Coke. “Where do famous authors come from anyway?”
He grinned at her ingenuousness. “This one hails from Madison, Wisconsin. I was raised by my aunt Martha, after my dad died and my mom ran off with a traveling salesman—now there’s the basis of a good story for you!”
“What was it like, being raised in Madison, Wisconsin?” she asked. “I’ve never been farther than San Diego myself.”
He shrugged.
“You
know, the usual—a small, ranch-style house in a middle-class suburb. Aunt Martha had all the good old-fashioned values—church on Sundays, respect for my elders and betters, devotion to the work ethic, and love for my country. I had to earn my allowance by cutting the lawn and taking out the garbage—and any other chores she considered suitable for a growing boy. We raised the flag on the front lawn every morning and lowered it every evening at sundown, and homework always had to be done before there was any chance of escaping to play basketball, or hang out with the other guys at the drive-in.”
“I bet you had a car with
fins,”
Lauren said with a grin.
“You bet I did. And I’ll tell you what else I had—home-baked cookies when I got home from school, and the world’s best blueberry pie—and my aunt Martha’s Sunday roast—I can smell it now, that aroma’ll live in my memory forever.” She smiled at him, her eyes sympathetic and interested, and he said suddenly, “You know, Lauren, Aunt Martha was more than just a kind relative who took me in. I was nine years old, lost and frightened because I’d been abandoned, and desperately worried about the great blank of the future. It was her love that got me through it, and through those tough teenage years … I was always too tall and perpetually growing out of my clothes, it drove her crazy … ‘The expense,’ she would say sternly, ‘can’t you think of the expense, Michael, and stop growing?’”
Lauren laughed and he fell silent for a moment. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” he said quietly, “but it feels good to talk about her to someone.”
“Is she still alive?” Lauren asked gently.
He grinned. “She sure is. I call her once a week, no matter where I am in the world. We talk for an hour or so, just about this and that, her church meeting, my latest lecture tour, as though we were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table over one of her delicious meals.” He paused, looking at Lauren. “She’s seen me through all the crises in my life,” he added, “including a marriage that went wrong.”
“Were you very young?”
He nodded. “We were both twenty-three, in the same year at Northwestern … I guess it was doomed from the start, but at that age you don’t understand …” He stopped, aware again of how young she was.
“You’re different,” Lauren said softly.
“Different? From whom?”
“Oh, different from the guys I’ve been out with, I guess.”
“That’s because I’m older,” Mike said with a regretful sigh, “although at thirty-seven I didn’t expect to see myself cast in the role of ‘the older man.’”
Lauren laughed and he liked the sound; it rippled joyously around the bare little restaurant so that the other customers turned their heads, smiling, to see who was having such a good time, and he saw what she must have looked like—before Maria.
“The older man chasing the young heiress,” Lauren said mischievously. And then, suddenly sober, “But it’s not me, is it? Things like that don’t happen to girls like me.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. It felt fine-boned and a little rough—all that hard work, he supposed. “We don’t know that yet,” he said, squeezing her fingers encouragingly. “We’re just at the beginning of our investigations. I’m only involved in a roundabout way. I saw the ad in the paper and called Lieber to see if we could help each other. I’m a writer on the scent of a story—he’s a lawyer who’s
He grinned at her ingenuousness. “This one hails from Madison, Wisconsin. I was raised by my aunt Martha, after my dad died and my mom ran off with a traveling salesman—now there’s the basis of a good story for you!”
“What was it like, being raised in Madison, Wisconsin?” she asked. “I’ve never been farther than San Diego myself.”
He shrugged.
“You
know, the usual—a small, ranch-style house in a middle-class suburb. Aunt Martha had all the good old-fashioned values—church on Sundays, respect for my elders and betters, devotion to the work ethic, and love for my country. I had to earn my allowance by cutting the lawn and taking out the garbage—and any other chores she considered suitable for a growing boy. We raised the flag on the front lawn every morning and lowered it every evening at sundown, and homework always had to be done before there was any chance of escaping to play basketball, or hang out with the other guys at the drive-in.”
“I bet you had a car with
fins,”
Lauren said with a grin.
“You bet I did. And I’ll tell you what else I had—home-baked cookies when I got home from school, and the world’s best blueberry pie—and my aunt Martha’s Sunday roast—I can smell it now, that aroma’ll live in my memory forever.” She smiled at him, her eyes sympathetic and interested, and he said suddenly, “You know, Lauren, Aunt Martha was more than just a kind relative who took me in. I was nine years old, lost and frightened because I’d been abandoned, and desperately worried about the great blank of the future. It was her love that got me through it, and through those tough teenage years … I was always too tall and perpetually growing out of my clothes, it drove her crazy … ‘The expense,’ she would say sternly, ‘can’t you think of the expense, Michael, and stop growing?’”
Lauren laughed and he fell silent for a moment. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” he said quietly, “but it feels good to talk about her to someone.”
“Is she still alive?” Lauren asked gently.
He grinned. “She sure is. I call her once a week, no matter where I am in the world. We talk for an hour or so, just about this and that, her church meeting, my latest lecture tour, as though we were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table over one of her delicious meals.” He paused, looking at Lauren. “She’s seen me through all the crises in my life,” he added, “including a marriage that went wrong.”
“Were you very young?”
He nodded. “We were both twenty-three, in the same year at Northwestern … I guess it was doomed from the start, but at that age you don’t understand …” He stopped, aware again of how young she was.
“You’re different,” Lauren said softly.
“Different? From whom?”
“Oh, different from the guys I’ve been out with, I guess.”
“That’s because I’m older,” Mike said with a regretful sigh, “although at thirty-seven I didn’t expect to see myself cast in the role of ‘the older man.’”
Lauren laughed and he liked the sound; it rippled joyously around the bare little restaurant so that the other customers turned their heads, smiling, to see who was having such a good time, and he saw what she must have looked like—before Maria.
“The older man chasing the young heiress,” Lauren said mischievously. And then, suddenly sober, “But it’s not me, is it? Things like that don’t happen to girls like me.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. It felt fine-boned and a little rough—all that hard work, he supposed. “We don’t know that yet,” he said, squeezing her fingers encouragingly. “We’re just at the beginning of our investigations. I’m only involved in a roundabout way. I saw the ad in the paper and called Lieber to see if we could help each other. I’m a writer on the scent of a story—he’s a lawyer who’s
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