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.But listen to me, Misty.You’re beautiful.But more than that, you’re kind, you’re caring, you’re generous, and for some reason that I don’t understand, you love me.And I love you more than…” At the crucial moment, he realized what he was saying, how important this was.“More than…” His eloquence dried up, and he began to panic.The dimple blinked in her cheek.“More than rocks?”“Definitely more than rocks.”“More than volcanoes?”“Definitely more than volcanoes.”“More than … earthquakes?”He hesitated.With a wail, she flung herself on his chest.“Not more than earthquakes?”She was crying.Was she crying?Yes, she was crying.He tilted her chin up.No, she was laughing.“Wretched wench,” he said, and pinched her ear.“I love you as much as any earthquake under seven-point-five on the Richter scale.”“Oh!” She punched him in the chest.“At least an eight.”“Seven-point-five, and I’ll throw in the aftershocks.”She laughed again, a little too long and a little too hysterically, but when she dug out a tissue from her purse to dab at her eyes, she said, “Thank you.I feel better.Not quite so afraid.”“She can’t hurt you.”Misty touched his cheek sadly, as if he was a pleasant fool.“Let’s go in.”Sandy and her husband, Bill Frisk, were middle-class American normal.Bill was six-two and looked like an aging football player, which in fact he was.He patted his stomach and joked that he used to have a six-pack, but now it was more like a keg.Their kids, Hope and Mary, were five and almost two.Hope was in kindergarten; she’d already received three pink slips but she promised her mommy not to bully anyone ever again.Mary had an ear infection and was going in next week to get tubes in her ears.In the meantime, if she wasn’t crying, she was whining.Sandy was hugely pregnant; they were having a boy, Bill Junior.Charles discovered all that in the first two minutes of Sandy’s overly bright chatter; she never drew a breath through all the nodding and hand-shaking and hanging of jackets.Charles noted the rather desperate hug Misty and Sandy gave each other, and the much more gingerly hug Misty gave her mother.In fact, Misty looked like a detonation expert taking stock of a particularly deadly ticking bomb.Frankie Winston, aka Mother, was a California beauty.Too thin, too blond, too worked-out, smiling tightly, dressed exquisitely.Her face had been lifted, and yet for all the stretched immobility of her expression, she managed to convey scorn in her glittering blue eyes.With a nod, she acknowledged Charles and dismissed him at the same time.Turning to Sandy, she said, “Bill Junior? Wasn’t it bad enough that you named your daughters names like Hope and Mary? Do you have to saddle a boy with Bill? Do you have a thing for four-letter names?”“I don’t have any aspirations for my children to go into show business, Mother, and plain names are more acceptable in the real world.” Sandy’s eyes glittered as hard and blue as her mother’s.“True,” Frankie agreed.“These kids would never make it in Hollywood.”Bill Senior thrust a glass of red wine into Charles’s hand.“Here.You’ll need this,” he muttered.Sandy asked, “Why don’t we sit down for dinner?”CHAPTER FORTY-THREEThey sat shoulder to shoulder at a round table in the tiny dining area.In an undertone, Misty told him, “Sandy bought a round table for the same reasons King Arthur seated his knights at a round table—to give everyone the same importance in seating.”“Your mother likes the head of the table?” he murmured.“Um-hm.”Bill pulled a pan of lasagna out of the oven.Sandy stood at the counter and tossed the salad with dressing and croutons, and handed it around, followed by a basket of sourdough garlic bread.Frankie poured herself a big glass of wine.“Darling, you do know these overflowing pans of lasagna went out a good ten years ago?”Sandy paused, her spatula ready to cut into the steaming, cheesy casserole.Misty shook out her napkin.“Sandy makes the best lasagna I’ve ever tasted.Why would she change?”Sandy plunged the spatula through the noodles with a clean, stabbing motion.“Yes.” Frankie ran her fingers through her blond, short-cropped hair.“Of course.It is very good.But so many calories!”Charles watched the scene unfolding before him with a sense of helplessness.Outside of a play by Tennessee Williams, he had never seen anything like Frankie.The unexpected attacks, the words chosen to cut and maim, the constant undermining … it was terrifying.It was fascinating.But this wasn’t a Broadway play, and this woman was hurting his wife.Had hurt Misty her whole life.He was beginning to comprehend what Misty’s life had been, why she smiled, how much of her grief and uncertainty she managed to hide—“So!” Frankie turned on him like a striking cobra.“Misty tells me the two of you are married.”He had never in his life made a suave, romantic gesture.He made one now [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.But listen to me, Misty.You’re beautiful.But more than that, you’re kind, you’re caring, you’re generous, and for some reason that I don’t understand, you love me.And I love you more than…” At the crucial moment, he realized what he was saying, how important this was.“More than…” His eloquence dried up, and he began to panic.The dimple blinked in her cheek.“More than rocks?”“Definitely more than rocks.”“More than volcanoes?”“Definitely more than volcanoes.”“More than … earthquakes?”He hesitated.With a wail, she flung herself on his chest.“Not more than earthquakes?”She was crying.Was she crying?Yes, she was crying.He tilted her chin up.No, she was laughing.“Wretched wench,” he said, and pinched her ear.“I love you as much as any earthquake under seven-point-five on the Richter scale.”“Oh!” She punched him in the chest.“At least an eight.”“Seven-point-five, and I’ll throw in the aftershocks.”She laughed again, a little too long and a little too hysterically, but when she dug out a tissue from her purse to dab at her eyes, she said, “Thank you.I feel better.Not quite so afraid.”“She can’t hurt you.”Misty touched his cheek sadly, as if he was a pleasant fool.“Let’s go in.”Sandy and her husband, Bill Frisk, were middle-class American normal.Bill was six-two and looked like an aging football player, which in fact he was.He patted his stomach and joked that he used to have a six-pack, but now it was more like a keg.Their kids, Hope and Mary, were five and almost two.Hope was in kindergarten; she’d already received three pink slips but she promised her mommy not to bully anyone ever again.Mary had an ear infection and was going in next week to get tubes in her ears.In the meantime, if she wasn’t crying, she was whining.Sandy was hugely pregnant; they were having a boy, Bill Junior.Charles discovered all that in the first two minutes of Sandy’s overly bright chatter; she never drew a breath through all the nodding and hand-shaking and hanging of jackets.Charles noted the rather desperate hug Misty and Sandy gave each other, and the much more gingerly hug Misty gave her mother.In fact, Misty looked like a detonation expert taking stock of a particularly deadly ticking bomb.Frankie Winston, aka Mother, was a California beauty.Too thin, too blond, too worked-out, smiling tightly, dressed exquisitely.Her face had been lifted, and yet for all the stretched immobility of her expression, she managed to convey scorn in her glittering blue eyes.With a nod, she acknowledged Charles and dismissed him at the same time.Turning to Sandy, she said, “Bill Junior? Wasn’t it bad enough that you named your daughters names like Hope and Mary? Do you have to saddle a boy with Bill? Do you have a thing for four-letter names?”“I don’t have any aspirations for my children to go into show business, Mother, and plain names are more acceptable in the real world.” Sandy’s eyes glittered as hard and blue as her mother’s.“True,” Frankie agreed.“These kids would never make it in Hollywood.”Bill Senior thrust a glass of red wine into Charles’s hand.“Here.You’ll need this,” he muttered.Sandy asked, “Why don’t we sit down for dinner?”CHAPTER FORTY-THREEThey sat shoulder to shoulder at a round table in the tiny dining area.In an undertone, Misty told him, “Sandy bought a round table for the same reasons King Arthur seated his knights at a round table—to give everyone the same importance in seating.”“Your mother likes the head of the table?” he murmured.“Um-hm.”Bill pulled a pan of lasagna out of the oven.Sandy stood at the counter and tossed the salad with dressing and croutons, and handed it around, followed by a basket of sourdough garlic bread.Frankie poured herself a big glass of wine.“Darling, you do know these overflowing pans of lasagna went out a good ten years ago?”Sandy paused, her spatula ready to cut into the steaming, cheesy casserole.Misty shook out her napkin.“Sandy makes the best lasagna I’ve ever tasted.Why would she change?”Sandy plunged the spatula through the noodles with a clean, stabbing motion.“Yes.” Frankie ran her fingers through her blond, short-cropped hair.“Of course.It is very good.But so many calories!”Charles watched the scene unfolding before him with a sense of helplessness.Outside of a play by Tennessee Williams, he had never seen anything like Frankie.The unexpected attacks, the words chosen to cut and maim, the constant undermining … it was terrifying.It was fascinating.But this wasn’t a Broadway play, and this woman was hurting his wife.Had hurt Misty her whole life.He was beginning to comprehend what Misty’s life had been, why she smiled, how much of her grief and uncertainty she managed to hide—“So!” Frankie turned on him like a striking cobra.“Misty tells me the two of you are married.”He had never in his life made a suave, romantic gesture.He made one now [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]