me.
“It’s wonderful,” I said.
“Give it a year, and you won’t be so easy to please.” She looked at me from the corners of her eyes. “Buck and Betsy Bodeen lived there until three days ago, you know. He was the head of Materials Supply. I’m sure you’ll want to redecorate. Those marble floors are so gauche.” I stole a glance to locate Mason, saw that Burt Cane had his full attention, but Candy ignored my distraction. “As soon as Ross gets promoted to general manager, we’re moving to Dhahran,” she said. “Abqaiq is in the middle of nowhere.” She pursed her lips. “Watch out for the houseboys. They always try to take advantage of newcomers.”
“Yash seems fine,” I said.
“He’s uppity.” The corners of her mouth winced, then lifted as her eyes took on new focus. “Carlo is here,” she said.
I followed her gaze to where a compact man with a camera crouched on his heels. Green silk scarf tied across his high forehead, dark beard sharpening his chin, gold hoop earrings, bloused white shirt undone and exposing a thatched chest, buccaneer’s boots to his knees—how I could have missed him, I wasn’t sure.
“He’s Italian,” Candy said. “Isn’t he cute?” She toggled her fingers his way, but when he didn’t seem to notice, she turned back to me. “Listen,” she said, “how about a round of golf tomorrow?”
“I don’t—”
“You can learn.” She glanced behind me and touched my wrist. “I’ll send you a personal invitation to the club.”
I watched her hone in on Mason, her voice rising as she extended her hand and smiled brightly, edging in until her breasts brushed his arm. I was glad when he looked up, saw me watching, and shifted away. I turned to the coffee and was adding powdered creamer when I felt someone touch my back.
“Hi,” the woman said. “I’m Ruthie Doucet.” She spread her arms wide. “Welcome to the Aramco family!” She rolled her dark eyes to where Candy Fullerton was laughing openmouthed at something Mason had said. “Did she ask you to join the Ladies’ Golf Club?”
“Yes, but—”
“Don’t,” Ruthie said. “There’s better company to keep.” She hooked my arm. “Come on. I’m dying for a cigarette.”
We sat at a table decorated with little flags stabbed into half-moons of Styrofoam: the Stars and Stripes, the green Arabic script and sword, Aramco’s rust-colored circled double A, bold as a cattle brand. Ruthie crossed her legs as she scouted the crowd. Brunette bouffant, blue eye shadow, pearly lipstick, a tartan skirt and cap-sleeved pullover—she was nearing forty, I guessed, but had the electric air of a teenager.
“How long?” she asked.
“We flew in yesterday.”
She offered me a cigarette. I hadn’t smoked since that first seductive puff in Mason’s car, but I figured I could fake it. She loosened one high heel and rubbed the arch of her foot. “From?”
“Houston. Oklahoma before that.” I held the smoke in my cheeks, let it out in a puff.
“I met Lucky in Beirut,” she said, “We moved here from the States after he got out of the air force, fifteen years now. Any kids?” When I hesitated, she dipped her hand as though in understanding and went on. “We’ve got one son, Joey. He’s in boarding school at Hargrave.” She pointed her cigarette to where a man nearly twice her size was filling his mouth with cookies, and Irecognized him as the one who had shouted his answers at Ross. “Lucky!” she called. “Lucky Doucet! Come and meet Gin.”
Sandy hair clipped into a crew cut, brown eyes, a chip-toothed smile that made him look younger than he was, Lucky, tanned brown as a beechnut, rolled toward us, a slight limp in his stride. He shook my hand gently, as though he were afraid he might hurt me.
“My husband …” I said, and cast about for Mason.
“… is already taking his job too serious.” He chuckled the kind of laugh that could turn into a full-bellied guffaw without notice, his
“It’s wonderful,” I said.
“Give it a year, and you won’t be so easy to please.” She looked at me from the corners of her eyes. “Buck and Betsy Bodeen lived there until three days ago, you know. He was the head of Materials Supply. I’m sure you’ll want to redecorate. Those marble floors are so gauche.” I stole a glance to locate Mason, saw that Burt Cane had his full attention, but Candy ignored my distraction. “As soon as Ross gets promoted to general manager, we’re moving to Dhahran,” she said. “Abqaiq is in the middle of nowhere.” She pursed her lips. “Watch out for the houseboys. They always try to take advantage of newcomers.”
“Yash seems fine,” I said.
“He’s uppity.” The corners of her mouth winced, then lifted as her eyes took on new focus. “Carlo is here,” she said.
I followed her gaze to where a compact man with a camera crouched on his heels. Green silk scarf tied across his high forehead, dark beard sharpening his chin, gold hoop earrings, bloused white shirt undone and exposing a thatched chest, buccaneer’s boots to his knees—how I could have missed him, I wasn’t sure.
“He’s Italian,” Candy said. “Isn’t he cute?” She toggled her fingers his way, but when he didn’t seem to notice, she turned back to me. “Listen,” she said, “how about a round of golf tomorrow?”
“I don’t—”
“You can learn.” She glanced behind me and touched my wrist. “I’ll send you a personal invitation to the club.”
I watched her hone in on Mason, her voice rising as she extended her hand and smiled brightly, edging in until her breasts brushed his arm. I was glad when he looked up, saw me watching, and shifted away. I turned to the coffee and was adding powdered creamer when I felt someone touch my back.
“Hi,” the woman said. “I’m Ruthie Doucet.” She spread her arms wide. “Welcome to the Aramco family!” She rolled her dark eyes to where Candy Fullerton was laughing openmouthed at something Mason had said. “Did she ask you to join the Ladies’ Golf Club?”
“Yes, but—”
“Don’t,” Ruthie said. “There’s better company to keep.” She hooked my arm. “Come on. I’m dying for a cigarette.”
We sat at a table decorated with little flags stabbed into half-moons of Styrofoam: the Stars and Stripes, the green Arabic script and sword, Aramco’s rust-colored circled double A, bold as a cattle brand. Ruthie crossed her legs as she scouted the crowd. Brunette bouffant, blue eye shadow, pearly lipstick, a tartan skirt and cap-sleeved pullover—she was nearing forty, I guessed, but had the electric air of a teenager.
“How long?” she asked.
“We flew in yesterday.”
She offered me a cigarette. I hadn’t smoked since that first seductive puff in Mason’s car, but I figured I could fake it. She loosened one high heel and rubbed the arch of her foot. “From?”
“Houston. Oklahoma before that.” I held the smoke in my cheeks, let it out in a puff.
“I met Lucky in Beirut,” she said, “We moved here from the States after he got out of the air force, fifteen years now. Any kids?” When I hesitated, she dipped her hand as though in understanding and went on. “We’ve got one son, Joey. He’s in boarding school at Hargrave.” She pointed her cigarette to where a man nearly twice her size was filling his mouth with cookies, and Irecognized him as the one who had shouted his answers at Ross. “Lucky!” she called. “Lucky Doucet! Come and meet Gin.”
Sandy hair clipped into a crew cut, brown eyes, a chip-toothed smile that made him look younger than he was, Lucky, tanned brown as a beechnut, rolled toward us, a slight limp in his stride. He shook my hand gently, as though he were afraid he might hurt me.
“My husband …” I said, and cast about for Mason.
“… is already taking his job too serious.” He chuckled the kind of laugh that could turn into a full-bellied guffaw without notice, his
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