said in a mild, pleasant voice less affected than I would have anticipated. âI hope youâll excuse my intrusion, but could you tell me if theyâre going to continue the buffet lunch next week?â
I looked at him with a feeling of disappointment.
âI donât know,â I said. âI never lunch here.â
He stared with blinking eyes.
âBut you ought. Itâs quite delicious.â
I shrugged my shoulders, but he remained, obviously concerned at what I was passing up.
âPerhaps you will join me for lunch today,â he urged. âItâs
supreme de volaille argentée.â
I couldnât repress a laugh at his fantastic accent, and then to cover it up and to excuse myself for not lunching with him I asked him to have a drink. He sat down, and I introduced myself. I confess that I expected that he might have heard of me, and I looked into his owl eyes for some hint that he was impressed. There was none.
âYou werenât up here during the season?â he asked. âYouâve just come?â
âThatâs right.â
He shook his head.
âItâs a pity you missed it. They say it was very gay.â
I murmured something derogatory in general about the summer life at Anchor Harbor.
âYou donât like it?â he asked.
âI canât abide it. Can you?â
âMe?â He appeared surprised that anyone should be interested in his reaction. âI donât really know. Mother and I go out so little. Except, of course, to the Bishopâs. And dear old Mrs. Stoneâs.â
I pictured him at a tea party, brushed and combed and wearing a bib. And eating an enormous cookie.
âI used to go out,â I said.
âAnd now you donât?â
Even if he had never heard of me I was surprised, at Anchor Harbor, that he should not have heard of my wife. Ordinarily, I hope, I would not have said what I did say, but my need for communication was strong. I was suddenly and oddly determined to imprint my ego on the empty face of all that he took for granted.
âMy wife died here,â I said. âLast summer.â
He looked even blanker than before, but gradually an expression of embarrassment came over his face.
âOh, dear,â he said. âIâm so sorry. Of course, if Iâd knownââ
I felt ashamed of myself.
âOf course,â I said hurriedly. âForgive me for mentioning it.â
âBut no,â he protested. âI should have known. I remember now. They were speaking of her at Mrs. Stoneâs the other day. She was very beautiful, wasnât she?â
She hadnât been, but I nodded. I wanted even the sympathy that he could give me and swallowed greedily the small drops that fell from his meager supply.
âAnd which reminds me,â he said, after we had talked in this vein for several minutes, âthey spoke of you, too. You write things, donât you? Stories?â
I swallowed.
âI hope not,â I said. âIâm an historian.â
âOh, that must be lovely.â
I wondered if there was another man in the world who could have said it as he said it. He conveyed a sense of abysmal ignorance, but of humility, too, and of boundless admiration. These things were fine, were wonderful, he seemed to say, but he, too, had his little niche and a nice one, and he as well as these things existed, and we could be friends together, couldnât we?
I decided we were getting nowhere.
âWhat do you do?â I asked.
âDo?â Again he looked blank. âWhy, good heavens, man, I donât do a thing.â
I looked severe.
âShouldnât you?â
âShould I?â
âYou havenât got a family or anything like that?â
He smiled happily.
âOh, Iâve got âsomething like that,ââ he answered. âIâve got Mother.â
I nodded. I knew everything now.
âDo you
Zoe Sharp
Back in the Saddle (v5.0)
Sloan Parker
Morgan Bell
Dave Pelzer
Leandra Wild
Truman Capote
Unknown
Tina Wainscott
Melissa Silvey