woman Michael had been seeing for some
months.
"So how's Laura these days?" He tossed the
question over his shoulder, then turned for the answer. "How come
you didn't rope her into this drudge work?"
The brush in Michael's hand went still. "I
believe Laura's doing very well."
Paul pivoted to face him. "You believe?"
"She moved to California at the end of last
month."
"Why?"
"She had an offer for a better position in a
senator's office there. Joan gave her a great recommendation,
so—"
"Don't give me that bull. What happened?"
At the rawness of the question, Michael
rocked back on his haunches, turned his head. The surprise in his
eyes quickly gave way to a delving, measuring look. That look had
always bothered Paul, because he never knew what Michael Dickinson
might pull out of him in such moments.
"We couldn't give each other what we both
wanted." Michael spoke with measured reluctance.
"What was that?"
"Forever."
The word was like a spark to Paul's
smoldering mood. "What's so almighty wonderful about forever?
Settling down, getting married, having a family, is that what
you're talking about? Why does everybody harp on that? What—"
He snapped the words off when the look in
Michael's eyes hit home. He should have remembered that Michael's
past had given him a different view of this subject.
"Paul, you take it for granted, and you
shouldn't. Family and stability—that's pretty damn rare, you
know."
"Stability,' Paul repeated with disdain.
"Yeah, so stable that at the age of twelve your life's mapped out
for you. Just follow the step-by-step instructions and you'll turn
out to be the perfect family clone."
"You haven't done so badly in the
individualism department, Monroe."
Paul dropped the roller into the pan, not
caring about the spatters on the drop cloth, and took a deep breath
of the cool air. "I'm not going to let my life be run by somebody
else's rules, Michael. Not ever."
Michael said nothing. After a while, Paul
heard him return to painting and Paul took up the roller, though he
found less pleasure in it. The silence had changed.
"Who is she, Paul?"
"Who's who?" Michael didn't bother to answer
that, and Paul felt foolish for the evasion. "Bette. Bette
Wharton."
"And?" Michael prompted.
"And not much. Grand total of three dinners
and a few kisses." He felt no guilt at the understatement. "We went
out last Wednesday, Thursday and Sunday. Things seemed to click.
Then she avoided me Monday and Tuesday, said no Wednesday and
resumed avoiding me Thursday."
"What about Friday and today?"
"She wasn't around Friday and today."
"Ah."
"Ah what? What's 'ah' mean?" Irritation
spurted sharp and hot.
"What do you do when a woman turns down a
date?"
"Forget her, because . . . " He broke off the
familiar words. He'd said them to Michael and Grady maybe two
thousand times over the past fifteen years. Forget her, because
there're plenty who'll say yes.
"Yet, this woman you keep asking.
That's why 'ah.' "
Paul loaded paint on the roller and slapped
it against the wall, then had to roll like crazy to remedy the
drips, splotches and spatters. He was short on breath by the time
he re-wetted the roller, this time more cautiously.
"You've got another session at the
Smithsonian coming up, don't you?" Michael asked from behind him.
From the sound of it, he'd continued painting, too.
"Yeah."
"Made any decision about taking up the offer
to be a regular consultant?"
They were all after him about the damn
museum—Jan, his father, Michael. Bette would join them if she found
out about the opportunity. It was the sort of thing that would
appeal to her plan-ahead mind. Probably tell him what a step
forward this could he. If he were stupid enough to invite the
lectures by telling her. . . if he ever had the opportunity to be
that stupid, if he ever saw her again.
"No."
"All right, all right, don't bark at me. I'm
not the one inconsiderate enough to give you a flattering
offer."
"Shut up, Dickinson."
"All
months.
"So how's Laura these days?" He tossed the
question over his shoulder, then turned for the answer. "How come
you didn't rope her into this drudge work?"
The brush in Michael's hand went still. "I
believe Laura's doing very well."
Paul pivoted to face him. "You believe?"
"She moved to California at the end of last
month."
"Why?"
"She had an offer for a better position in a
senator's office there. Joan gave her a great recommendation,
so—"
"Don't give me that bull. What happened?"
At the rawness of the question, Michael
rocked back on his haunches, turned his head. The surprise in his
eyes quickly gave way to a delving, measuring look. That look had
always bothered Paul, because he never knew what Michael Dickinson
might pull out of him in such moments.
"We couldn't give each other what we both
wanted." Michael spoke with measured reluctance.
"What was that?"
"Forever."
The word was like a spark to Paul's
smoldering mood. "What's so almighty wonderful about forever?
Settling down, getting married, having a family, is that what
you're talking about? Why does everybody harp on that? What—"
He snapped the words off when the look in
Michael's eyes hit home. He should have remembered that Michael's
past had given him a different view of this subject.
"Paul, you take it for granted, and you
shouldn't. Family and stability—that's pretty damn rare, you
know."
"Stability,' Paul repeated with disdain.
"Yeah, so stable that at the age of twelve your life's mapped out
for you. Just follow the step-by-step instructions and you'll turn
out to be the perfect family clone."
"You haven't done so badly in the
individualism department, Monroe."
Paul dropped the roller into the pan, not
caring about the spatters on the drop cloth, and took a deep breath
of the cool air. "I'm not going to let my life be run by somebody
else's rules, Michael. Not ever."
Michael said nothing. After a while, Paul
heard him return to painting and Paul took up the roller, though he
found less pleasure in it. The silence had changed.
"Who is she, Paul?"
"Who's who?" Michael didn't bother to answer
that, and Paul felt foolish for the evasion. "Bette. Bette
Wharton."
"And?" Michael prompted.
"And not much. Grand total of three dinners
and a few kisses." He felt no guilt at the understatement. "We went
out last Wednesday, Thursday and Sunday. Things seemed to click.
Then she avoided me Monday and Tuesday, said no Wednesday and
resumed avoiding me Thursday."
"What about Friday and today?"
"She wasn't around Friday and today."
"Ah."
"Ah what? What's 'ah' mean?" Irritation
spurted sharp and hot.
"What do you do when a woman turns down a
date?"
"Forget her, because . . . " He broke off the
familiar words. He'd said them to Michael and Grady maybe two
thousand times over the past fifteen years. Forget her, because
there're plenty who'll say yes.
"Yet, this woman you keep asking.
That's why 'ah.' "
Paul loaded paint on the roller and slapped
it against the wall, then had to roll like crazy to remedy the
drips, splotches and spatters. He was short on breath by the time
he re-wetted the roller, this time more cautiously.
"You've got another session at the
Smithsonian coming up, don't you?" Michael asked from behind him.
From the sound of it, he'd continued painting, too.
"Yeah."
"Made any decision about taking up the offer
to be a regular consultant?"
They were all after him about the damn
museum—Jan, his father, Michael. Bette would join them if she found
out about the opportunity. It was the sort of thing that would
appeal to her plan-ahead mind. Probably tell him what a step
forward this could he. If he were stupid enough to invite the
lectures by telling her. . . if he ever had the opportunity to be
that stupid, if he ever saw her again.
"No."
"All right, all right, don't bark at me. I'm
not the one inconsiderate enough to give you a flattering
offer."
"Shut up, Dickinson."
"All
Similar Books
