wine, reacted slowly.
He seized her right wrist, wrapped in the gold chains of her evening bag. ‘Let’s see what’s in your purse,’ he demanded.
Color flared in her cheeks. She struggled a little, laughing, and protested, ‘No.’
He released her and sat back. ‘Come on. ’ He held out his hands. She thrust the purse at him.
‘Fine thing,’ he scolded mildly, ‘when I can’t take you to a nice restaurant without you stealing the ruffles off the lamb chops and the doily off the candy tray.’
‘I might be able to use them. They just throw them out,’ she insisted.
‘You don’t even know what you’re going to do with them?’
‘Make something.’
‘You don’t know. And they weren’t even our lamb chops.’
He gave her back the handbag and started the car again.
‘You’re a goddamn magpie, Lucy. Would you like to go to my house for a while?’
She had curled up against him again and closed her eyes.
‘I’ll let you have the egg cartons I’ve saved,’ he offered.
She smothered an attack of giggles.
‘My old tea bag tags?’
Lucy laughed out loud. Nick bent to plant a quick kiss on the top of her head.
‘Let’s go,’ she whispered.
Dolly Hardesty Douglas paced her living room. She felt like an exile. There was no comfort tonight in the familiar objects. Her mother watched from the portrait above the fireplace, the focus of the room. The blaze of her mother’s hair was the only strong color in the cream, silver, and blue room. Dolly stared at it, for once seeing not the dreaming beauty that she loved but the ghost, locked into her own fantasies, that Leighton Sartoris had painted twenty-five years ago.
She turned her back on it to look out over the city again. Manhattan was its ordinarily spectacular light sculpture. It had rarely before failed to delight her. It usually made her feel like the queen of it all, sitting on her steel and glass mountaintop. But tonight she was dispossessed, unable to feel any connection with it.
She emptied a full ashtray in a small silver-reed basket, just for something to do. She tried to think of someone in the city that she knew. It was very painful to acknowledge, abruptly, that there wasn’t anybody anymore. Not that she’d want to see. She lit a new cigarette. Very likely there was no one down there in Sin City who knew her either, or cared to.
At the discreet little bar, she poured herself a glass of ginger ale. She had never cared for drink stronger than wine, a taste or lack of it that may very well have preserved her from the alcoholism that destroyed her mother. Her only real vice, she thought, was. the cigarettes. She looked at the one between her fingers with distaste. Her father had always held that smoking was unladylike and had warred thirty-five years with her mother on the subject.
Her earliest memories were of her mother, furtively smoking in the nursery, as she read Dolly a nighttime fairy tale. Dolly, old enough to talk at two and a half, also had been old enough to keep a secret when her mother made it a game. Daddy had never come into the baby’s room; he was always in his office downstairs, of an evening.
Since then she had done a lot of things in her life, of which her father would not have approved. Not that she was a frigging saint
now. She had had no lovers for three years. Except herself. She didn’t count masturbation as a sin, or even a bad habit. It was wonderful for the complexion and gave the day a good start, and screw her old man, anyway. A typical male, when all was said and done.
If she loved anything it was the dollhouse. It had filled all the little blanks in her life very nicely, thank you. Three years of satisfaction. Not many love affairs yielded that, or for that long. Never mind marriage. The very thought of Harry Douglas, may the bastard burn in hell, gave her the shudders.
She’d look a pretty sight, at her age, anyway, putting herself on the market-against the young women with their fresh
He seized her right wrist, wrapped in the gold chains of her evening bag. ‘Let’s see what’s in your purse,’ he demanded.
Color flared in her cheeks. She struggled a little, laughing, and protested, ‘No.’
He released her and sat back. ‘Come on. ’ He held out his hands. She thrust the purse at him.
‘Fine thing,’ he scolded mildly, ‘when I can’t take you to a nice restaurant without you stealing the ruffles off the lamb chops and the doily off the candy tray.’
‘I might be able to use them. They just throw them out,’ she insisted.
‘You don’t even know what you’re going to do with them?’
‘Make something.’
‘You don’t know. And they weren’t even our lamb chops.’
He gave her back the handbag and started the car again.
‘You’re a goddamn magpie, Lucy. Would you like to go to my house for a while?’
She had curled up against him again and closed her eyes.
‘I’ll let you have the egg cartons I’ve saved,’ he offered.
She smothered an attack of giggles.
‘My old tea bag tags?’
Lucy laughed out loud. Nick bent to plant a quick kiss on the top of her head.
‘Let’s go,’ she whispered.
Dolly Hardesty Douglas paced her living room. She felt like an exile. There was no comfort tonight in the familiar objects. Her mother watched from the portrait above the fireplace, the focus of the room. The blaze of her mother’s hair was the only strong color in the cream, silver, and blue room. Dolly stared at it, for once seeing not the dreaming beauty that she loved but the ghost, locked into her own fantasies, that Leighton Sartoris had painted twenty-five years ago.
She turned her back on it to look out over the city again. Manhattan was its ordinarily spectacular light sculpture. It had rarely before failed to delight her. It usually made her feel like the queen of it all, sitting on her steel and glass mountaintop. But tonight she was dispossessed, unable to feel any connection with it.
She emptied a full ashtray in a small silver-reed basket, just for something to do. She tried to think of someone in the city that she knew. It was very painful to acknowledge, abruptly, that there wasn’t anybody anymore. Not that she’d want to see. She lit a new cigarette. Very likely there was no one down there in Sin City who knew her either, or cared to.
At the discreet little bar, she poured herself a glass of ginger ale. She had never cared for drink stronger than wine, a taste or lack of it that may very well have preserved her from the alcoholism that destroyed her mother. Her only real vice, she thought, was. the cigarettes. She looked at the one between her fingers with distaste. Her father had always held that smoking was unladylike and had warred thirty-five years with her mother on the subject.
Her earliest memories were of her mother, furtively smoking in the nursery, as she read Dolly a nighttime fairy tale. Dolly, old enough to talk at two and a half, also had been old enough to keep a secret when her mother made it a game. Daddy had never come into the baby’s room; he was always in his office downstairs, of an evening.
Since then she had done a lot of things in her life, of which her father would not have approved. Not that she was a frigging saint
now. She had had no lovers for three years. Except herself. She didn’t count masturbation as a sin, or even a bad habit. It was wonderful for the complexion and gave the day a good start, and screw her old man, anyway. A typical male, when all was said and done.
If she loved anything it was the dollhouse. It had filled all the little blanks in her life very nicely, thank you. Three years of satisfaction. Not many love affairs yielded that, or for that long. Never mind marriage. The very thought of Harry Douglas, may the bastard burn in hell, gave her the shudders.
She’d look a pretty sight, at her age, anyway, putting herself on the market-against the young women with their fresh
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