to be in the picture when it all comes tumbling down. I make a point of avoiding that part. I don’t want to see it, and I don’t have to. It’s in the fucking contract.”
Susan’s eyes got round. Emma glared into them. “I’m going to get dressed,” she said. “Give me five minutes, and we’ll sort this out.”
Susan nodded numbly. The Good Witch went into her bedroom and crashed around in her closet to find a long-sleeved T-shirt and velour track pants. She crashed around in her bathroom to brush her hair. When Emma returned to the living room, Susan was gone and she’d left a piece of paper on the couch. It read:
Emma,
You have obvious objections to working on my case. Consider it closed. Please write up a detailed report
of your encounters with Jeff Brag so that I might continue the investigation on my own. Send your
material to my office.
That is all,
Susan
Along with the note, Susan left a check for one thousand dollars.
Emma picked up the phone and called Susan’s home number. She left this message: “I just read your pink slip. Forget about a detailed report. You might be determined to bury yourself with this loser, but I’m not going to hand you the shovel. The next sound you hear is me ripping up your check.”
Emma hung up, put the pieces of the check in the trash, went into her bedroom, and assumed the fetal position on her soft white coverlet.
Sex had the power to turn otherwise coherent women into desperate maniacs. Susan behaved as if Jeff Bragg’s touch was food, water, and air. That she’d starve and suffocate without it. Emma hugged her knees, afraid for her friend’s sanity (and safety). She felt tired suddenly, weary. She closed her eyes.
And there was William Dearborn again, on the white couch, shirtless, shoeless, bangs grazing his long lashes. He was unfastening the buttons of his jeans, plunking them open one by one, revealing more of his flat belly, an inch at a time.
Then he looked up—right at her—and shouted, “What the hell are you waiting for?”
Chapter 13
T he entrance plaza to the Brooklyn Museum of Art had recently been redesigned to resemble the Louvre’s in Paris, although the glass and steel structure looked more like a hovering UFO than the French pyramid.
The renovation—millions of dollars and years in the making—was impressive, if bizarre, and Emma oohed and ahhed as she walked underneath it. She moved slowly, with the aid of a wooden cane. She pulled the mesh veil on her pillbox hat low to cover her rose-colored specs and to obscure the penciled-on crow’s feet and forehead creases. She gripped her cane and shuffled in orthopedic shoes to the revolving doors at the entryway.
Two cops stopped her. One held out a hand and said, “The Museum is closed to the public tonight, ma’am.”
“Isn’t there an exhibition?” she asked in her old lady voice.
“I need to see an invitation or check your name off the list,” said the black cop. He was short but wide with a mustache—and a clipboard.
Not again. Could one go nowhere in New York City unless her name was on a list? Emma formed an orange lipstick smile. She fished into her needlepoint purse for her wallet, extracting a laminated rectangle and waved it in their faces.
“This is my museum membership card,” she said. “I used a social security check to pay for a lifetime membership, and I want to see the Delado exhibit.”
The other cop, doughy and white, also mustachioed, said, “Not tonight, ma’am. The exhibit is open to the public tomorrow.”
Emma adjusted her velvet opera coat and said, “Lifetime membership! Says so on the card. And considering that my lifetime isn’t going to last much longer, I need to see this exhibit now.” She paused, laying on the schmaltz. “Would you treat your own mother this way?”
The black cop pursed his lips tight. Clearly, he would not treat his mother this way. “What’s the harm?” he asked his partner. To Emma he said, “Promise
Susan’s eyes got round. Emma glared into them. “I’m going to get dressed,” she said. “Give me five minutes, and we’ll sort this out.”
Susan nodded numbly. The Good Witch went into her bedroom and crashed around in her closet to find a long-sleeved T-shirt and velour track pants. She crashed around in her bathroom to brush her hair. When Emma returned to the living room, Susan was gone and she’d left a piece of paper on the couch. It read:
Emma,
You have obvious objections to working on my case. Consider it closed. Please write up a detailed report
of your encounters with Jeff Brag so that I might continue the investigation on my own. Send your
material to my office.
That is all,
Susan
Along with the note, Susan left a check for one thousand dollars.
Emma picked up the phone and called Susan’s home number. She left this message: “I just read your pink slip. Forget about a detailed report. You might be determined to bury yourself with this loser, but I’m not going to hand you the shovel. The next sound you hear is me ripping up your check.”
Emma hung up, put the pieces of the check in the trash, went into her bedroom, and assumed the fetal position on her soft white coverlet.
Sex had the power to turn otherwise coherent women into desperate maniacs. Susan behaved as if Jeff Bragg’s touch was food, water, and air. That she’d starve and suffocate without it. Emma hugged her knees, afraid for her friend’s sanity (and safety). She felt tired suddenly, weary. She closed her eyes.
And there was William Dearborn again, on the white couch, shirtless, shoeless, bangs grazing his long lashes. He was unfastening the buttons of his jeans, plunking them open one by one, revealing more of his flat belly, an inch at a time.
Then he looked up—right at her—and shouted, “What the hell are you waiting for?”
Chapter 13
T he entrance plaza to the Brooklyn Museum of Art had recently been redesigned to resemble the Louvre’s in Paris, although the glass and steel structure looked more like a hovering UFO than the French pyramid.
The renovation—millions of dollars and years in the making—was impressive, if bizarre, and Emma oohed and ahhed as she walked underneath it. She moved slowly, with the aid of a wooden cane. She pulled the mesh veil on her pillbox hat low to cover her rose-colored specs and to obscure the penciled-on crow’s feet and forehead creases. She gripped her cane and shuffled in orthopedic shoes to the revolving doors at the entryway.
Two cops stopped her. One held out a hand and said, “The Museum is closed to the public tonight, ma’am.”
“Isn’t there an exhibition?” she asked in her old lady voice.
“I need to see an invitation or check your name off the list,” said the black cop. He was short but wide with a mustache—and a clipboard.
Not again. Could one go nowhere in New York City unless her name was on a list? Emma formed an orange lipstick smile. She fished into her needlepoint purse for her wallet, extracting a laminated rectangle and waved it in their faces.
“This is my museum membership card,” she said. “I used a social security check to pay for a lifetime membership, and I want to see the Delado exhibit.”
The other cop, doughy and white, also mustachioed, said, “Not tonight, ma’am. The exhibit is open to the public tomorrow.”
Emma adjusted her velvet opera coat and said, “Lifetime membership! Says so on the card. And considering that my lifetime isn’t going to last much longer, I need to see this exhibit now.” She paused, laying on the schmaltz. “Would you treat your own mother this way?”
The black cop pursed his lips tight. Clearly, he would not treat his mother this way. “What’s the harm?” he asked his partner. To Emma he said, “Promise
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