carefully.
"When will you get to see your kids?" Chelsea asked, wanting to take his hand, perhaps to comfort him. He didn't look particularly miserable, as George had said he was, but some people hid their feelings very well. Her heroes especially, at least the Mark Is.
"My kids? At Christmas. They'll be coming out from Boston for a couple of weeks. Then, with any luck at all, they'll come out here again during the spring. Would you like a slice of bread, Chelsea? With butter? Here's some delicious-looking strawberry jam."
She shook her head. "Why don't you have some? It's really wonderful. I bet you really miss them."
"Yeah, I do. Why don't I order us some soup?"
"David, I'm not all that hungry."
"All right," he said quickly, not wanting her to become suspicious. "You told me you were an only child. That must have been tough."
"Tough? Not really, I've got a couple of zany parents. Didn't I tell you about them?"
He tried to remember, but only Elliot's words were clear in his mind. "No, not much, at any rate. What makes you say they're zany?"
Chelsea laughed, a clear, sweet sound. "Actually, I think the word was invented for them." She saw that he wanted to hear more and set out to making it amusing. "My dad, if you don't recall, is a dentist. Imagine if you can a man in his early fifties, as tanned as any surfer, with a gold chain around his neck. He's a health food freak and jogs five miles a day. All this, you understand, while my mother is either packing or unpacking for or from a trip to the Lord knows where. How about your folks? Are they a bit zany or … ultraconservative? "
"The latter," he said. She was so brave, he thought, no bitterness at all in her voice when she spoke of her parents. He couldn't help it. He pictured a lonely little girl—who somehow managed in his mind to have a cute bottom—who escaped her miserable existence in fantasy. "Is that why you started writing?" he asked abruptly.
Chelsea blinked and took another drink of wine. "Writing? I started writing because, like many writers I know, I'm also a voracious reader, and one day I threw the novel I was reading across the room and said I could do better. That's how I started writing."
"Oh." So she'd read a lot to escape her loneliness. He pictured a lonely little girl curled up in a corner with books piled around her, thick glasses on her nose.
"Do you wear glasses for reading?"
His mental leaps were most odd, but Chelsea didn't mind. She thought again that for a very lonely, overworked man, he was extremely charming. She had a fleeting memory of him lying on top of her on the sofa and felt a bit of warmth at the thought. Oh, well, she thought, it wouldn't have continued even if he hadn't turned weird on her. She probably would have frozen up on him and kicked him out of her condo. She sighed.
"Chelsea, do you wear glasses for reading?" he repeated, wondering at the myriad expressions that had flitted across her expressive face. Oh, Lord, maybe she couldn't afford glasses. Just maybe …
"No, I've got perfect vision, just like my dad. Old Eagle Eye, I call him."
Thank God, he thought.
"Do you wear reading glasses—or operating glasses, as the case may be?"
He shook his head. "You're very small," he said abruptly.
That brought forth a merry laugh, which was cut off with the arrival of their waiter, carrying two heaped plates.
"Do you think this will fill in all the cracks, doctor?"
"Most impressive," David said. Lots of shrimp, he thought. That was good.
He took a bite and nodded in approval. "How tall are you, Chelsea?"
"I'm afraid that, like the pink stuff on the plate, I'm also something of a shrimp. Five foot two and a half. My dad used to have me do stretching exercises, complained like mad that it was all my mother's fault, bad genes and all that."
Had Chelsea but known it, she was attaining near saintlike stature in David's eyes for her lighthearted treatment of what must have been an utterly miserable childhood. He
"When will you get to see your kids?" Chelsea asked, wanting to take his hand, perhaps to comfort him. He didn't look particularly miserable, as George had said he was, but some people hid their feelings very well. Her heroes especially, at least the Mark Is.
"My kids? At Christmas. They'll be coming out from Boston for a couple of weeks. Then, with any luck at all, they'll come out here again during the spring. Would you like a slice of bread, Chelsea? With butter? Here's some delicious-looking strawberry jam."
She shook her head. "Why don't you have some? It's really wonderful. I bet you really miss them."
"Yeah, I do. Why don't I order us some soup?"
"David, I'm not all that hungry."
"All right," he said quickly, not wanting her to become suspicious. "You told me you were an only child. That must have been tough."
"Tough? Not really, I've got a couple of zany parents. Didn't I tell you about them?"
He tried to remember, but only Elliot's words were clear in his mind. "No, not much, at any rate. What makes you say they're zany?"
Chelsea laughed, a clear, sweet sound. "Actually, I think the word was invented for them." She saw that he wanted to hear more and set out to making it amusing. "My dad, if you don't recall, is a dentist. Imagine if you can a man in his early fifties, as tanned as any surfer, with a gold chain around his neck. He's a health food freak and jogs five miles a day. All this, you understand, while my mother is either packing or unpacking for or from a trip to the Lord knows where. How about your folks? Are they a bit zany or … ultraconservative? "
"The latter," he said. She was so brave, he thought, no bitterness at all in her voice when she spoke of her parents. He couldn't help it. He pictured a lonely little girl—who somehow managed in his mind to have a cute bottom—who escaped her miserable existence in fantasy. "Is that why you started writing?" he asked abruptly.
Chelsea blinked and took another drink of wine. "Writing? I started writing because, like many writers I know, I'm also a voracious reader, and one day I threw the novel I was reading across the room and said I could do better. That's how I started writing."
"Oh." So she'd read a lot to escape her loneliness. He pictured a lonely little girl curled up in a corner with books piled around her, thick glasses on her nose.
"Do you wear glasses for reading?"
His mental leaps were most odd, but Chelsea didn't mind. She thought again that for a very lonely, overworked man, he was extremely charming. She had a fleeting memory of him lying on top of her on the sofa and felt a bit of warmth at the thought. Oh, well, she thought, it wouldn't have continued even if he hadn't turned weird on her. She probably would have frozen up on him and kicked him out of her condo. She sighed.
"Chelsea, do you wear glasses for reading?" he repeated, wondering at the myriad expressions that had flitted across her expressive face. Oh, Lord, maybe she couldn't afford glasses. Just maybe …
"No, I've got perfect vision, just like my dad. Old Eagle Eye, I call him."
Thank God, he thought.
"Do you wear reading glasses—or operating glasses, as the case may be?"
He shook his head. "You're very small," he said abruptly.
That brought forth a merry laugh, which was cut off with the arrival of their waiter, carrying two heaped plates.
"Do you think this will fill in all the cracks, doctor?"
"Most impressive," David said. Lots of shrimp, he thought. That was good.
He took a bite and nodded in approval. "How tall are you, Chelsea?"
"I'm afraid that, like the pink stuff on the plate, I'm also something of a shrimp. Five foot two and a half. My dad used to have me do stretching exercises, complained like mad that it was all my mother's fault, bad genes and all that."
Had Chelsea but known it, she was attaining near saintlike stature in David's eyes for her lighthearted treatment of what must have been an utterly miserable childhood. He
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