The Ladies' Man by Elinor Lipman Page B

to Nash. “I insist on having the piano tuned once a year.” She stands and gestures toward the rooms beyond. Limping slightly, Nash follows her through the green dining room, into the rose-colored parlor, to the end of the needlepoint piano bench.
    â€œPlay something of yours,” she says.
    â€œNo,” he says. “I’d rather hear you.”
    Without further coaxing, Lois moves toward the center and tries the pedals. She arranges her pleated skirt once, twice, until her right hand grazes his trouser leg. “Let me see,” she murmurs. “Do you want to hear popular or classical?” She shifts pages of sheet music. “Classical, am I right?”
    â€œOf course,” says Nash.
    Lois returns her hands to her lap, then up again to the keyboard in a graceful arc, reminding Nash of his first spinster piano teacher—two dollars a lesson, by the forty-watt glow of a plastic candelabra. Lois’s right hand begins tinkling out the opening notes of Mozart’s “Turkish March,” as her shoulders hunch with artistic endeavor.
    â€œAhhh,” Nash murmurs.
    He hates this piece. He doesn’t notice that her lipstick has been refreshed while he napped, or that she’s exchanged a velvet headbandfor her daytime barrette. He does notice a substantial diamond ring on her left hand, and nail polish on her fingernails, which are too long for the serious pursuit of piano. As she approaches the last notes on the first page, Nash reaches up to turn it. Lois smiles with the gratitude of someone who’s been chronically unaccompanied and, without apparent talent, plays her heart out.

B yron Sprock thinks they should eat a therapeutic dinner and drink a restorative bottle of wine. “You could tell your girlfriends, ‘After the two-car pileup—me entirely at fault—he treated me to dinner. Imagine. That’s when I knew he was a prince.’ ”
    Dina doesn’t know how to respond to this campaign. She hasn’t experienced anyone like Byron Sprock before—this utterly dry delivery of rather charming thoughts. It must be what people from New York are like, she thinks. Or maybe New York intellectuals. “I’m sure you
are
a prince,” she says, “but it’s been such a horrible day that I can’t even think straight, let alone evaluate your character.”
    â€œMine is spotless,” he says. “And I can give you references.”
    Dina takes several sips from her teacup before answering. It occurs to her that Nash could walk through the door any minute and find what he deserves—the woman he spurned drinking green tea with a tall, distinguished, Obie-acclaimed stranger. “Ordinarily I’d have a comeback,” she says finally, “and I might even call your bluff, but this has been the worst day of my life, so I’d just as soon not have supper and a drink with you.”
    â€œBut?” he prompts.
    â€œBut nothing,” says Dina. “I’m exhausted.”
    â€œHave you eaten?”
    â€œI’ll make something here.”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œI have things in the freezer.”
    Byron walks to her side-by-side refrigerator-freezer, and asks, as he opens the left-hand door, “Mind if I see if you’re telling the truth?”
    Dina, from her stool at the Formica island, lets him survey the frozen foods. “Lean Cuisine Fiesta Chicken,” he says. “Cascadian Farm Organic Gardener’s Blend.… Pot-stickers. I like those.… Nutri-Grain Waffles.… Look at this, will ya: ‘Vegetarian Pad Thai.’
Très exotique
.”
    Dina’s never seen such conduct. It reminds her of something she can’t pinpoint, until he catalogs a few more items: bagels, Birds Eye Sweet Peas and Pearl Onions, Five Alive. Then she remembers: As a little girl, she’d watch Art Linkletter rifling through an audience member’s pocketbook, making everyone