Read Online The Ladies' Man by Elinor Lipman - Free Book Online

Richard.
    â€œPainless,” says Nash.
    He expresses keen interest in their meals. Adele answers in a monotone—No, she usually has a light lunch, but today she felt like red meat.
    â€œPlease start,” Nash says.
    Richard removes the toothpicks from his sandwich, and uses both hands to manage the triple-decker half.
    â€œYour steak is just the way I like it,” Nash tells Adele.
    Richard says, “Mine’s delicious.”
    Nash says, “What’s yours again?”
    â€œThe lobster B.L.T.”
    Nash asks if a lobster B.L.T. is a new regional dish, all the rage in Boston, because he saw it on the room-service menu at his hotel and had been tempted.
    â€œWhere are you staying?” Adele asks. She lifts the fork to her mouth, English-style, tines downward, elbows perfectly poised.
    Nash replies cheerfully, “The Copley Plaza.”
    Adele gasps. With a sharp intake of breath she inhales her first bite of steak, and it is gone—there, but not there. She cannot chew or swallow or talk. In an instant she recognizes what is happening, the excruciating embarrassment of choking in public, and the knowledge that she could die. She tries again to swallow and to find air before she must signal wildly that something is wrong.
    â€œAdele?” says Richard, putting his napkin on the table, then his hand on her back. “What’s wrong?” He stands up. “Are you
choking
?”
    She tries again to make it go away. Her eyes are pleading for civilized behavior, for putting a discreet end to this potential public scene. But the piece of steak is unswallowable, lodged in a place that has no muscle and no traction.
    â€œShe’s choking,” Nash says, and he is behind her, ripping off his jacket. “Stand up,” he commands. His arms encircle her, and his fingertips probe below her rib cage. He pulls a fist into her stomach, but futilely. Again, harder. Another try with his hands reversed, right pressing left. People are watching, gathering.
    Nash jerks again, harder. His face is next to Adele’s and he recognizes, in his growing panic, a familiar and pleasing scent from his youth, her perfume. “Oh, God,” Nash cries. He thinks he is breaking her bones under his hands, rupturing organs, but he doesn’t stop. “Do something,” Richard is yelling. Nash answers with his best upward thrust. He hears a sound, a pop, from inside Adele, and at the same time the morsel of steak flies out of her mouth. It lands—more humiliation—in plain view on a white square of tile. Adele inhales noisily and exhales with a sob. Nash tries to turn her into his embrace, but she is in her brother’s arms now. Richard is crying and smoothing her hair.
    Nash stands to one side, stunned. Someone tries to shake his hand, but he waves theirs away. Richard is beseeching Adele to speak, to take a deep breath, to sit. A waiter hands him a clean linen napkin and leaves quickly with the offending platter of steak. Richard wipes her mouth and her tearing eyes, studying her face for signs of the old Adele.
    â€œLet’s get her out of here,” says Nash. “Let’s get a cab.”
    â€œThe bill—” says Richard. “Fuck the bill,” says Nash.
    The maître d’ is begging their pardon, picking Nash’s jacket off the floor and smoothing it with a solicitousness meant for a human casualty.
    Richard takes the first step toward the door, one arm around Adele. “My purse,” she says weakly. A man, another diner, grateful to be of help, jumps forward and offers the pocketbook tenderly as if placing a wreath at a headstone.
    â€œI’m okay,” Adele murmurs.
    â€œDoes your stomach hurt?” asks Nash. “Or your ribs? I might have done some damage. You’re as white as a ghost.”
    â€œShe seems to be fine,” says the maître d’. “Absolutely I’d say so.”
    â€œMaybe you should be