The Slipper by Jennifer Wilde Page A

you Mississippi silt—but what the hell! Here’s to us, gang. All the way to the top and screw the rest of the world.”
    â€œScrew ’em,” Julie said bashfully.
    â€œYou know what, kid? You’re beginning to blossom.”
    â€œIt—it’s just nice to have friends.”
    â€œSisters,” Nora corrected her. “Who needs a fucking sorority?”
    Carol remembered that afternoon as she shifted the shopping bag from one hand to the other and crossed the street, heading toward the row of red brick apartment buildings. The Silver Bell was closed today and Julie was bound to be home, her husband, too, probably. Carol had never met him, but he had come into the restaurant one night when Nora was there, and Nora said he was a cool number, smug and superior, treating Julie like dirt. Although Julie had never said anything about it, Carol suspected that her husband resented Julie’s having friends or, indeed, any kind of life of her own. She was predisposed to dislike him, and when he opened the door of their basement flat a few moments later, she tried her best to smile a friendly smile.
    â€œYes?” he said.
    â€œI’m Carol Martin,” she told him. “I’ve come to see Julie.”
    He hesitated a moment, surprised, then moved back so that she could come in. It was much too warm inside. The radiators were crackling. Douglas Hammond wore a pair of snug brown gym shorts and a loose, ragged tan T-shirt with CLAYMORE across the chest. He was tall, extremely well built, extremely handsome in a stern, brooding way. An intellectual Heathcliff, Carol thought. He was barefooted. Behind the horn-rims, his slate-blue eyes took in every detail of her dress and person, deliberately sizing her up, and he liked what he saw. Carol could tell that. He was visibly impressed by her clothes, her demeanor, probably thought she was a wealthy sorority type. Class, style, money—those things would matter to a man like this.
    â€œExcuse my garb,” he said. “The radiators are screwed up again and it’s like a steam bath in here. Let me take your coat.”
    Carol set the shopping bag down and let Doug Hammond help her off with the coat. She was wearing her cool blue linen dress beneath it, and he appreciated its exquisite simplicity. He appreciated her looks as well. There could be no denying the smoky masculine interest in those slate-blue eyes. Julie’s husband was highly sexed, Carol sensed that immediately, and she returned his gaze with one of frosty politeness. Hammond smiled and moved over to hang her coat up in a nearby closet. Carol glanced around the room, saw the worn linoleum, the dingy concrete walls, the exposed pipes. A pathetic, lopsided little Christmas tree stood on a coffee table, decorated with strings of popcorn and shiny dime store ornaments. Half a dozen clumsily wrapped presents were under it.
    â€œSorry about the heat,” Hammond said, closing the closet door. “If I had known you were coming, I would have slipped on some pants.”
    He was deliberately drawing attention to his legs. They were nice legs indeed. Carol sensed that he was vain about his body, made it a point to stay in shape despite his intellectual pursuits. She was no more attracted to him than she was to Jim Burke or Dick Sanders or any of the other virile lads on campus. Compared to a man like Norman Philips, they were a pack of callow youths. Doug folded his arms across his chest, his legs spread wide, his head tilted to one side, all smoldering masculinity. It was entirely wasted on Carol. Rarely had she felt such aversion, though she was actress enough to conceal it.
    â€œIs Julie not here?” she inquired.
    â€œShe should be back in a few minutes. She went to the grocery store for a few things—they’re open until six.”
    â€œI—I really can’t stay,” she said. “I just wanted to bring Julie these.”
    She indicated the