called her, and she throwing back her head and laughing. What in the name of God was he doing here with this windy old bag and her string of a dog, and the treasure lost that would bind him to the fair Gianina?
“I’ll buy us a round when next we meet,” he said and emptied his glass. “I’ve to go now and do my work.”
“I’ll be waiting to hear when you’re reading next…I wouldn’t care if it was the phone book, you’ve such a lovely voice.”
EIGHT
J ULIE WAS LATE ARRIVING at the Alexanders’. She had dressed carefully. A blue chiffon silk that suggested more bosom than could be proven.
Fran said at the door, “Jeff was worried about you.”
“I don’t believe it. I’m always having to tell people Jeff’s going to be a little late.”
“So that’s what was worrying him—that he got here on time. Don’t you look stunning!”
“Thank you.” Julie could feel the color rise to her cheeks. Fran always looked stunning. She had a lot of style but it never got in the way of her being a real person. She was much younger than Tony, probably closer to Jeff’s age. They were going to be like three generations at dinner. Fran ran a flower shop on Lexington Avenue where a lot of customers came in to drop off gossip they hoped might turn up in Tony’s column in the Daily News.
“Here’s our girl,” Fran called out, leading the way through the living room out onto the terrace.
Tony heaved himself out of the chair. His dark shirt was sprinkled with ashes from his pipe. Jeff looked as though he had shaved and showered on arrival. He generally did look that way. Julie kissed him and then kissed Tony, just missing the sharp end of one white waxed mustachio.
“Orange juice and vodka, light on the vodka, right?” Tony said. The others were drinking martinis.
“You weren’t really worried?” Julie said to Jeff.
“You’re so rarely late I had to say something.”
“Ha!”
They moved to the edge of the terrace. Manhattan south from the twenty-sixth floor on Fifty-sixth Street. A thousand million lights were coming on and the sun, wrapped in a golden haze, was going out for the night. “How was Washington?”
“Very Hebraic. I had an hour with the Israeli prime minister this morning. I went back to the hotel afterwards and read the Book of Job—at his suggestion.”
“Patience, right?”
Jeff nodded. “And with you?”
“I’d better read the Book of Job too.”
Tony returned with the vodka and orange juice and the martini pitcher. Fran brought a bowl of shrimp, her famous Sauce Diable on the side, and four plates with the little ivory forks that Jeff had brought from Africa. They had given them to the Alexanders for a wedding anniversary. Julie knew Jeff would have liked to keep them. Jeff collected, Julie gave away. She caught him looking at them covetously. Which made the gift more generous on his part.
Shrimps and orange juice weren’t the greatest combination. They seemed to go fine with martinis.
“Steak and salad are all we’re having,” Fran said. The grill had been set up in the corner of the terrace.
Tony said, “Do I have a wine for you, my friend. I decanted it so you wouldn’t see the label.”
“But you saved the label,” Jeff said.
“You’re damned right. You’re going to want it.”
Fran smiled at Julie. “We’ll go down later and have ice cream at Baskin-Robbins.”
It wasn’t meant that way at all, but it emphasized the difference in their ages—and everything else. She felt in no way the equal of a man who had spent an hour that morning with the Israeli prime minister. She chose this as the do-or-die moment, took a deep breath, and said something she had rehearsed all the way to the Alexanders’: “Tony, what would I have to do to get a job with you—legwork maybe—like you gave Jeff when he was starting out?”
Tony scowled at her from under drawn shaggy brows. His hair was white, his mustache white, the brows black and ferocious. “First,
“I’ll buy us a round when next we meet,” he said and emptied his glass. “I’ve to go now and do my work.”
“I’ll be waiting to hear when you’re reading next…I wouldn’t care if it was the phone book, you’ve such a lovely voice.”
EIGHT
J ULIE WAS LATE ARRIVING at the Alexanders’. She had dressed carefully. A blue chiffon silk that suggested more bosom than could be proven.
Fran said at the door, “Jeff was worried about you.”
“I don’t believe it. I’m always having to tell people Jeff’s going to be a little late.”
“So that’s what was worrying him—that he got here on time. Don’t you look stunning!”
“Thank you.” Julie could feel the color rise to her cheeks. Fran always looked stunning. She had a lot of style but it never got in the way of her being a real person. She was much younger than Tony, probably closer to Jeff’s age. They were going to be like three generations at dinner. Fran ran a flower shop on Lexington Avenue where a lot of customers came in to drop off gossip they hoped might turn up in Tony’s column in the Daily News.
“Here’s our girl,” Fran called out, leading the way through the living room out onto the terrace.
Tony heaved himself out of the chair. His dark shirt was sprinkled with ashes from his pipe. Jeff looked as though he had shaved and showered on arrival. He generally did look that way. Julie kissed him and then kissed Tony, just missing the sharp end of one white waxed mustachio.
“Orange juice and vodka, light on the vodka, right?” Tony said. The others were drinking martinis.
“You weren’t really worried?” Julie said to Jeff.
“You’re so rarely late I had to say something.”
“Ha!”
They moved to the edge of the terrace. Manhattan south from the twenty-sixth floor on Fifty-sixth Street. A thousand million lights were coming on and the sun, wrapped in a golden haze, was going out for the night. “How was Washington?”
“Very Hebraic. I had an hour with the Israeli prime minister this morning. I went back to the hotel afterwards and read the Book of Job—at his suggestion.”
“Patience, right?”
Jeff nodded. “And with you?”
“I’d better read the Book of Job too.”
Tony returned with the vodka and orange juice and the martini pitcher. Fran brought a bowl of shrimp, her famous Sauce Diable on the side, and four plates with the little ivory forks that Jeff had brought from Africa. They had given them to the Alexanders for a wedding anniversary. Julie knew Jeff would have liked to keep them. Jeff collected, Julie gave away. She caught him looking at them covetously. Which made the gift more generous on his part.
Shrimps and orange juice weren’t the greatest combination. They seemed to go fine with martinis.
“Steak and salad are all we’re having,” Fran said. The grill had been set up in the corner of the terrace.
Tony said, “Do I have a wine for you, my friend. I decanted it so you wouldn’t see the label.”
“But you saved the label,” Jeff said.
“You’re damned right. You’re going to want it.”
Fran smiled at Julie. “We’ll go down later and have ice cream at Baskin-Robbins.”
It wasn’t meant that way at all, but it emphasized the difference in their ages—and everything else. She felt in no way the equal of a man who had spent an hour that morning with the Israeli prime minister. She chose this as the do-or-die moment, took a deep breath, and said something she had rehearsed all the way to the Alexanders’: “Tony, what would I have to do to get a job with you—legwork maybe—like you gave Jeff when he was starting out?”
Tony scowled at her from under drawn shaggy brows. His hair was white, his mustache white, the brows black and ferocious. “First,
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