Tell your family. Buy yourself a yacht and take Frannie on a cruise around the world. Hell … rent a castle in Spain or run off with a whore or keep right on raising hell in Jackson Square … but face it! For God’s sake … no, for yours … make these next six months count.”
When Mary Ann returned, he was waiting at her desk. “I’m going out. If anyone wants me, I’m at lunch with a client.”
“Doro’s?”
“Never mind where. Just say I’m out.” He strode out of the building, furious that a contract he had never signed was being carried out anyway.
Tell Frannie? Christ! What kind of mileage could she get out of that one in the social columns?
Frances Halcyon, Hillsborough hostess par excellence, scored another triumph Friday night with an intimate little dinner for operatic greats Nora Cunningham and Nigel Huxtable. Frannie, who just saw A Chorus Line in New York (“Adored it!”), delighted some very well-bred palates with beef roulades and potato puffs. Hubby Edgar (he’s the advertising giant) surprised the assembled guests with the announcement of his impending death….
He headed away from Jackson Square, up Columbus into the frantic heart of North Beach. Carol Doda’s electric nipples winked at him cruelly, flaunting a revolution in which he had never even been an insurgent.
In front of The Garden of Eden, a walleyed derelict bellowed: “It’s all over. It’s time to make peace with the Lord. It’s time to get right with Jesus!”
He needed a place to clear his head.
And time to do it. Precious time.
He sat down on a bench in Washington Square. Next to him was a woman who was roughly his age. She was wearing wool slacks and a paisley smock. She was reading the Bhagavad Gita.
She smiled.
“Is that the answer?” asked Edgar, nodding at the book.
“What’s the question?” asked the woman.
Edgar grinned. “Gertrude Stein.”
“I don’t think she said it, do you? No one’s that clever on a deathbed.”
There it was again.
He felt a surge of recklessness. “What would you say?”
“About what?”
“The end. Your last words. If you could choose.”
The woman studied his face for a moment. Then she said: “How about … ‘Oh, shit!’”
His laughter was cathartic, an animal yelp that brought tears to his eyes. The woman watched him benignly, detached yet somehow gentle.
It was almost as if she knew.
“Would you like a sandwich?” she asked when he stopped laughing. “It’s made from focaccia bread.”
Edgar said yes, delighting in her charity. It was nice to have someone taking care of him for once. “I’m Edgar Halcyon,” he said.
“That’s nice,” she said. “I’m Anna Madrigal.”
Relating at Lunch
B ACK AT THE AGENCY, MARY ANN WAS GLOSSING HER lips when Beauchamp approached on little cat feet.
“Has the Blue Meanie gone to lunch yet?”
“Oh … Beauchamp …” She dropped the lip gloss into the wicker pocketbook she had decoupaged with frogs and mushrooms. “He’s … he left over an hour ago. I think he was upset about something.”
“News.”
“This was different.”
“Maybe they asked him to be a wood nymph in the Grove Play.”
“What?”
“Nothing. We’ve got a lunch date, remember?”
“Oh … that’s right.”
She had thought of nothing else all morning.
At MacArthur Park, they both ordered salads. Mary Ann nibbled hers half-heartedly, put off slightly by the restaurant’s caged birds and Urban Organic aloofness. Beauchamp sensed her discomfort.
“You’re freaked, aren’t you?”
“I … how do you mean?”
“You know. This. Us.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Uh uh. You have to answer first.”
She killed time by hunting for a chunk of avocado. “It’s … new, I guess.”
“Lunch with a married man?”
She nodded, avoiding his French Racing Blue eyes. “Could I have some ice water, Beauchamp?”
He signaled for a waiter without shifting his gaze from her. “You shouldn’t be nervous, you know.
When Mary Ann returned, he was waiting at her desk. “I’m going out. If anyone wants me, I’m at lunch with a client.”
“Doro’s?”
“Never mind where. Just say I’m out.” He strode out of the building, furious that a contract he had never signed was being carried out anyway.
Tell Frannie? Christ! What kind of mileage could she get out of that one in the social columns?
Frances Halcyon, Hillsborough hostess par excellence, scored another triumph Friday night with an intimate little dinner for operatic greats Nora Cunningham and Nigel Huxtable. Frannie, who just saw A Chorus Line in New York (“Adored it!”), delighted some very well-bred palates with beef roulades and potato puffs. Hubby Edgar (he’s the advertising giant) surprised the assembled guests with the announcement of his impending death….
He headed away from Jackson Square, up Columbus into the frantic heart of North Beach. Carol Doda’s electric nipples winked at him cruelly, flaunting a revolution in which he had never even been an insurgent.
In front of The Garden of Eden, a walleyed derelict bellowed: “It’s all over. It’s time to make peace with the Lord. It’s time to get right with Jesus!”
He needed a place to clear his head.
And time to do it. Precious time.
He sat down on a bench in Washington Square. Next to him was a woman who was roughly his age. She was wearing wool slacks and a paisley smock. She was reading the Bhagavad Gita.
She smiled.
“Is that the answer?” asked Edgar, nodding at the book.
“What’s the question?” asked the woman.
Edgar grinned. “Gertrude Stein.”
“I don’t think she said it, do you? No one’s that clever on a deathbed.”
There it was again.
He felt a surge of recklessness. “What would you say?”
“About what?”
“The end. Your last words. If you could choose.”
The woman studied his face for a moment. Then she said: “How about … ‘Oh, shit!’”
His laughter was cathartic, an animal yelp that brought tears to his eyes. The woman watched him benignly, detached yet somehow gentle.
It was almost as if she knew.
“Would you like a sandwich?” she asked when he stopped laughing. “It’s made from focaccia bread.”
Edgar said yes, delighting in her charity. It was nice to have someone taking care of him for once. “I’m Edgar Halcyon,” he said.
“That’s nice,” she said. “I’m Anna Madrigal.”
Relating at Lunch
B ACK AT THE AGENCY, MARY ANN WAS GLOSSING HER lips when Beauchamp approached on little cat feet.
“Has the Blue Meanie gone to lunch yet?”
“Oh … Beauchamp …” She dropped the lip gloss into the wicker pocketbook she had decoupaged with frogs and mushrooms. “He’s … he left over an hour ago. I think he was upset about something.”
“News.”
“This was different.”
“Maybe they asked him to be a wood nymph in the Grove Play.”
“What?”
“Nothing. We’ve got a lunch date, remember?”
“Oh … that’s right.”
She had thought of nothing else all morning.
At MacArthur Park, they both ordered salads. Mary Ann nibbled hers half-heartedly, put off slightly by the restaurant’s caged birds and Urban Organic aloofness. Beauchamp sensed her discomfort.
“You’re freaked, aren’t you?”
“I … how do you mean?”
“You know. This. Us.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Uh uh. You have to answer first.”
She killed time by hunting for a chunk of avocado. “It’s … new, I guess.”
“Lunch with a married man?”
She nodded, avoiding his French Racing Blue eyes. “Could I have some ice water, Beauchamp?”
He signaled for a waiter without shifting his gaze from her. “You shouldn’t be nervous, you know.
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