really a matter of technique," I said.
"Fortunately for you," Susan said.
"Hey," I said.
She smiled.
"It has much to do," Susan said, "with whether you are happy in the task."
"So maybe she protesteth too much?"
"I'm sure she knows all there is to know," Susan said.
"But most adult women do."
"Not all of them."
"There are a thousand things that can inhibit someone's sexuality. But lack of skill is not a common problem."
"Really," I said. "You didn't learn any of this up in Albany, did you?"
She grinned at me. The big, wide grin, full of things hinted but not exactly said.
"I haven't cheated on you in ages," Susan said.
"Good to know," I said.
"But, I was a grown woman when I met you," Susan said. "Remember? Married and divorced. I had already learned a lot of things."
I nodded.
"And there was that little business out west," she said.
"That was then," I said. "This is now."
She looked steadily at me with no banter. My hand was on the table. She put her hand on top of it.
"Yes," she said. "It is."
We were silent. I drank some scotch. She drank some Cosmopolitan.
"I'm running around this thing like a headless chicken," I said.
"My guess would be," Susan said, "that whatever answers you're likely to get will come out of April."
"She denies all," I said.
"She has a past," Susan said. "Maybe that will tell you something."
I nodded slowly, thinking about it.
"What got her in trouble last time?" Susan said.
"Looking for love in all the wrong places."
"And the time before that," Susan said. "When you first met her?"
"Looking for love in all the wrong places," I said.
"Without some sort of major intervention," Susan said, "people don't change much."
"Cherchez l'homme," I said.
Susan nodded. "Maybe," she said.
"You Ivy Leaguers are a smart lot, aren't you?"
Susan nodded vigorously.
"Wildly oversexed, too," she said.
"Not all of you," I said.
"One's enough," she said.
"Yes," I said. "It is."
I raised my glass toward her. She picked up hers. We clinked.
"Fight fiercely, Harvard," I said.
19
In New York I stayed at the Carlyle hotel. I could have stayed at a Days Inn on the West Side for considerably less. But I would have gotten considerably less, and I'd had a good year. I liked the Carlyle.
Thus, on a bright, windy day in New York, with the temperature not bad in the upper thirties, I sat with Patricia Utley in the Gallery on the Madison Avenue side of the hotel and had tea. It was elegant with velvet and dark wood. Faintly from the Cafe I could hear piano music, somebody rehearsing for the evening. Barbara Carroll? Betty Buckley? I felt like I was in Gershwin's New York. I was more sophisticated than Paris Hilton.
"A professional thug," I said. "And a whorehouse madam having tea at the Carlyle. Is this a great country or what?"
"We look good," Patricia Utley said. "It covers a multitude."
We did look good. I looked like I always do: insouciant, roguish, and quite similar to Cary Grant, if Cary had had his nose broken more often. Patricia Utley wore a blue pinstriped pantsuit and a white shirt with a long collar. Her short hair had blond highlights, just like April's. Her makeup was discreet. She looked in shape. And the hints of aging at the corners of her face seemed to add some sort of prestige to her appearance.
We ordered the full tea. I like everything about tea, except tea. But I tried to stay with the spirit of it all.
"I've been chasing my tail," I said, "since I started with April."
Patricia Utley sipped some tea and put her cup down.
"And you wish my help?" she said.
"I do."
We both paused to examine our tea sandwich options.
"Let me tell you what I know, and what I think," I said.
"Please."
She listened quietly, sipping her tea, nibbling a cucumber sandwich. She seemed interested. She didn't interrupt. When I was finished, she said, "You think there's a lover or ex-lover somewhere in the picture?"
"I think I should find out if there is."
"What do you need from me?"
"Fortunately for you," Susan said.
"Hey," I said.
She smiled.
"It has much to do," Susan said, "with whether you are happy in the task."
"So maybe she protesteth too much?"
"I'm sure she knows all there is to know," Susan said.
"But most adult women do."
"Not all of them."
"There are a thousand things that can inhibit someone's sexuality. But lack of skill is not a common problem."
"Really," I said. "You didn't learn any of this up in Albany, did you?"
She grinned at me. The big, wide grin, full of things hinted but not exactly said.
"I haven't cheated on you in ages," Susan said.
"Good to know," I said.
"But, I was a grown woman when I met you," Susan said. "Remember? Married and divorced. I had already learned a lot of things."
I nodded.
"And there was that little business out west," she said.
"That was then," I said. "This is now."
She looked steadily at me with no banter. My hand was on the table. She put her hand on top of it.
"Yes," she said. "It is."
We were silent. I drank some scotch. She drank some Cosmopolitan.
"I'm running around this thing like a headless chicken," I said.
"My guess would be," Susan said, "that whatever answers you're likely to get will come out of April."
"She denies all," I said.
"She has a past," Susan said. "Maybe that will tell you something."
I nodded slowly, thinking about it.
"What got her in trouble last time?" Susan said.
"Looking for love in all the wrong places."
"And the time before that," Susan said. "When you first met her?"
"Looking for love in all the wrong places," I said.
"Without some sort of major intervention," Susan said, "people don't change much."
"Cherchez l'homme," I said.
Susan nodded. "Maybe," she said.
"You Ivy Leaguers are a smart lot, aren't you?"
Susan nodded vigorously.
"Wildly oversexed, too," she said.
"Not all of you," I said.
"One's enough," she said.
"Yes," I said. "It is."
I raised my glass toward her. She picked up hers. We clinked.
"Fight fiercely, Harvard," I said.
19
In New York I stayed at the Carlyle hotel. I could have stayed at a Days Inn on the West Side for considerably less. But I would have gotten considerably less, and I'd had a good year. I liked the Carlyle.
Thus, on a bright, windy day in New York, with the temperature not bad in the upper thirties, I sat with Patricia Utley in the Gallery on the Madison Avenue side of the hotel and had tea. It was elegant with velvet and dark wood. Faintly from the Cafe I could hear piano music, somebody rehearsing for the evening. Barbara Carroll? Betty Buckley? I felt like I was in Gershwin's New York. I was more sophisticated than Paris Hilton.
"A professional thug," I said. "And a whorehouse madam having tea at the Carlyle. Is this a great country or what?"
"We look good," Patricia Utley said. "It covers a multitude."
We did look good. I looked like I always do: insouciant, roguish, and quite similar to Cary Grant, if Cary had had his nose broken more often. Patricia Utley wore a blue pinstriped pantsuit and a white shirt with a long collar. Her short hair had blond highlights, just like April's. Her makeup was discreet. She looked in shape. And the hints of aging at the corners of her face seemed to add some sort of prestige to her appearance.
We ordered the full tea. I like everything about tea, except tea. But I tried to stay with the spirit of it all.
"I've been chasing my tail," I said, "since I started with April."
Patricia Utley sipped some tea and put her cup down.
"And you wish my help?" she said.
"I do."
We both paused to examine our tea sandwich options.
"Let me tell you what I know, and what I think," I said.
"Please."
She listened quietly, sipping her tea, nibbling a cucumber sandwich. She seemed interested. She didn't interrupt. When I was finished, she said, "You think there's a lover or ex-lover somewhere in the picture?"
"I think I should find out if there is."
"What do you need from me?"
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