Dreams Are Not Enough by Jacqueline Briskin Page B

along a narrow spit of land across from Balboa: the paired resort towns cuddle around a large, boat-filled bay. During the summer Angelenos flock down, clogging traffic for miles. In mid November the roads weren’t jammed, but nevertheless Barry concentrated on his driving. This morning they’d had their first spat. Barry had suggested Alicia wear shorts, but since she owned only the Taylor girl’s hand-me-down white ones, ancient and mended, a too graphic reminder of the Henry Lopez incident, she’d put on her red sundress with the stole. Barry had not commented, he had simply remained silent. Since then he had responded to her attempts at conversation monosyllabically. She was anxious enough about an entire day with his sister and those rich cousins, and his silence made her stomach twitch.
    In Newport, Barry turned left, crossing a short, humpbacked bridge.
    “Lido Isle,” he announced.
    “The most exclusive of the exclusive.”
    “It’s nice,” she said, grateful that he had spoken, yet unsure why these houses jammed so close together were considered special.
    Barry parked, leading the way to a two-story, white-shingled Cape Cod.
    As they walked along the side path, Alicia realized how deceptive the frontages were. The Zaffarano house went back at least a hundred feet.
    In the bright noon sunlight, the acres of fresh white paint gleamed, blurring in front of her eyes. She reached for Barry’s hand. His fingers dangled, limply unresponsive.
    They turned a corner, emerging onto a planked deck. A brisk breeze shimmered whitecaps across the azure bay. The big Chris-Craft with the royal blue canvas cover that matched the house’s royal blue shutters bobbled and banged its bumpers against the swaying dock. The deck was protected by high glass walls, and in the still warmth, PD, Hap and Maxim were stretched out sunbathing. Beth, fiddling with a camera, wore a sleeveless yellow blouse and matching shorts.
    Barry called, “Hi, guys.”
    The others looked up.
    Alicia, acutely conscious of the tightness other sundress top, and of the black patent shoes with the killing pointed toes and stiletto heels, formed a smile.
    PD pushed to his feet. His compact, well-muscled, dark-tanned body agleam with Coppertone, he strode toward them.
    “Welcome,” he said, smiling.
    “So you finally made it.”
    Maxim raised up on one long, thin arm, giving Barry and Alicia his acid smile.
    “Hell, PD, you know these horny honeymooners, they probably pulled over for a quickie.”
    Beth held up her finger, smiling.
    “Hold it.” Bending her smooth head, she aimed her camera at PD, who was standing between Barry and Alicia.
    After the click, Hap moved into the group. Alicia, who even in her heels was nearly a head shorter, couldn’t help noting that the curly blond hairs covering his chest became brown as they cut in a narrow line down to his navel, turning almost black where the line disappeared beneath his faded madras trunks.
    Hap punched at Barry’s shoulder in greeting before he kissed Alicia’s cheek. The light touch of his lips caused a surprising tingle of pleasure and her sense of being on enemy territory dwindled.
    “Beth’s made guacamole,” PD said.
    “Her one big specialty.”
    “Yeah,” Maxim added, “and the bitch refused to serve it up until her twinnie-twin-twin arrived. So hurry and suit up before we starve.”
    Barry glanced down, his lips pulling into a line that wasn’t quite a smile, an expression that Alicia had come to dread: it meant she had somehow embarrassed him.
    She said quickly, “I forgot to bring a suit.” Actually she didn’t own one, and hadn’t been able to sneak off for an hour to buy one at any of the intimidatingly smart little boutiques lining San Vincente Boulevard.
    “No sweat,” PD said.
    “Mom keeps a slew in the dressing room for all sizes and shapes.”
    On the other side of the house were twin doors with bright brass silhouettes designating the sex of the users. Alicia