says. “I usually don’t bet more than two dollars, but I’m going to plunge on Harry’s Chance. Ten dollars.”
“You’ll lose,” he tells her.
“I don’t think so,” she says. Smiling.
She doesn’t lose. The horse pays a little more than a hundred.
“I buy dinner,” she says.
“No, you don’t,” he says. “Who do you like in the sixth? Sally’s Folly?”
“Oh no. Came up lame last time out.”
“I’m going to try five dollars.”
“You’ll be sorry,” Evelyn says.
He is.
They have luncheon in the clubhouse. Caesar salad for both. Bottle of chablis. They don’t bet on the last three races. Just sit there. Looking about. Enjoying the scene.
“You’re the most beautiful woman here,” he says. “Every man who looks at us is envious of me.
She puts a hand on his. “Tell me more,” she says. Laughing. “Don’t stop now.”
They rise after the last race.
“I’m not hungry yet,” he says. “Are you?”
“After that lunch? I should say not.”
“What say we drive back to Boca and have dinner up there? I know a place with great steaks and a big salad bar.”
“Whatever you want.”
Which is, he recalls, exactly what Sally Abaddon said to him the last time they were together.
The Kansas City Steak House is on Al A. North of Lighthouse Point. Harry slips Sol, the head-waiter, a pound. They get a corner table. Dim. Secluded.
“Very nice,” Evelyn says. Looking around. “Not too bright. Not too noisy. Is that garlic I smell?”
“I hope it isn’t the busboy. Do you like daiquiris?”
“Love them.”
“They make a marvelous frozen strawberry daiquiri. In a glass as big as a fishbowl. You game?”
“For anything,” she says. Looking at him.
Leisurely dinner. Crabmeat cocktail. Rare mignons. Baked potato skins with sour cream and chives. Fresh spinach with crumbled bacon from the salad bar. Bottle of St.-Emilion. And with the filets, in the Florida style, a thin slice of cold watermelon.
Harry Dancer finds himself relating the story of his life. Indiana farm boy. Purdue. Harvard for an MBA. On to Merrill Lynch in New York. Then to Chemical Bank. Transferred to the trust department in Florida. Decision to strike out on his own. Dancer Investment Management, Inc. A success.
“I met Sylvia at the tennis club in Boca,” he says. Finishing. Dabbing lips. Sitting back. “Where you and I played. We were married—what was it—about six months later. Oh God, I must be boring you out of your skull. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be silly,” she says. Not telling him that she already knows all that. And more. “I like to hear people’s histories. Every one of them different.”
“What about yours?”
“Oh, no you don’t,” she says. Laughing. “I’m not ready to confess. Not yet. Besides, it’s dull, dull, dull. You know what I’d like to do?”
“What?”
“Have coffee, and then go to the bar. I want to buy you a brandy. After all, I did win on Harry’s Chance.”
“I accept,” he says.
The bartender, Cuban, is solicitous. Ice water on the side. Clean ashtray. Little mats for their brandy snifters. He pours Remy Martin with a flourish. Waits.
“Hokay?” he says.
“Divine,” Evelyn Heimdall says.
They sit close together on high stools. Knees touching. Looking into each other’s eyes in the silvered mirror behind the bar.
“Want to go on?” Dancer asks. “Music? Dancing?”
“No. Let’s go back to my place. Take off our shoes and relax. Have another brandy on the balcony. Listen to what the wild waves are saying.”
“Sounds good to me,” he says.
In her apartment, she brings small glasses of cognac out to the terrace. Excuses herself.
“I really am going to kick off my shoes,” she says.
While she’s gone, he takes off his jacket. Tie. Lies contentedly on a lounge. Drink held on his chest. Stares up at the tilting sky. Stars in their dance. He tells himself he is feeling no pain. No pain. Wonderful!
She comes back in a loose
“You’ll lose,” he tells her.
“I don’t think so,” she says. Smiling.
She doesn’t lose. The horse pays a little more than a hundred.
“I buy dinner,” she says.
“No, you don’t,” he says. “Who do you like in the sixth? Sally’s Folly?”
“Oh no. Came up lame last time out.”
“I’m going to try five dollars.”
“You’ll be sorry,” Evelyn says.
He is.
They have luncheon in the clubhouse. Caesar salad for both. Bottle of chablis. They don’t bet on the last three races. Just sit there. Looking about. Enjoying the scene.
“You’re the most beautiful woman here,” he says. “Every man who looks at us is envious of me.
She puts a hand on his. “Tell me more,” she says. Laughing. “Don’t stop now.”
They rise after the last race.
“I’m not hungry yet,” he says. “Are you?”
“After that lunch? I should say not.”
“What say we drive back to Boca and have dinner up there? I know a place with great steaks and a big salad bar.”
“Whatever you want.”
Which is, he recalls, exactly what Sally Abaddon said to him the last time they were together.
The Kansas City Steak House is on Al A. North of Lighthouse Point. Harry slips Sol, the head-waiter, a pound. They get a corner table. Dim. Secluded.
“Very nice,” Evelyn says. Looking around. “Not too bright. Not too noisy. Is that garlic I smell?”
“I hope it isn’t the busboy. Do you like daiquiris?”
“Love them.”
“They make a marvelous frozen strawberry daiquiri. In a glass as big as a fishbowl. You game?”
“For anything,” she says. Looking at him.
Leisurely dinner. Crabmeat cocktail. Rare mignons. Baked potato skins with sour cream and chives. Fresh spinach with crumbled bacon from the salad bar. Bottle of St.-Emilion. And with the filets, in the Florida style, a thin slice of cold watermelon.
Harry Dancer finds himself relating the story of his life. Indiana farm boy. Purdue. Harvard for an MBA. On to Merrill Lynch in New York. Then to Chemical Bank. Transferred to the trust department in Florida. Decision to strike out on his own. Dancer Investment Management, Inc. A success.
“I met Sylvia at the tennis club in Boca,” he says. Finishing. Dabbing lips. Sitting back. “Where you and I played. We were married—what was it—about six months later. Oh God, I must be boring you out of your skull. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be silly,” she says. Not telling him that she already knows all that. And more. “I like to hear people’s histories. Every one of them different.”
“What about yours?”
“Oh, no you don’t,” she says. Laughing. “I’m not ready to confess. Not yet. Besides, it’s dull, dull, dull. You know what I’d like to do?”
“What?”
“Have coffee, and then go to the bar. I want to buy you a brandy. After all, I did win on Harry’s Chance.”
“I accept,” he says.
The bartender, Cuban, is solicitous. Ice water on the side. Clean ashtray. Little mats for their brandy snifters. He pours Remy Martin with a flourish. Waits.
“Hokay?” he says.
“Divine,” Evelyn Heimdall says.
They sit close together on high stools. Knees touching. Looking into each other’s eyes in the silvered mirror behind the bar.
“Want to go on?” Dancer asks. “Music? Dancing?”
“No. Let’s go back to my place. Take off our shoes and relax. Have another brandy on the balcony. Listen to what the wild waves are saying.”
“Sounds good to me,” he says.
In her apartment, she brings small glasses of cognac out to the terrace. Excuses herself.
“I really am going to kick off my shoes,” she says.
While she’s gone, he takes off his jacket. Tie. Lies contentedly on a lounge. Drink held on his chest. Stares up at the tilting sky. Stars in their dance. He tells himself he is feeling no pain. No pain. Wonderful!
She comes back in a loose
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