Hildon were lovers—it was hardly to the point—so wasn’t she calling just tomake cool, pretty, talented Lucy, who had a handsome, interesting lover—squirm? It was one of the perks of the job.
First Lucy’s line had been busy, then there was no answer. Her own phone rang. It was her friend Mary, inviting her to a party that night. She had been seeing a man named Timothy Cooper. The party was at his mansion. He was inviting people his wife didn’t know, and she was inviting people he didn’t know. Myra wouldn’t be embarrassed, because it was going to be a large crowd, and each would think the other had invited her.
Mary hadn’t seen the house, but she had heard it was fabulous. She begged Myra to go with her. Myra was sure that Mary was just being nice; Mary knew she spent a lot of time alone and she often invited her to go along to things with her. The house sounded so interesting that she was tempted to go just to see it. Mary kept after her. Myra said she’d go. After living here for a year, Myra had very little sense of what the community was like. Probably, since there was so much money around this area, there were many enclaves like the one she was going to visit. Mary had a way of meeting men and getting around, but Myra had a dull life and lived for the day when she could move back to Boston. The men she met were taken not once, but twice; they all had wives and lovers. Myra had been her journalism professor’s lover in Boston. He had agonized—ostensibly—about whether or not to leave his wife and daughter. He had even o.d.’d on sleeping pills when Myra said she wouldn’t see him until he decided. And then she had found someone else. But her new boyfriend left Boston, and although they planned to get together before she left for Vermont, they never did. For months when she first moved to town she had not seen anyone, and then she had gone out a few times with a guy who played in a band. She didn’t really care about him, and she hadn’t seen him for more than a month. The only person who had asked her out in that month was Cameron Petrus. She didn’t think he was attractive, and lied that she was involved with somebody. She had coffee with him (he had ginseng tea), and he told her about his heart attack. He sounded like the weatherman narrating an electrical storm. The wholething depressed her so much that she reread her ex-professor’s letters and thought about writing him—but what good would that do? He was never going to give up what he had. Her best friend had just married a man who made driftwood coffee tables. She tried not to think about it. If you couldn’t ignore things, making a joke seemed a feasible alternative. She couldn’t have agreed more with the
Country Daze
philosophy.
She wasn’t in the mood for a party. She poured a shot of Jack Daniels and drank it while she watched the evening news. She decided to wear her 1940s dress: navy-blue, with bouquets of carnations and ribbons floating across the rayon. She put on her high heels. She brushed her hair and made a knot with part of it at the nape of her neck. Her mouth was still sticky when she put on lipstick. She thought that she smelled like a bourbon factory, but since she had already put on her lipstick, she didn’t want to brush her teeth. She sprayed on perfume. She put on a rhinestone bracelet she had bought at the Ben Franklin. If Mary hadn’t pulled into her drive, she would have had another drink.
Mary was in such a good mood, it was almost contagious. Procol Harum was singing “Whiter Shade of Pale” on the radio. The car, a Datsun 280 ZX, had been part of her divorce settlement. She had also gotten the country house, in Bristol. In the winter she went back to Boston, where she restored paintings at the Museum of Fine Arts and was studying Raku pottery. It was no wonder that men found her more interesting to talk to than Myra. Myra was exactly Mary’s age, but she felt younger. Older, actually. She was just
First Lucy’s line had been busy, then there was no answer. Her own phone rang. It was her friend Mary, inviting her to a party that night. She had been seeing a man named Timothy Cooper. The party was at his mansion. He was inviting people his wife didn’t know, and she was inviting people he didn’t know. Myra wouldn’t be embarrassed, because it was going to be a large crowd, and each would think the other had invited her.
Mary hadn’t seen the house, but she had heard it was fabulous. She begged Myra to go with her. Myra was sure that Mary was just being nice; Mary knew she spent a lot of time alone and she often invited her to go along to things with her. The house sounded so interesting that she was tempted to go just to see it. Mary kept after her. Myra said she’d go. After living here for a year, Myra had very little sense of what the community was like. Probably, since there was so much money around this area, there were many enclaves like the one she was going to visit. Mary had a way of meeting men and getting around, but Myra had a dull life and lived for the day when she could move back to Boston. The men she met were taken not once, but twice; they all had wives and lovers. Myra had been her journalism professor’s lover in Boston. He had agonized—ostensibly—about whether or not to leave his wife and daughter. He had even o.d.’d on sleeping pills when Myra said she wouldn’t see him until he decided. And then she had found someone else. But her new boyfriend left Boston, and although they planned to get together before she left for Vermont, they never did. For months when she first moved to town she had not seen anyone, and then she had gone out a few times with a guy who played in a band. She didn’t really care about him, and she hadn’t seen him for more than a month. The only person who had asked her out in that month was Cameron Petrus. She didn’t think he was attractive, and lied that she was involved with somebody. She had coffee with him (he had ginseng tea), and he told her about his heart attack. He sounded like the weatherman narrating an electrical storm. The wholething depressed her so much that she reread her ex-professor’s letters and thought about writing him—but what good would that do? He was never going to give up what he had. Her best friend had just married a man who made driftwood coffee tables. She tried not to think about it. If you couldn’t ignore things, making a joke seemed a feasible alternative. She couldn’t have agreed more with the
Country Daze
philosophy.
She wasn’t in the mood for a party. She poured a shot of Jack Daniels and drank it while she watched the evening news. She decided to wear her 1940s dress: navy-blue, with bouquets of carnations and ribbons floating across the rayon. She put on her high heels. She brushed her hair and made a knot with part of it at the nape of her neck. Her mouth was still sticky when she put on lipstick. She thought that she smelled like a bourbon factory, but since she had already put on her lipstick, she didn’t want to brush her teeth. She sprayed on perfume. She put on a rhinestone bracelet she had bought at the Ben Franklin. If Mary hadn’t pulled into her drive, she would have had another drink.
Mary was in such a good mood, it was almost contagious. Procol Harum was singing “Whiter Shade of Pale” on the radio. The car, a Datsun 280 ZX, had been part of her divorce settlement. She had also gotten the country house, in Bristol. In the winter she went back to Boston, where she restored paintings at the Museum of Fine Arts and was studying Raku pottery. It was no wonder that men found her more interesting to talk to than Myra. Myra was exactly Mary’s age, but she felt younger. Older, actually. She was just
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