dessert.
Back in the car, she said, "There's something I want to show you, Alex," and directed me west, to Nichols Canyon.
As I pulled up the driveway to the gray, pebble-roofed house, she said, "So what do you think, Doc?"
"Who lives here?"
"Yours truly."
"You're renting it?"
"No, it's mine!" She got out of the car and skipped to the front door.
I was surprised to find the house furnished, even more surprised by the dated, fifties look of the place. These were the days when organic was king: earth tones, homemade candles, and batiks.
All this aluminum and plastic, the flat, cold colors seemed declasse, cartoonish.
She glided around exuding pride of ownership, touching and straightening, pulled open drapes and exposed the wall of glass. The view made me forget the aluminium.
Not a student's pad by a long shot. I thought: an arrangement. Someone had set the place up for her. Someone old enough to have bought furniture in the fifties.
Kruse? She'd never really clarified their relationship___
"So what do you think, Doc?"
"Really something. How'd you swing it?"
She was in the kitchen, pouring 7-Up into two glasses. Pouting. "You don't like it."
"No, no, I do. It's fantastic."
"Your tone of voice tells me different, Alex."
"I was just wondering how you managed it. Financially."
She gave a theatrical glower and answered in a Mata Hari voice: "I haf secret life."
"Aha."
"Oh, Alex, don't be so glum. It's not as if I slept with anybody to get it."
That shook me. I said, "I wasn't implying you had."
Her grin was wicked. "But it did cross your mind, sweet prince."
Page 64
"Never." I looked out at the mountains. The sky was pale aqua above a horizon of pinkish brown. More fifties color-coordination.
"Nothing crossed my mind," I said. "I just wasn't prepared. I don't see or hear from you all summer—now this."
She handed me a soda, put her head on my shoulder.
"It's gorgeous," I said. "Not as gorgeous as you, but gorgeous. Enjoy it."
"Thank you, Alex. You're so sweet."
We stood there for a while, sipping. Then she unlatched the sliding door and we stepped out onto the terrace. Narrow, white space cantilevering over a sheer drop. Like stepping onto a cloud. The chalky smell of dry brush rose up from the canyons. In the distance was the HOLLYWOOD sign, sagging, splintering, a billboard for shattered dreams.
"There's a pool, too," she said. "Around the other side."
"Wanna skinny-dip?"
She smiled and leaned on the railing. I touched her hair, put my hand under her sweater and massaged her spine.
She made a contented sound, leaned against me, reached around and stroked my jaw.
"I guess I should explain," she said. "It's just that it's involved."
"I've got time," I said.
"Do you really?" she asked, suddenly excited. She turned around, held my face in her hands.
"You don't have to get back to the hospital right away?"
"Nothing but meetings until six. I'm due at the E.R. at eight."
"Great! We can sit here for a while and watch the sunset. Then I'll drive you back."
"You were going to explain," I reminded her.
But she'd already gone inside and turned on the stereo. Slow Brazilian music came on—gentle guitars and discreet percussion.
"Lead me," she said, back on the terrace. Snaking her arms around me. "In dancing the man's supposed to lead."
We swayed together, belly-to-belly, tongue-to-tongue. When the music ended she took my hand and led me through a short foyer into her bedroom.
More bleached, glass-topped furniture, a pole lamp, a low, wide bed with a square, bleached headboard. Above it two narrow high windows.
Page 65
She removed her shoes. As I kicked off mine I noticed something on the walls: crude, childish drawings of apples. Pencil and crayon on oatmeal-colored pulp paper. But glass-framed and expensively matted.
Odd, but I didn't spend much time wondering about it. She'd drawn blackout drapes across the windows, plunged the room into darkness. I smelled her perfume, felt her hand
Back in the car, she said, "There's something I want to show you, Alex," and directed me west, to Nichols Canyon.
As I pulled up the driveway to the gray, pebble-roofed house, she said, "So what do you think, Doc?"
"Who lives here?"
"Yours truly."
"You're renting it?"
"No, it's mine!" She got out of the car and skipped to the front door.
I was surprised to find the house furnished, even more surprised by the dated, fifties look of the place. These were the days when organic was king: earth tones, homemade candles, and batiks.
All this aluminum and plastic, the flat, cold colors seemed declasse, cartoonish.
She glided around exuding pride of ownership, touching and straightening, pulled open drapes and exposed the wall of glass. The view made me forget the aluminium.
Not a student's pad by a long shot. I thought: an arrangement. Someone had set the place up for her. Someone old enough to have bought furniture in the fifties.
Kruse? She'd never really clarified their relationship___
"So what do you think, Doc?"
"Really something. How'd you swing it?"
She was in the kitchen, pouring 7-Up into two glasses. Pouting. "You don't like it."
"No, no, I do. It's fantastic."
"Your tone of voice tells me different, Alex."
"I was just wondering how you managed it. Financially."
She gave a theatrical glower and answered in a Mata Hari voice: "I haf secret life."
"Aha."
"Oh, Alex, don't be so glum. It's not as if I slept with anybody to get it."
That shook me. I said, "I wasn't implying you had."
Her grin was wicked. "But it did cross your mind, sweet prince."
Page 64
"Never." I looked out at the mountains. The sky was pale aqua above a horizon of pinkish brown. More fifties color-coordination.
"Nothing crossed my mind," I said. "I just wasn't prepared. I don't see or hear from you all summer—now this."
She handed me a soda, put her head on my shoulder.
"It's gorgeous," I said. "Not as gorgeous as you, but gorgeous. Enjoy it."
"Thank you, Alex. You're so sweet."
We stood there for a while, sipping. Then she unlatched the sliding door and we stepped out onto the terrace. Narrow, white space cantilevering over a sheer drop. Like stepping onto a cloud. The chalky smell of dry brush rose up from the canyons. In the distance was the HOLLYWOOD sign, sagging, splintering, a billboard for shattered dreams.
"There's a pool, too," she said. "Around the other side."
"Wanna skinny-dip?"
She smiled and leaned on the railing. I touched her hair, put my hand under her sweater and massaged her spine.
She made a contented sound, leaned against me, reached around and stroked my jaw.
"I guess I should explain," she said. "It's just that it's involved."
"I've got time," I said.
"Do you really?" she asked, suddenly excited. She turned around, held my face in her hands.
"You don't have to get back to the hospital right away?"
"Nothing but meetings until six. I'm due at the E.R. at eight."
"Great! We can sit here for a while and watch the sunset. Then I'll drive you back."
"You were going to explain," I reminded her.
But she'd already gone inside and turned on the stereo. Slow Brazilian music came on—gentle guitars and discreet percussion.
"Lead me," she said, back on the terrace. Snaking her arms around me. "In dancing the man's supposed to lead."
We swayed together, belly-to-belly, tongue-to-tongue. When the music ended she took my hand and led me through a short foyer into her bedroom.
More bleached, glass-topped furniture, a pole lamp, a low, wide bed with a square, bleached headboard. Above it two narrow high windows.
Page 65
She removed her shoes. As I kicked off mine I noticed something on the walls: crude, childish drawings of apples. Pencil and crayon on oatmeal-colored pulp paper. But glass-framed and expensively matted.
Odd, but I didn't spend much time wondering about it. She'd drawn blackout drapes across the windows, plunged the room into darkness. I smelled her perfume, felt her hand
Similar Books
