place in the house to get comfortable was the bed, we’d ended up having our meeting there.
“Jack!” Chip sprinted off the duvet and came close to standing at attention. Despite the fact that he’d merely been sitting, fully clothed, at the foot of the bed, he blushed furiously.
“Hi, Jack.” Simon, who had been lounging on his stomach with his head in his hands, merely rolled to his side and gave a finger wave.
“You’re home early,” I said. I was sitting cross-legged with my back against the headboard.
“Apparently.” He came over and put his finger under my chin to tilt my face toward him. “Maybe I should come home early more often.” He kissed me.
“Maybe you shouldn’t leave in the first place,” I smiled.
He looked at Simon. “But then how would you get any work done?”
“There’s this new thing called a chair that I’ve heard is all the rage,” Simon told him. “I’ve been trying to convince Charley to try one out.”
“It’s a thought,” Jack said.
“Really, Jack,” Chip volunteered. “We were only talking…”
Jack turned to give him a friendly clap on the shoulder. “Really, Chip, if I thought anything different you’d be dead by now.”
Chip attempted a grin. It didn’t come out quite right.
“Oh, don’t be silly.” I eyed my husband. “Give us your opinion on these plays—would you rather spend the evening with an albino in a snowstorm who’s dealing with feelings of invisibility, or a young boy confronting his junior high angst against the backdrop of highly competitive slam poetry?”
Jack cleared his throat. “I think I’ll leave that to the professionals.”
I sighed. “This professional has had it.” I closed the last of the manuscripts and faced my director. “Chip, thanks for all your work, but there’s no way we’re putting on any of these next season.”
He nodded. “I thought you’d say that. I’ll send over the next batch in the morning. I’d have brought them with me, but the copier was down.” He perched on the bed again. “There’s one that I think has real possibilities. It’s about a logger and an environmentalist trapped in the crown of a redwood tree while—”
“Chip, old man.” Simon stood and stretched. “I’ve been kicked out of enough bedrooms in my sorry life to know when it’s time to make my exit.”
“Oh.” Chip seemed to realize something, then jumped off the bed again. “Oh! Okay. I’ll just…we’ll just…”
“We’ll just find our own way out.” Simon took him by the arm and led him to the door. “It’s called surrendering the playing field. You’ll get used to it.”
“’Bye, guys!” I called after them. Then I turned my attention to my husband. “Want to join me on the playing field?”
A speculative gleam appeared in his eye. “Always. But we don’t have time for anything but a warm-up if we’re going to be on time.”
“On time for what?” I stopped in mid pillow-plump.
“Dinner at Bix.”
“Oh!”
“With Harry.”
Oh.
Chapter Thirteen
I hadn’t forgotten another dinner with Uncle Harry. Apparently it was a spur-of-the-moment thing that he’d arranged with Jack that afternoon. Funny how he’d called Jack instead of me.
In any case, as I contemplated which pair of shoes to ruin on yet another rain-soaked night, I consoled myself with the thought that the choice of restaurant was just right for both the weather and my mood.
Bix is an old-school supper club, tucked away in an alley near the financial district, with dim lighting and good jazz in the background. The kind of place where you can imagine guys in fedoras smoking cigars and deciding among themselves who the next governor will be. The kind of place where the bartender really knows his stuff.
It was, I acknowledged, Harry’s kind of place.
***
I slammed the door and shook the rain out of my hair once I got in the car—a black Lexus SUV that we’d borrowed from Harry months ago and hadn’t gotten
“Jack!” Chip sprinted off the duvet and came close to standing at attention. Despite the fact that he’d merely been sitting, fully clothed, at the foot of the bed, he blushed furiously.
“Hi, Jack.” Simon, who had been lounging on his stomach with his head in his hands, merely rolled to his side and gave a finger wave.
“You’re home early,” I said. I was sitting cross-legged with my back against the headboard.
“Apparently.” He came over and put his finger under my chin to tilt my face toward him. “Maybe I should come home early more often.” He kissed me.
“Maybe you shouldn’t leave in the first place,” I smiled.
He looked at Simon. “But then how would you get any work done?”
“There’s this new thing called a chair that I’ve heard is all the rage,” Simon told him. “I’ve been trying to convince Charley to try one out.”
“It’s a thought,” Jack said.
“Really, Jack,” Chip volunteered. “We were only talking…”
Jack turned to give him a friendly clap on the shoulder. “Really, Chip, if I thought anything different you’d be dead by now.”
Chip attempted a grin. It didn’t come out quite right.
“Oh, don’t be silly.” I eyed my husband. “Give us your opinion on these plays—would you rather spend the evening with an albino in a snowstorm who’s dealing with feelings of invisibility, or a young boy confronting his junior high angst against the backdrop of highly competitive slam poetry?”
Jack cleared his throat. “I think I’ll leave that to the professionals.”
I sighed. “This professional has had it.” I closed the last of the manuscripts and faced my director. “Chip, thanks for all your work, but there’s no way we’re putting on any of these next season.”
He nodded. “I thought you’d say that. I’ll send over the next batch in the morning. I’d have brought them with me, but the copier was down.” He perched on the bed again. “There’s one that I think has real possibilities. It’s about a logger and an environmentalist trapped in the crown of a redwood tree while—”
“Chip, old man.” Simon stood and stretched. “I’ve been kicked out of enough bedrooms in my sorry life to know when it’s time to make my exit.”
“Oh.” Chip seemed to realize something, then jumped off the bed again. “Oh! Okay. I’ll just…we’ll just…”
“We’ll just find our own way out.” Simon took him by the arm and led him to the door. “It’s called surrendering the playing field. You’ll get used to it.”
“’Bye, guys!” I called after them. Then I turned my attention to my husband. “Want to join me on the playing field?”
A speculative gleam appeared in his eye. “Always. But we don’t have time for anything but a warm-up if we’re going to be on time.”
“On time for what?” I stopped in mid pillow-plump.
“Dinner at Bix.”
“Oh!”
“With Harry.”
Oh.
Chapter Thirteen
I hadn’t forgotten another dinner with Uncle Harry. Apparently it was a spur-of-the-moment thing that he’d arranged with Jack that afternoon. Funny how he’d called Jack instead of me.
In any case, as I contemplated which pair of shoes to ruin on yet another rain-soaked night, I consoled myself with the thought that the choice of restaurant was just right for both the weather and my mood.
Bix is an old-school supper club, tucked away in an alley near the financial district, with dim lighting and good jazz in the background. The kind of place where you can imagine guys in fedoras smoking cigars and deciding among themselves who the next governor will be. The kind of place where the bartender really knows his stuff.
It was, I acknowledged, Harry’s kind of place.
***
I slammed the door and shook the rain out of my hair once I got in the car—a black Lexus SUV that we’d borrowed from Harry months ago and hadn’t gotten
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