Read Online My Summer With George by Marilyn French - Free Book Online Page A

Annie are happy together now, aren’t they?”
    “Last I heard, she was having some trouble adjusting to marriage. You know, she’d lived alone for twenty years after her divorce from Jack Steele. Said she’d forgotten how men expect to be waited on.”
    “Umm.”
    Marsha had solved this problem, I knew, after years of struggle. Stanley no longer expected her to cook his dinner every night—or even be home for dinner—and a third party (female) cleaned their house and did their laundry. But they had a high income: Marsha was a highly paid technical writer, and Stanley was a physicist.
    “Your fellow might have had a bad experience with some woman,” Marsha ventured.
    “Umm. I don’t think George is grieving over anybody,” I said glumly.
    “His behavior—his insistence—his attraction to you does seem to have arisen terribly fast,” she suggested apologetically. “For people our age, I mean. It sounds adolescent, somehow. You know, kids get crushes, but…how old is he?”
    I tried to conceal the grimace I felt growing on my face. “Oh, younger than I, but in his mid-fifties, I’d think. Not a kid.”
    She gazed at me appraisingly. I began to feel self-conscious: What was she seeing? Did I suddenly look much older? Had I been looking older for a long time and she just noticed it? Hadn’t she said I looked fabulous, when we met at the theater? Of course, that didn’t mean anything. Women always said that to each other. It was a euphemism for I’m happy to see you, I’m glad you’re still alive. Did she think I was a silly fool?
    “Of course, you too have been”—she wiped her lips with her napkin, searching for the kindest word, I thought—“precipitous. You know, you don’t know anything much about him, do you?” Her voice was cool, measured.
    She did think I was a silly fool.
    This was my warm friend Marsha?
    She put her napkin down with a kind of finality. “Well, you can only see what happens, can’t you? It just feels a little unreliable to me. I hope he doesn’t end up hurting you, my dear.” She reached her hand across the table and placed it on mine, sympathetically.
    That wasn’t what I wanted her to say or do. “Umm,” I mumbled, hating her, even if she was one of my best friends. I went home that night feeling battered—by Marsha, not George. Jealous, that’s what she is, I thought. Nothing like this has happened to her in years. She can’t stand that it happened to me. To think that Marsha would let jealousy destroy our friendship! It was devastating.
    When I got home, there was a message from George on the machine, saying he’d been “dragged to lunch” by the dean. Chagrined, I thought that what he called coercion I called a better offer. He wanted to know if we were still on for the movies tomorrow night. He wanted to take me to see Thelma & Louise, which he’d seen with some of the editors the night before. The women had loved it, the men hated it, except for him; he wanted my reaction. The movie started at seven-thirty: he’d pick me up at seven. He didn’t leave a number at which I could reach him, but said he’d call the next morning.
    Why had he gone to the movie with other people if he was intending to see it with me? Why hadn’t he left a number? Why did I always have to wait for him to call me? Suppose seven o’clock was too early for me? Suppose I’d already seen Thelma & Louise? What did he mean, the women had loved it? What women?
    He wanted to keep control of things firmly in his own hands, I thought. I could probably call the Columbia School of Journalism and track him down, but that might offend him. Besides, I was willing to cede control to him, if he’d just be a little more…communicative. I decided to leave the telephone bell on next morning, even though this would interfere with my work.
    The next day, ten people called before 9:00 a.m. George was not one of them. My irritation grew, hour by hour—irritation and anxiety. I felt helpless, a