Read Online Caroline's Daughters by Alice Adams - Free Book Online Page A

dark—really sweet, thinks Fiona.
    She is suddenly exhausted, and why? This was no different from any other day, or evening. Sliding into a chair, she slips her feet from their high black sandals, and closes her eyes.
    â€œWell, this is the first piece of luck I’ve had all day.” Roland Gallo (of course) has said this, he has sneaked in and sat down on the chair next to hers. And as Fiona opens her eyes quite wide, feigning surprise, at the same time she admits to herself that she knew he would follow her in there. Of course he would.
    She says, “Please go away, I’m very tired. I’m resting.” But she doesn’t close her eyes again.
    He must at some time have been extremely good-looking, even too handsome; God knows he is very attractive, still—and he clearly knows this, although he is perfectly, shiningly bald. But his high white brow, strong nose and fine mouth are impressive, and especially those eyes, deepset and wide apart, and so dark, so extremely, flashingly dark.
    Right now he is fairly drunk, but still controlled. “I just want to know one thing,” he says to Fiona, with a small twist of a smile that involves just the corners of his mouth. “Can you tell me why I didn’t marry your sister instead of Miss Dumb Blonde Twat?”
    â€œThat’s disgusting,” Fiona tells him. “Disgusting. Your wife. I think you’re too drunk to drive,” Fiona tells him, although this is probably not the literal truth; he will get home all right, he is the kind who always will, and if he gets a ticket he can fix it.
    â€œI’m sure you’re right, but I’m going to drive home anyway.” He smiles again, as he stands up. “Well, Miss McAndrew, I thank you for an exceptionally lovely evening.”
    â€œOh, get lost,” Fiona tells him.
    Roland Gallo laughs, and then he bows, just managing the gesture. “I’ll see you very soon,” is his exit line.
    After which, for the very first time that day, Fiona smiles.

Five
    â€œH ow much money do you have, anyway?” the voice on the phone asks Jill.
    And Jill, who is lying in bed, begins to laugh into the phone, at this serious, outrageous question. Still laughing, she holds the receiver away from her mouth for a moment, looking out into the darkened corners of her bedroom, as though at least some answer might be out there. It is almost midnight. A window across the room, her most westward window, is a few inches open; from down on the bay she can hear the faint short barks of the sea lions, and the longer, louder foghorns’ moan.
    She brings the receiver back to her mouth. “That depends on what day it is,” she says into the phone.
    â€œYou mean you’re richer on Wednesdays than on Thursdays?”
    â€œNo, stupid. The market. Don’t you have any real money at all?”
    â€œNo, I’m very poor, I keep telling you. That’s why I like rich girls.” A pause, and then he says, “Now tell me what you have on.”
    â€œWell.” Jill, who is naked, hesitates. “It’s quite a fabulous gown, actually. Very pale pink silk. All pleated, these thousands of tiny pleats, and some very tiny rosebuds—”
    â€œYou’re not wearing anything, Jilly. You’re perfectly bare, I can tell.”
    â€œDon’t call me Jilly, I hate that. And I hate you, Noel Finn. Where are you, anyway?”
    â€œI’m out in my workshop, where do you think? Do you wish I were there?”
    â€œNo. Yes. Oh shit.
No
.”
    The truth is that Jill wishes almost anyone were there, any man, and until fairly recently, she thinks, there always was some guy, and almost always someone pretty good. Some okay or fairly cute or handsome guy. She is not sure just what has changed—and it seems to have changed for all the women she knows, lots fewer men around, and it can’t all be guys gone gay, or fear of AIDS. But she knows that then