remembered, to discover some new authors and round up a belated manuscript or two. (Brad had reverted to his early interest in French and German literature—he had a degree from Harvard, way back in the early 1940s—which provided a pleasant niche for him in the publishing field.) “Why not take Mona with you on your next trip abroad?”
“Children,” said Brad briefly. As a man of fifty-two who had married young, he now had all the problems of two divorced daughters and four grandchildren. “Why people can’t stay married!” He shook his head. It seemed to him that after bringing up two strong-minded females, it was a bit much to have their offspring dumped on Mona. “Never own a house with five bedrooms,” he said. “Should have got rid of it years ago.”
“Well,” said Tom, pouring bourbon for Brad and Scotch for Thea and himself, “when home becomes unbearable there’s always the office.”
“Is Brad long-suffering, again?” Tony Lawton asked, as he stepped into the room and closed the door firmly. His voice and smile were amiable, and they all responded with a laugh, even a small one from Brad, who knew his own weaknesses better than most men. “Don’t you believe him. He’s addicted to work. Take that away, and he’d really be miserable.”
“Overwork was never your complaint, Tony,” Brad reminded him. But the indirect compliment pleased him.
“Wouldn’t dream of allowing it to interfere with my pleasures. Yes, I’ll have bourbon, Tom. And how are you, old boy? Mrs. Kelso—” Tony turned all his easy charm on her, and it was considerable—“how very nice it is to see you again. Or don’t you remember me?”
He wasn’t a particularly memorable man: nondescript features; brownish hair; grey eyes level with hers; no more than five foot seven. Age? Late thirties, early forties? His voice was attractive. He was dressed in grey, the suit well cut; his tie was subdued, his shoes gleaming. Clothes definitely made the man in this case, Dorothea decided: without that cut of suit and those polished shoes, she never would have identified him so quickly. Unless, of course, he retained that warm smile and gentle humour in his talk. “I remember,” she said. “The wine-merchant who likes to drink bourbon and branch-water.”
“Split personality,” Tony agreed, and didn’t even flinch at “wine-merchant.” He rather liked that description of his wine-shipping firm, headquarters in London, branches all around the world.
“It’s safer drinking bourbon than Bordeaux nowadays,” Brad suggested, and that launched Tony into a hilarious version of the “Winegate” scandal in France. He had just come from there, seemingly. He does get around, thought Dorothea, and sat quietly watching the three men absorbed in one another. The talk was veering from French wine to French politics, then over to Algiers (wine as the lead-in to politics again) and next to Italy (Chianti troubles and—yes, there it was once more—political problems). It wasn’t that the men had forgotten about her: there were smiles in her direction to keep her in touch, as it were. And she was fascinated. Free-flowing conversation like this seemed to bring out each man’s character. Tom was the journalist, pouncing on a statement, questioning. Brad still retained much of his reserved and thoughtful State Department manner—everything weighed, and often found wanting. And Tony, eyes now alert and interested, tongue quick and explicit, must be a most capable business-man. In some ways, a strange trio; but friends, most definitely. She had a sudden vision of getting all three of them on to the Bud Wells talk show—they’d take it over. That would really freeze Bud’s platitudes into astonished silence. She laughed. They stopped discussing Yugoslavia after Tito’s death, and looked at her in surprise.
The telephone rang. Saved by the bell, she thought as Tom went to answer the call and attention switched away from her.
“Children,” said Brad briefly. As a man of fifty-two who had married young, he now had all the problems of two divorced daughters and four grandchildren. “Why people can’t stay married!” He shook his head. It seemed to him that after bringing up two strong-minded females, it was a bit much to have their offspring dumped on Mona. “Never own a house with five bedrooms,” he said. “Should have got rid of it years ago.”
“Well,” said Tom, pouring bourbon for Brad and Scotch for Thea and himself, “when home becomes unbearable there’s always the office.”
“Is Brad long-suffering, again?” Tony Lawton asked, as he stepped into the room and closed the door firmly. His voice and smile were amiable, and they all responded with a laugh, even a small one from Brad, who knew his own weaknesses better than most men. “Don’t you believe him. He’s addicted to work. Take that away, and he’d really be miserable.”
“Overwork was never your complaint, Tony,” Brad reminded him. But the indirect compliment pleased him.
“Wouldn’t dream of allowing it to interfere with my pleasures. Yes, I’ll have bourbon, Tom. And how are you, old boy? Mrs. Kelso—” Tony turned all his easy charm on her, and it was considerable—“how very nice it is to see you again. Or don’t you remember me?”
He wasn’t a particularly memorable man: nondescript features; brownish hair; grey eyes level with hers; no more than five foot seven. Age? Late thirties, early forties? His voice was attractive. He was dressed in grey, the suit well cut; his tie was subdued, his shoes gleaming. Clothes definitely made the man in this case, Dorothea decided: without that cut of suit and those polished shoes, she never would have identified him so quickly. Unless, of course, he retained that warm smile and gentle humour in his talk. “I remember,” she said. “The wine-merchant who likes to drink bourbon and branch-water.”
“Split personality,” Tony agreed, and didn’t even flinch at “wine-merchant.” He rather liked that description of his wine-shipping firm, headquarters in London, branches all around the world.
“It’s safer drinking bourbon than Bordeaux nowadays,” Brad suggested, and that launched Tony into a hilarious version of the “Winegate” scandal in France. He had just come from there, seemingly. He does get around, thought Dorothea, and sat quietly watching the three men absorbed in one another. The talk was veering from French wine to French politics, then over to Algiers (wine as the lead-in to politics again) and next to Italy (Chianti troubles and—yes, there it was once more—political problems). It wasn’t that the men had forgotten about her: there were smiles in her direction to keep her in touch, as it were. And she was fascinated. Free-flowing conversation like this seemed to bring out each man’s character. Tom was the journalist, pouncing on a statement, questioning. Brad still retained much of his reserved and thoughtful State Department manner—everything weighed, and often found wanting. And Tony, eyes now alert and interested, tongue quick and explicit, must be a most capable business-man. In some ways, a strange trio; but friends, most definitely. She had a sudden vision of getting all three of them on to the Bud Wells talk show—they’d take it over. That would really freeze Bud’s platitudes into astonished silence. She laughed. They stopped discussing Yugoslavia after Tito’s death, and looked at her in surprise.
The telephone rang. Saved by the bell, she thought as Tom went to answer the call and attention switched away from her.
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