the arrival of a sovereign? “Kix wants us to get together as soon as we get electricity. So please come, and do bring your SO. Uh . . . he said we’re due to have electricity by tomorrow morning. He’s off on Mondays, so how about Monday around six for drinks and snacks?”
    In other words, Susan thought, come for an hour and a half, and be sure to bring a man. Suppose she didn’t have a significant other? “I’ll have to check, Cassie, and call you later. Sounds like a great idea. Thanks.” Maybe she bared her teeth; she wasn’t sure. One thing, though; she didn’t like that kind of sloppy invitation. She could be wrong, but she had a feeling that Kix had urged Cassie to make friends with her neighbor.
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    Susan had guessed correctly. Cassie did not relish the company of women, and especially not good-looking, independent-minded, career women. “Why is Kix so anxious for us to make friends with her?” she asked Drogan, her brother. “We’ll get to know her eventually, and that’s good enough for me. I don’t buddy-buddy with women.”
    â€œMaybe he’s hoping some of her femininity will rub off on you.”
    â€œAs usual, you’re a big help.”
    At six o’clock, dressed in her elegant, black velvet cocktail suit, Cassie drove to Gourmet Corner to meet Kix. The waiter led her to a small private dining room, the table of which contained a large vase of tea roses, her favorite flower and, within a few minutes, Kix joined her. She appreciated that he’d dressed in an oxford gray pinstriped