Read Online West of Sunset by Stewart O’Nan - Free Book Online Page B

how coyly she tucked her chin into her bare shoulder told him he could relax now. Just sitting there, trading glances during the president’s prefatory remarks, they were different, separate, as if together they were keeping a secret from the rest of the world.
    The speeches were interminable, futile. They all turned on management acknowledging the means of production, labor standing in solidarity and the workers demanding a fair wage. Spain and Germany were cited freely, as if their enemy wasn’t Louie B. Mayer but Hitler, which made sense, since they were the same crowd that had written checks at Freddie March’s. His neighbors ate their salads and sand dabs and consulted their programs hopefully.
    He contented himself with glimpses of her, watching with curiosity as she gradually made her way around the table like a hostess. She focused her full attention on each guest, including the wives, listening intently, prompting them with a question, all the while playing with her silver bracelet, turning it about her wrist, flirting. She didn’t take notes, though she had ample chances. What was she hoping to get out of them? He thought she was at a disadvantage, a spy with no cover, but she laughed and patted Belle O’Hara’s arm and moved on. He was oddly proud of her, gracefully infiltrating a hostile camp. The wit it took—the nerve and patience. She was so new to him, he was moved to see in her every marvelous quality. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she produced a bouquet of roses from her sleeve, or a trio of linked rings. And then, as the treasurer finished his report to grateful applause, she caught his eye and tapped a nail to her wristwatch. She gave him a little wave and stood with her silver clutch purse, and without a glance in his direction, made her way past him and through the tables to the rear of the club, leaving a wake of turned heads.
    His instinct was to wait a safe interval and follow her, but was that what she wanted? She’d said goodnight, after a fashion. Maybe this was all part of the chase. Dessert was being served as they suffered yet another speech, the waiters reaching past them to set down plates. Across the table Dottie was watching him. He nodded for coffee, stirred in a spoonful of sugar, but after a few sips relented and excused himself as if he needed to use the restroom.
    He’d given her enough time to leave, if that had been her intent. If not, she’d be waiting for him in the lobby.
    He strode up the ramp and through the arch of crossed palms, the words of the speaker nattering at his back. Besides the shoeblack at his stand and the woman manning the cigar counter, the lobby was empty, its wall of phone booths dark. He crossed beneath the chandeliers to the main entrance, a valet anticipating him, holding the door open.
    Again, no one. He scanned the parking lot for motion, then Wilshire. Above the red neon topping the crown of the Brown Derby, searchlights scissored against the dark sky.
    â€œCar for you, sir?”
    â€œJust getting some fresh air.”
    As a last resort he detoured down the hall to the restrooms, stopping at the cigarette machine for an alibi. In the mirror his mouth was grim, his bow tie cockeyed. Despite his excitement, he was disappointed. Too soon the night, which might have taken them anywhere, was over.
    Dottie noted his return but didn’t comment on it. He opened his new pack of Raleighs and lit one, wondering if the girl was purposely feeding this craving in him. Was she just a flirt? That she was engaged mystified him. Maybe this was a last fling, a final reckless gesture at his expense. There was still another speech to be endured, and more dancing, but it all seemed pointless. He wanted to go home and burrow under the covers in his tuxedo and sleep. Instead he drank his coffee, lukewarm now, and clawed at a corner of his sheet cake with his fork, already fretting over when he would see her