course, he’s too busy fielding calls from his admirers. But if he does call, you have to promise to be casual and not take it too seriously. I’m sure he’ll want to see more of you, but a man like Norman Grafstein isn’t ready to settle down again soon. He’s enjoying his popularity.”
Flo was right. Norman Grafstein did call May the next day.
“I’d been meaning to ring you up ever since the brunch,” he said, “only things got hectic. You know how it is. Obligations and so forth.”
May said that she did—though she didn’t. Her days, outside of the outings with her friends, were generally empty of commitments, and most of her time was spent, as she said, “puttering around.” She had a vision of Norman’s life as cluttered with elaborate social commitments of the kind featured on
Entertainment Tonight.
“I just thought maybe you’d like to come over to the club for a bite on Thursday,” he continued in his easy tone. “You can bring your friend, since I know you don’t like to drive.”
He’d recalled the conversation they’d had at the party inwhich May admitted to being one of those dangerous Boca drivers who went under thirty on major thoroughfares. It was the sole area where Irving, her late husband, a man who rarely raised his voice, had lost patience with her. “Put your foot on the gas, for chrissakes!” he used to scream whenever there was a lane merge and she and another car engaged in a tortoise race as to who would get behind whom.
Driving up to speed was a source of stress that May carried with her whenever she took her Ford Escort to the Publix supermarket or the Glades Multiplex, her two principal destinations. The Escort was another project that Carol was working on.
“It’s unsafe,” her daughter-in-law had declared. “If you have to go American, why not a Cadillac or a Lincoln? Personally, I’d have you in a nice, solid German car—the war’s been over for more than fifty years and everyone in Boca has one, even the professional Jews, so don’t give me any excuses.”
It was on Carol’s list that she and Alan would buy May a BMW for Mother’s Day. May was against it. She hated to drive, so why spend money on a new car? And with Flo, a confident if reckless driver (they had actually done seventy last week on a trip the three friends had taken to South Beach), she hardly drove at all anymore.
“Bring Flo,” Norman repeated, “and I’ll try to drum Stan up for another tongue-lashing. Boy, did I get a kick out of hearing her give him what-for.”
Flo was more than ready to drive her friend, and May knew enough not to tell her about Stan’s possible attendance at the luncheon.
“I’m taking my role as chaperone very seriously,” Flo said. “And I admit I’ll take enormous pleasure watching the two of you together. From the little I’ve seen of Norman Grafstein, I’d say that he has a disposition almost equal to yours, which is an amazing accomplishment, if you ask me, for a seventy-five-year-oldJewish man who’s been successful in business. Usually, the combination produces someone with the looks of Zero Mostel, the ego of Alan Dershowitz, and the temper of a small, poisonous snake. Norman Grafstein is an exception on all counts.”
Driving through the manicured grounds of Broken Arrow, having been properly vetted at an ivy-covered guard-house, May was dazzled.
“It’s like one of those old English estates!” she breathed admiringly.
“Please, spare me,” groaned Flo in a rare display of irritation with her friend. She credited May for her sweet nature and general good sense, but it was hard not to lose patience when confronted with this kind of esthetic judgment. Granted, Broken Arrow was a top-of-the-line club in Boca Raton, but it was no Blenheim Palace. In fact, it was merely Boca Festa on a grander and lusher scale, with every building material, every decorative object, every amenity ratcheted up to its most expensive
Flo was right. Norman Grafstein did call May the next day.
“I’d been meaning to ring you up ever since the brunch,” he said, “only things got hectic. You know how it is. Obligations and so forth.”
May said that she did—though she didn’t. Her days, outside of the outings with her friends, were generally empty of commitments, and most of her time was spent, as she said, “puttering around.” She had a vision of Norman’s life as cluttered with elaborate social commitments of the kind featured on
Entertainment Tonight.
“I just thought maybe you’d like to come over to the club for a bite on Thursday,” he continued in his easy tone. “You can bring your friend, since I know you don’t like to drive.”
He’d recalled the conversation they’d had at the party inwhich May admitted to being one of those dangerous Boca drivers who went under thirty on major thoroughfares. It was the sole area where Irving, her late husband, a man who rarely raised his voice, had lost patience with her. “Put your foot on the gas, for chrissakes!” he used to scream whenever there was a lane merge and she and another car engaged in a tortoise race as to who would get behind whom.
Driving up to speed was a source of stress that May carried with her whenever she took her Ford Escort to the Publix supermarket or the Glades Multiplex, her two principal destinations. The Escort was another project that Carol was working on.
“It’s unsafe,” her daughter-in-law had declared. “If you have to go American, why not a Cadillac or a Lincoln? Personally, I’d have you in a nice, solid German car—the war’s been over for more than fifty years and everyone in Boca has one, even the professional Jews, so don’t give me any excuses.”
It was on Carol’s list that she and Alan would buy May a BMW for Mother’s Day. May was against it. She hated to drive, so why spend money on a new car? And with Flo, a confident if reckless driver (they had actually done seventy last week on a trip the three friends had taken to South Beach), she hardly drove at all anymore.
“Bring Flo,” Norman repeated, “and I’ll try to drum Stan up for another tongue-lashing. Boy, did I get a kick out of hearing her give him what-for.”
Flo was more than ready to drive her friend, and May knew enough not to tell her about Stan’s possible attendance at the luncheon.
“I’m taking my role as chaperone very seriously,” Flo said. “And I admit I’ll take enormous pleasure watching the two of you together. From the little I’ve seen of Norman Grafstein, I’d say that he has a disposition almost equal to yours, which is an amazing accomplishment, if you ask me, for a seventy-five-year-oldJewish man who’s been successful in business. Usually, the combination produces someone with the looks of Zero Mostel, the ego of Alan Dershowitz, and the temper of a small, poisonous snake. Norman Grafstein is an exception on all counts.”
Driving through the manicured grounds of Broken Arrow, having been properly vetted at an ivy-covered guard-house, May was dazzled.
“It’s like one of those old English estates!” she breathed admiringly.
“Please, spare me,” groaned Flo in a rare display of irritation with her friend. She credited May for her sweet nature and general good sense, but it was hard not to lose patience when confronted with this kind of esthetic judgment. Granted, Broken Arrow was a top-of-the-line club in Boca Raton, but it was no Blenheim Palace. In fact, it was merely Boca Festa on a grander and lusher scale, with every building material, every decorative object, every amenity ratcheted up to its most expensive
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