him.
"How are you, Sandy." She touched his face, a drunken, excessive gesture. "We think so much about you." Already he had taken up certain inscrutable mannerisms in response. He had always been good at this, wordless flexing of the brow to suggest complex feelings. Now his look was more pinched, more allusive of pain.
"I am as well as could be expected, Fiona. Is Nate about for just a moment? I was hoping to have a word with him." A personal appearance, Stern had decided, might catch Nate's attention. After hearing from Cal, Stern was determined to be more direct in attempting to unravel Clara's knotted affairs.
"Hasn't he called you? I gave him the message twenty times.
Well, he's out for the evening, Sandy, but stay for a second.-Have a drink with me. There's something I wanted to ask you about. I'm glad you're here."
Without awaiting an answer, she walked halfway down the hall to drive the dog back to the kitchen. Fiona was one of those people who always got what they wanted. She'd given him no chance to make an excuse.
For nineteen years, the Sterns had lived beside the Cawleys. They had watched the Cawleys' modern ranch go through three separate expansions, so that it now wore a somewhat awkward-looking second story, resembling a small top hat on a large-headed man. They had witnessed the coming of age of 'the Cawley children, both of whom were now in college.
They had enjoyed weekend conversations over the fence; an occasional drink or barbecue; two decades of holding mail and exchanging garden tools--but the Cawleys as a couple, like many others, were treated with reserve. Years before, with the retirement of the obstetrician who had delivered the Sterns' children, Clara had begun to visit Nate as her gynecologist and principal physician. In an emergency--a fall from a tree, a minor infection--he was the unofficial medical adviser to the entire family. Somehow, this professional relationship suited the Sterns well, since it offered a diplomatic means of enjoying Nate without Fiona.
As a doctor, he was knowledgeable, relaxed, and affable; at home, he was apt to be overwhelmed by his wife.. Younger, Fiona had no doubt been a greatbeauty, and she was still a fine-looking woman, handsomely slender, with arresting light eyes that were almost yellow. But she was, in a phrase, hard to take: nervous, high-pitched, forever striving, striving.
Fiona nursed a hothouse conservatory of internal competitions and visible resentments. A good person to avoid.
"Highball?" Fiona asked now.
Stern put himself down on a love seat upholstered in a fabric of peonies. The Cawleys' living room was decorated in what Stern took to be Irish modern fashion, a selfconscious upgrading of American colonial style. The rooms were crowded with dark tables and commodes, most of the 'Pieces beset with shawls of lace. Fiona occupied herself in a small adjoining den, where she'd set up a tea cart with booze. She drank in elegance; the liquor was in cutglass snifters, and a large sterling-silver ice bucket had been set down like a centerpiece.
"Some dry sherry, if it is there, Fiona. On a cube of ice.
I really must do some work this evening."
"Work?" she asked. "Already? Sandy, you should give yourself a chance."
This was a frequent comment. But no one mentioned alternatives.
Danring? Nightclubs? He must have missed the boat somewhere. What was the etiquette of grieving? To disdain useful labor and watch addlepated fare on TV?
Really, Stern was tiring already of these conventional efforts to orchestrate his feelings.
As she handed him his drink, he asked if she was well. "Oh, me? I'm just ducky," said Fiona, and looked into her glass.
Stern recalled now that he had determined years ago, without reflection, not to ask Fiona such questions. The dog was pawing about and growling in the kitchen, where he had been shut up; you could hear his claws racing on the tiles. "What is it you wanted with Nate?"
'I merely had a question or two
"How are you, Sandy." She touched his face, a drunken, excessive gesture. "We think so much about you." Already he had taken up certain inscrutable mannerisms in response. He had always been good at this, wordless flexing of the brow to suggest complex feelings. Now his look was more pinched, more allusive of pain.
"I am as well as could be expected, Fiona. Is Nate about for just a moment? I was hoping to have a word with him." A personal appearance, Stern had decided, might catch Nate's attention. After hearing from Cal, Stern was determined to be more direct in attempting to unravel Clara's knotted affairs.
"Hasn't he called you? I gave him the message twenty times.
Well, he's out for the evening, Sandy, but stay for a second.-Have a drink with me. There's something I wanted to ask you about. I'm glad you're here."
Without awaiting an answer, she walked halfway down the hall to drive the dog back to the kitchen. Fiona was one of those people who always got what they wanted. She'd given him no chance to make an excuse.
For nineteen years, the Sterns had lived beside the Cawleys. They had watched the Cawleys' modern ranch go through three separate expansions, so that it now wore a somewhat awkward-looking second story, resembling a small top hat on a large-headed man. They had witnessed the coming of age of 'the Cawley children, both of whom were now in college.
They had enjoyed weekend conversations over the fence; an occasional drink or barbecue; two decades of holding mail and exchanging garden tools--but the Cawleys as a couple, like many others, were treated with reserve. Years before, with the retirement of the obstetrician who had delivered the Sterns' children, Clara had begun to visit Nate as her gynecologist and principal physician. In an emergency--a fall from a tree, a minor infection--he was the unofficial medical adviser to the entire family. Somehow, this professional relationship suited the Sterns well, since it offered a diplomatic means of enjoying Nate without Fiona.
As a doctor, he was knowledgeable, relaxed, and affable; at home, he was apt to be overwhelmed by his wife.. Younger, Fiona had no doubt been a greatbeauty, and she was still a fine-looking woman, handsomely slender, with arresting light eyes that were almost yellow. But she was, in a phrase, hard to take: nervous, high-pitched, forever striving, striving.
Fiona nursed a hothouse conservatory of internal competitions and visible resentments. A good person to avoid.
"Highball?" Fiona asked now.
Stern put himself down on a love seat upholstered in a fabric of peonies. The Cawleys' living room was decorated in what Stern took to be Irish modern fashion, a selfconscious upgrading of American colonial style. The rooms were crowded with dark tables and commodes, most of the 'Pieces beset with shawls of lace. Fiona occupied herself in a small adjoining den, where she'd set up a tea cart with booze. She drank in elegance; the liquor was in cutglass snifters, and a large sterling-silver ice bucket had been set down like a centerpiece.
"Some dry sherry, if it is there, Fiona. On a cube of ice.
I really must do some work this evening."
"Work?" she asked. "Already? Sandy, you should give yourself a chance."
This was a frequent comment. But no one mentioned alternatives.
Danring? Nightclubs? He must have missed the boat somewhere. What was the etiquette of grieving? To disdain useful labor and watch addlepated fare on TV?
Really, Stern was tiring already of these conventional efforts to orchestrate his feelings.
As she handed him his drink, he asked if she was well. "Oh, me? I'm just ducky," said Fiona, and looked into her glass.
Stern recalled now that he had determined years ago, without reflection, not to ask Fiona such questions. The dog was pawing about and growling in the kitchen, where he had been shut up; you could hear his claws racing on the tiles. "What is it you wanted with Nate?"
'I merely had a question or two
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