pan with my phone number so she could call but she didn’t.”
“That’s not very neighborly,” Trace said.
Her eyes were still going up and down as she jogged in place. “Try this,” she puffed. “About a week later, I came out of the house one day and the loaf pan was right there on top of the milk box.”
“At least you got your pan back,” Trace said.
“Yeah. But the garbanzo loaf was still in it. It wasn’t even touched. Is that rude or what?”
“Rude, definitely rude. Garbanzos have feelings too. So that’s it?”
“Sum and substance of all my dealings with my next-door neighbors.”
“You don’t see them in church or at the market or anything?” Trace asked.
“Once in a while I see the maid at the supermarket.”
“Is she nice?”
“I don’t even know her name. We don’t talk,” the woman said.
“I guess there’s not much point in my trying to talk to those folks, then, is there?” Trace asked.
“You wouldn’t get past the gate.”
“I want to thank you for taking this time out of your busy day. You’ve been very helpful to me.”
“I didn’t tell you anything,” the woman said.
“But you tried, and in this world of woe and tragedy, good intentions count for a lot.”
“I’d rather have the money. Listen, talk to the woman across the street. She’s nosy and she might know something.”
“Thank you. It’s been nice talking to you through the door this way. Would it help if I stayed and counted cadence for you?”
As he walked back to his car, Trace told himself that it wasn’t really a wasted stop. After all, he had come up with the good idea of a reading gadget for joggers. And all a man needed to become wealthy, really wealthy, was one good idea. That, and a little investment capital. As soon as the restaurant opened and started producing money, Trace would have no shortage of investment capital. The future looked bright. If the restaurant ever opened…
Trace backed out into the street and drove up the roadway to the house directly across the street from Mrs. Paddington’s. He parked in front of the closed garage door, walked to the front entrance, and rang the bell.
“No one’s there,” a woman’s voice called out.
Trace looked around but saw no one.
“Over here,” the voice called. “Behind the big tree.”
On the far side of a big pine tree, Trace found a woman lying on a towel on the neatly clipped lawn. She was wearing the skimpiest of two-piece bathing suits; her hair was fire-red and shiny, her skin very tan. Her eyes were large and jade-green. She had turned on her side to await Trace, with her head propped on one hand. The curve of her hip nipping into a small waist as she lay there was like the female curve in a sketch of Picasso’s—simple, yet totally womanly. Her bosom was very large.
“Are you the lady of the house?” Trace asked.
“I hope I don’t look like the man of the house?” the woman said. She smiled. Her teeth were large and even and very white, her lips wide and full and seemingly dark red without the use of lipstick. Her eyelashes were so thick that they looked as if they had been baked in a kiln, but she wore no other makeup and Trace thought that perhaps the lashes were just another of nature’s gifts to her.
Next to her, a glass was held in a coiled metal ring, attached to a metal rod stuck into the ground. A lawn drink holder. Trace was impressed and wished he had invented that. Another glass, empty, was in a holder next to hers.
“No,” Trace said. “No mistaking you for the man of the house. You live here, I take it?”
The woman rolled onto her back and smiled at Trace, who, standing there, suddenly understood the meaning of jumping one’s bones. He kept himself vertical by an act of will.
“Before you get all involved in business discussions and boring stuff, would you like a drink?” she asked.
“Yes. My lips are suddenly dry.”
“Pour yourself one.” She handed him a glass pitcher that
“That’s not very neighborly,” Trace said.
Her eyes were still going up and down as she jogged in place. “Try this,” she puffed. “About a week later, I came out of the house one day and the loaf pan was right there on top of the milk box.”
“At least you got your pan back,” Trace said.
“Yeah. But the garbanzo loaf was still in it. It wasn’t even touched. Is that rude or what?”
“Rude, definitely rude. Garbanzos have feelings too. So that’s it?”
“Sum and substance of all my dealings with my next-door neighbors.”
“You don’t see them in church or at the market or anything?” Trace asked.
“Once in a while I see the maid at the supermarket.”
“Is she nice?”
“I don’t even know her name. We don’t talk,” the woman said.
“I guess there’s not much point in my trying to talk to those folks, then, is there?” Trace asked.
“You wouldn’t get past the gate.”
“I want to thank you for taking this time out of your busy day. You’ve been very helpful to me.”
“I didn’t tell you anything,” the woman said.
“But you tried, and in this world of woe and tragedy, good intentions count for a lot.”
“I’d rather have the money. Listen, talk to the woman across the street. She’s nosy and she might know something.”
“Thank you. It’s been nice talking to you through the door this way. Would it help if I stayed and counted cadence for you?”
As he walked back to his car, Trace told himself that it wasn’t really a wasted stop. After all, he had come up with the good idea of a reading gadget for joggers. And all a man needed to become wealthy, really wealthy, was one good idea. That, and a little investment capital. As soon as the restaurant opened and started producing money, Trace would have no shortage of investment capital. The future looked bright. If the restaurant ever opened…
Trace backed out into the street and drove up the roadway to the house directly across the street from Mrs. Paddington’s. He parked in front of the closed garage door, walked to the front entrance, and rang the bell.
“No one’s there,” a woman’s voice called out.
Trace looked around but saw no one.
“Over here,” the voice called. “Behind the big tree.”
On the far side of a big pine tree, Trace found a woman lying on a towel on the neatly clipped lawn. She was wearing the skimpiest of two-piece bathing suits; her hair was fire-red and shiny, her skin very tan. Her eyes were large and jade-green. She had turned on her side to await Trace, with her head propped on one hand. The curve of her hip nipping into a small waist as she lay there was like the female curve in a sketch of Picasso’s—simple, yet totally womanly. Her bosom was very large.
“Are you the lady of the house?” Trace asked.
“I hope I don’t look like the man of the house?” the woman said. She smiled. Her teeth were large and even and very white, her lips wide and full and seemingly dark red without the use of lipstick. Her eyelashes were so thick that they looked as if they had been baked in a kiln, but she wore no other makeup and Trace thought that perhaps the lashes were just another of nature’s gifts to her.
Next to her, a glass was held in a coiled metal ring, attached to a metal rod stuck into the ground. A lawn drink holder. Trace was impressed and wished he had invented that. Another glass, empty, was in a holder next to hers.
“No,” Trace said. “No mistaking you for the man of the house. You live here, I take it?”
The woman rolled onto her back and smiled at Trace, who, standing there, suddenly understood the meaning of jumping one’s bones. He kept himself vertical by an act of will.
“Before you get all involved in business discussions and boring stuff, would you like a drink?” she asked.
“Yes. My lips are suddenly dry.”
“Pour yourself one.” She handed him a glass pitcher that
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