work on a new book soon. It should be a good place to write.”
“What kind of book?” Stuart said.
“Nonfiction.”
“What subject?”
“An in-depth study of Florida’s correctional system.”
“You mean prisons?”
Why didn’t Stuart just shut up and go to bed? Margo thought.
“Yes, but Florida’s not unique,” Andrew said, as if he needed to make Stuart understand. “The rest of the country has the same problems.”
“No shit,” Stuart said. Then he turned to her. “Say, Mother . . . Dad called. Michelle left one of her bathing suits at the beach house. Aliza just found it behind the bed. She said it was mildewed so she’s throwing it out.”
“Okay. Anyone else?”
“Yeah . . . some guy named Eric called. Said you met him over the summer in Chaco Canyon and he just wanted to say hello. He didn’t leave a number. Said he’d call again sometime when he’s in the neighborhood.”
Eric. That was all she needed now. “Okay . . . thanks.”
“Well . . .” Stuart said, balancing his sandwich and a glass of milk in one hand, “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” Margo said, relieved. “See you in the morning.”
“Goodnight,” Andrew said.
Margo loaded a tray with the coffee pot, the mugs and the dishes, the banana bread.
“Can I give you a hand with that?” Andrew asked.
“Yes, sure . . .” she said. He carried the tray into the living room and set it down on the coffee table. She turned the stereo to KBOD, classical, then joined Andrew on the sofa in front of the fireplace. It was too warm for a fire now, but in a month or so they’d have one every night. Oh, it would be so nice to share life again. To share it with a steady man. One who didn’t get up to go racing home at two a.m. One who slept with his arms around her every night.
Stop it! she warned herself.
“Nice kid,” Andrew said, bringing Margo back to reality.
“What?”
“Stuart . . . seems like a nice kid.”
“Last year at this time he would have just grunted at you. Now he reminds me of Freddy.”
“His father?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds like the standard fear of every ex-wife.”
“And ex-husband?”
“With us it was different.”
She waited to hear more, not sure that she wanted to know how it was between him and B.B., not sure that she didn’t.
Instead he said, “Tell me about your work.”
“There’s not that much to tell,” she said. She didn’t want to talk about her work tonight. She wanted the magic of the darkened movie theater. “I’m an architect,” she said, “with a special interest in solar design.”
“Where’d you go to school?”
“The first time, Boston U. . . . fine arts. I was an art teacher for a while, at Walden, in New York.”
“So what happened?”
“I don’t know. After ten years and two kids of my own I wanted a change. So I took a leave and went to Pratt. When I got my degree I went to work for a small firm in the city. Then, after Freddy and I split up, I decided to try Boulder. And here I am.”
“How long have you been divorced?”
“Five years. How about you?”
“Six. You didn’t know that?”
“No, why should I?”
“I don’t know. I assumed since you and Francine are friends . . . “
“Look, we’re friendly, but we’re not real friends. There’s a big difference.” Margo poured each of them a second cup of coffee. She wanted them to hurry up and get this business out of the way. Every time you met a new man it was the same thing. Tell me about your work. Where did you go to school. Divorce details. Problems with children. Every time. What a pain. “Just to set the record straight,” she said, “I don’t know anything about you, except that you write.”
“What do you want to know?” he asked, not giving her a chance to finish. She was about to tell him that she didn’t care. That he seemed like a nice person, an interesting person, a very attractive person and that under
“What kind of book?” Stuart said.
“Nonfiction.”
“What subject?”
“An in-depth study of Florida’s correctional system.”
“You mean prisons?”
Why didn’t Stuart just shut up and go to bed? Margo thought.
“Yes, but Florida’s not unique,” Andrew said, as if he needed to make Stuart understand. “The rest of the country has the same problems.”
“No shit,” Stuart said. Then he turned to her. “Say, Mother . . . Dad called. Michelle left one of her bathing suits at the beach house. Aliza just found it behind the bed. She said it was mildewed so she’s throwing it out.”
“Okay. Anyone else?”
“Yeah . . . some guy named Eric called. Said you met him over the summer in Chaco Canyon and he just wanted to say hello. He didn’t leave a number. Said he’d call again sometime when he’s in the neighborhood.”
Eric. That was all she needed now. “Okay . . . thanks.”
“Well . . .” Stuart said, balancing his sandwich and a glass of milk in one hand, “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” Margo said, relieved. “See you in the morning.”
“Goodnight,” Andrew said.
Margo loaded a tray with the coffee pot, the mugs and the dishes, the banana bread.
“Can I give you a hand with that?” Andrew asked.
“Yes, sure . . .” she said. He carried the tray into the living room and set it down on the coffee table. She turned the stereo to KBOD, classical, then joined Andrew on the sofa in front of the fireplace. It was too warm for a fire now, but in a month or so they’d have one every night. Oh, it would be so nice to share life again. To share it with a steady man. One who didn’t get up to go racing home at two a.m. One who slept with his arms around her every night.
Stop it! she warned herself.
“Nice kid,” Andrew said, bringing Margo back to reality.
“What?”
“Stuart . . . seems like a nice kid.”
“Last year at this time he would have just grunted at you. Now he reminds me of Freddy.”
“His father?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds like the standard fear of every ex-wife.”
“And ex-husband?”
“With us it was different.”
She waited to hear more, not sure that she wanted to know how it was between him and B.B., not sure that she didn’t.
Instead he said, “Tell me about your work.”
“There’s not that much to tell,” she said. She didn’t want to talk about her work tonight. She wanted the magic of the darkened movie theater. “I’m an architect,” she said, “with a special interest in solar design.”
“Where’d you go to school?”
“The first time, Boston U. . . . fine arts. I was an art teacher for a while, at Walden, in New York.”
“So what happened?”
“I don’t know. After ten years and two kids of my own I wanted a change. So I took a leave and went to Pratt. When I got my degree I went to work for a small firm in the city. Then, after Freddy and I split up, I decided to try Boulder. And here I am.”
“How long have you been divorced?”
“Five years. How about you?”
“Six. You didn’t know that?”
“No, why should I?”
“I don’t know. I assumed since you and Francine are friends . . . “
“Look, we’re friendly, but we’re not real friends. There’s a big difference.” Margo poured each of them a second cup of coffee. She wanted them to hurry up and get this business out of the way. Every time you met a new man it was the same thing. Tell me about your work. Where did you go to school. Divorce details. Problems with children. Every time. What a pain. “Just to set the record straight,” she said, “I don’t know anything about you, except that you write.”
“What do you want to know?” he asked, not giving her a chance to finish. She was about to tell him that she didn’t care. That he seemed like a nice person, an interesting person, a very attractive person and that under
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