with such grayish, sage-colored frowzy things. Had the land not been so carefully maintained but been allowed to return to its natural state, it would have been nothing but scruffy pines and grasses. Nowadays there were strict zoning laws against such things.
A man on the far side of the room was looking at her with a disgusted expression. It took her several seconds to realize he was offended by her cigarette smoke. It was supposed to be a party; if he didn't like the smoke, surely he could go outside. What gave such an eggy little creature the right to glare at her, as if no decent woman would light up. She was about to blow smoke in his direction when she realized it was Charlie Twigall and quickly crushed out the cigarette. She tried to distract him, turning her scowl into a smile—it was, however, perhaps just a split second too late; he had seen her contempt.
He peered over at her, wanting to talk to her yet—somehow— to avoid her at the same time. Her peculiar little eyes—narrow gray-blue slits, vaguely alien, perhaps from some ancestor raped by a Mongolian invader, a souvenir flung down across generations and the only feature preventing her from resembling a perfect, bland American doll—were half closed. Her blond hair, the color
----
of dirty honey, hung down in messy chunks. And with the back of one graceful hand she reached up to rub her nose, a short, perfect little nose like that of a Persian kitten which had been punched in the face. She tried to make herself seductive; still, he didn't approach.
Now the only way she could compensate was to bludgeon her way eagerly across the room and act overexcited, as if she had been hoping to find him from the start. "Thank goodness!" She grabbed his forearm. "I was hoping I'd see you! I don't know anyone here! What's happening? What have you been doing all day?"
"Hi . . . Florence," he said.
It was hard not to rush him. Yet after a pause she suggested he have a drink. "I'm having white wine," she said.
"Oh ... no thank you," he said. "I . . . don't drink."
"I usually just have a glass of wine," she said quickly. "At a party, or dinner. So what have you been up to?"
"I spent the day . . . trying to get them . . . to fix my car," he said.
"And they still haven't fixed it yet?" She spoke in a tone of shocked disbelief.
"It's in a . . . garage . . . the dealership . . . out here. It still . . . smells. They said ... it was fixed . . . but when I went to the SAAB dealership ... I said, 'I can still . . . detect an odor.' And the salesman . . . the man who sold it to me . . . initially . . . got in. And he said, T don't smell . . . anything.' I said, 'You must have an olfactory . . . problem.'"
She laughed appreciatively. "An olfactory problem! That's very good! And what did he say?"
In bliss at her laughter, Charlie averted his eyes from her gaze and stared dreamily at her breasts, as if the breasts had been pleasantly responsive rather than her. "I was extremely . . . angry . . . and I asked if he wouldn't mind . . . sitting in the car. After a few minutes ... of sitting in the car ... he said that they would try . . . again." How old had Natalie said he was? In
----
his fifties? "Meanwhile ... I ordered a new Lotus . . . but it's on . . . back order for the summer."
"A Lotus! Great!" She wondered just how many others had been down this path before her, looking at him attentively, trying to find some common ground of interest, trying to convince themselves a sexual magnetism or chemistry was possible. If he had been willing to date plain and undemanding women—a high school math teacher, for example, or a veterinary technician—a life for him with another might have been possible. But as far as she knew he wanted only the flashiest, the most glamorous—fashion models, young movie stars—and these women didn't need his money and didn't want his personality.
He was looking at her as if he could tell what she was thinking. Perhaps, like a draft horse
A man on the far side of the room was looking at her with a disgusted expression. It took her several seconds to realize he was offended by her cigarette smoke. It was supposed to be a party; if he didn't like the smoke, surely he could go outside. What gave such an eggy little creature the right to glare at her, as if no decent woman would light up. She was about to blow smoke in his direction when she realized it was Charlie Twigall and quickly crushed out the cigarette. She tried to distract him, turning her scowl into a smile—it was, however, perhaps just a split second too late; he had seen her contempt.
He peered over at her, wanting to talk to her yet—somehow— to avoid her at the same time. Her peculiar little eyes—narrow gray-blue slits, vaguely alien, perhaps from some ancestor raped by a Mongolian invader, a souvenir flung down across generations and the only feature preventing her from resembling a perfect, bland American doll—were half closed. Her blond hair, the color
----
of dirty honey, hung down in messy chunks. And with the back of one graceful hand she reached up to rub her nose, a short, perfect little nose like that of a Persian kitten which had been punched in the face. She tried to make herself seductive; still, he didn't approach.
Now the only way she could compensate was to bludgeon her way eagerly across the room and act overexcited, as if she had been hoping to find him from the start. "Thank goodness!" She grabbed his forearm. "I was hoping I'd see you! I don't know anyone here! What's happening? What have you been doing all day?"
"Hi . . . Florence," he said.
It was hard not to rush him. Yet after a pause she suggested he have a drink. "I'm having white wine," she said.
"Oh ... no thank you," he said. "I . . . don't drink."
"I usually just have a glass of wine," she said quickly. "At a party, or dinner. So what have you been up to?"
"I spent the day . . . trying to get them . . . to fix my car," he said.
"And they still haven't fixed it yet?" She spoke in a tone of shocked disbelief.
"It's in a . . . garage . . . the dealership . . . out here. It still . . . smells. They said ... it was fixed . . . but when I went to the SAAB dealership ... I said, 'I can still . . . detect an odor.' And the salesman . . . the man who sold it to me . . . initially . . . got in. And he said, T don't smell . . . anything.' I said, 'You must have an olfactory . . . problem.'"
She laughed appreciatively. "An olfactory problem! That's very good! And what did he say?"
In bliss at her laughter, Charlie averted his eyes from her gaze and stared dreamily at her breasts, as if the breasts had been pleasantly responsive rather than her. "I was extremely . . . angry . . . and I asked if he wouldn't mind . . . sitting in the car. After a few minutes ... of sitting in the car ... he said that they would try . . . again." How old had Natalie said he was? In
----
his fifties? "Meanwhile ... I ordered a new Lotus . . . but it's on . . . back order for the summer."
"A Lotus! Great!" She wondered just how many others had been down this path before her, looking at him attentively, trying to find some common ground of interest, trying to convince themselves a sexual magnetism or chemistry was possible. If he had been willing to date plain and undemanding women—a high school math teacher, for example, or a veterinary technician—a life for him with another might have been possible. But as far as she knew he wanted only the flashiest, the most glamorous—fashion models, young movie stars—and these women didn't need his money and didn't want his personality.
He was looking at her as if he could tell what she was thinking. Perhaps, like a draft horse
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