Read Online Late at Night by William Schoell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William Schoell
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her makeup her skin was bad, red and oily, with open pores. She was short—about five-three—and someone might unkindly observe that her body shape was squat. Yet her personality was light and airy and gentle and humorous and warm, so many, many things that he admired.
He tried tactfully to get her to care more about her appearance, but nothing seemed to work. She was addicted to cream-colored sweaters that seemed to fall apart while on her shoulders, long, unbecoming skirts, unflattering shades and fabrics. Her hair had two styles: long and greasy, falling in limp strands onto her shoulders; and even worse what he called the B-girl style, when she pinned it up and around her head like early Connie Francis. What made her failure to fix herself up even more appalling was that she was not really an unattractive person, not like that poor Betty Sanders downstairs, sitting like a bump on a log on the ottoman.
Yet somewhere along the way he had ceased to care about her appearance. She was a refreshing change from the women he had known before— the primping and preening heiresses, the bubble-headed debutantes, the oh-so-serious professional women who could match him step for step in the boardroom as well as the bedroom. While he knew it certainly wasn’t true of most lady executives, the ones he’d met were cold and defensive and un-feminine.
Lynn didn’t seem to be all that interested in his money. Maybe that was the problem. He hadn’t realized it at first, but she had another kind of interest, and it was one he cared for not at all.
And then he remembered.
That was what the fight had been about. She had made a remark, some remark, about the island, how it fit in with certain things, certain interests she had, and he had made the mistake of making fun of her. And then it had all begun— the accusals, the recriminations, the yelling and crying. Luckily, he had been able to quiet her down by reminding her of her responsibility to her guests, how if she kept on with her childish tirade the whole house would hear her and everyone would know her business. She had an abject horror of losing her privacy, a fear of public humiliation. But she had fumed about it, and mulled it over, and finally left the dinner table to go up and stew. Just as well. She might have started carrying on at the dinner table. Oh, she wouldn’t have gone so far as to break down or tell the others her business, but the sniping would have started, the dirty looks, sullen stares, gratuitous rejoinders. Yes, it was better that she had gone upstairs.
Everson undressed in the near-darkness, watching her chest rise and fall, fall and rise.
Oh Lynn, he thought, I could put up with everything else. The age difference. Your appearance. I’m just a tired old man who needs the life blood you have to offer in your strange and unusual way, the warmth and companionship you give to me in my declining and insecure years.
But Lynn, he thought, shutting off the bathroom light and making his way to bed, I’m not sure I can put up with your fantasies.
As Everson maneuvered his weary old bones onto the mattress, a chilling thought came to him out of nowhere: I am not going to leave this island. It was so strange and so sudden and so clear and direct that it left him frightened and bewildered.
Would he die on Lammerty Island, never see his home again?
He shut his eyes but sleep came very slowly.
Chapter 11
Out back, inside a three-sided, weather-beaten shack that had once been some kind of storage place, Hans and Eric were playing cards. They had put the boxes of equipment in there—cables, extra lightbulbs, screws, nuts and bolts, some of which had been bought out on the first trip over— and it was on two of those boxes that they sat, and on a third that the cards were spread out between them. It was a matter of constant irritation to Eric that Hans would never play for money—even with poker he played only for chips —but Hans knew all about Eric’s
He tried tactfully to get her to care more about her appearance, but nothing seemed to work. She was addicted to cream-colored sweaters that seemed to fall apart while on her shoulders, long, unbecoming skirts, unflattering shades and fabrics. Her hair had two styles: long and greasy, falling in limp strands onto her shoulders; and even worse what he called the B-girl style, when she pinned it up and around her head like early Connie Francis. What made her failure to fix herself up even more appalling was that she was not really an unattractive person, not like that poor Betty Sanders downstairs, sitting like a bump on a log on the ottoman.
Yet somewhere along the way he had ceased to care about her appearance. She was a refreshing change from the women he had known before— the primping and preening heiresses, the bubble-headed debutantes, the oh-so-serious professional women who could match him step for step in the boardroom as well as the bedroom. While he knew it certainly wasn’t true of most lady executives, the ones he’d met were cold and defensive and un-feminine.
Lynn didn’t seem to be all that interested in his money. Maybe that was the problem. He hadn’t realized it at first, but she had another kind of interest, and it was one he cared for not at all.
And then he remembered.
That was what the fight had been about. She had made a remark, some remark, about the island, how it fit in with certain things, certain interests she had, and he had made the mistake of making fun of her. And then it had all begun— the accusals, the recriminations, the yelling and crying. Luckily, he had been able to quiet her down by reminding her of her responsibility to her guests, how if she kept on with her childish tirade the whole house would hear her and everyone would know her business. She had an abject horror of losing her privacy, a fear of public humiliation. But she had fumed about it, and mulled it over, and finally left the dinner table to go up and stew. Just as well. She might have started carrying on at the dinner table. Oh, she wouldn’t have gone so far as to break down or tell the others her business, but the sniping would have started, the dirty looks, sullen stares, gratuitous rejoinders. Yes, it was better that she had gone upstairs.
Everson undressed in the near-darkness, watching her chest rise and fall, fall and rise.
Oh Lynn, he thought, I could put up with everything else. The age difference. Your appearance. I’m just a tired old man who needs the life blood you have to offer in your strange and unusual way, the warmth and companionship you give to me in my declining and insecure years.
But Lynn, he thought, shutting off the bathroom light and making his way to bed, I’m not sure I can put up with your fantasies.
As Everson maneuvered his weary old bones onto the mattress, a chilling thought came to him out of nowhere: I am not going to leave this island. It was so strange and so sudden and so clear and direct that it left him frightened and bewildered.
Would he die on Lammerty Island, never see his home again?
He shut his eyes but sleep came very slowly.
Chapter 11
Out back, inside a three-sided, weather-beaten shack that had once been some kind of storage place, Hans and Eric were playing cards. They had put the boxes of equipment in there—cables, extra lightbulbs, screws, nuts and bolts, some of which had been bought out on the first trip over— and it was on two of those boxes that they sat, and on a third that the cards were spread out between them. It was a matter of constant irritation to Eric that Hans would never play for money—even with poker he played only for chips —but Hans knew all about Eric’s
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