do is look at you. “I’m surprised a high-brow professor like you has ever read anything by Mason,” I retorted. “But then I guess you have pretty catholic tastes. Eliot and Gantry—from the sublime to the ridiculous.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say Eliot’s ridiculous,” he said, in a drawling voice.
“He’s a pedantic bore, and you know perfectly well I meant Gantry is ridiculous.”
“You tried his book, did you?”
“No.”
“But you could tell by the naked woman on the cover it wasn’t any good. I think you should have a swim, Audrey. We’ll blame your lousy mood on overwork.”
I was in a lousy mood all right, and in a way it was overwork that caused it, but the only reason I was overworked was Hume Mason. I let the air clear for a few minutes before saying anything. “I wonder when Rosalie’s funeral will be. I hope it’s on TV. I want to see how she’s dispatched. It’ll likely be a huge, Hollywood-style funeral.”
“It’s the day after tomorrow. I didn’t hear what kind of a do’s in progress. I heard it on my car radio when I went into town to buy a fishing rod today. I stopped for a hamburger on the way home, since I’m going fishing tonight. Want to come?”
I had skimped on lunch in anticipation of another feast. If there’s anything more boring than drowning worms, I don’t know what it can be. “I don’t think so. I have a bunch of letters I’m matching up with one of Rosalie’s diaries, trying to get a few facts straightened out. I’ll pass.”
We finished our beer with no further bickering. While I scrambled two eggs and burned some toast, I saw Brad go over to Simcoe’s dock with his fishing rod. As twilight fell, the cottage seemed dull and dark and lonely, so I went out to watch the sun set on the river. Before I’d been there two minutes, Mr. Simcoe came pattering over for a chat.
“Not fishing, eh?" he asked, snapping his suspenders.
“No, I don’t care for it.”
“Don’t worry. He won’t stay out long.”
“I’m not worried,” I said, swift to imagine a slur on my magnetic powers.
“You ought to give him a good talking-to. You have to work all day and he goes out fishing at night. That’s no way for a fellow to behave with his girl friend.”
I laughed at his romanticism. But Brad and I were probably his major entertainment for the summer, and to fashion a love affair between us would amuse him endlessly. It seemed a shame to disillusion him. “We’re just friends,” I said.
He laughed merrily. “You don’t fool me. I’ve had a few chats with Mr. O’Malley.”
“What did be say?” I asked, startled.
“Nothing but compliments.”
What innocent remark had Simcoe revised into a grand passion? I wondered if he planned to hang around and pester me till I went inside. His wife soon came to the door and called him. “Phone, Eddie,” she said, but their windows were wide open, and the phone hadn’t rung. I think the woman was actually jealous. I soon went inside, and passed the evening reading my research and watching TV for any new items on Rosalie. I also kept an eye out the window for Brad’s return. I didn’t see him come back, but around nine, I noticed there was a light on in his cottage. The curtains were closely drawn, but little strips of light seeped through around the edges. He’d probably just left the lights on when he left. It stayed bright so late I hadn’t noticed it before. Simcoe’s boat wasn’t back, but unless Brad O’Malley was already in that cottage at nine, he didn’t get back till after twelve. That was when I finally dozed off to sleep. Did men fish from six till twelve? Lord, how boring.
The combination of the early sunrise and the flimsy curtains usually got me up around seven-thirty in the morning. I was just coming out of the shower when someone knocked at the front door. I pulled my terry dressing gown tightly around me, bundled my wet hair up in a towel turban, and opened the door a crack. Nobody
“Oh, I wouldn’t say Eliot’s ridiculous,” he said, in a drawling voice.
“He’s a pedantic bore, and you know perfectly well I meant Gantry is ridiculous.”
“You tried his book, did you?”
“No.”
“But you could tell by the naked woman on the cover it wasn’t any good. I think you should have a swim, Audrey. We’ll blame your lousy mood on overwork.”
I was in a lousy mood all right, and in a way it was overwork that caused it, but the only reason I was overworked was Hume Mason. I let the air clear for a few minutes before saying anything. “I wonder when Rosalie’s funeral will be. I hope it’s on TV. I want to see how she’s dispatched. It’ll likely be a huge, Hollywood-style funeral.”
“It’s the day after tomorrow. I didn’t hear what kind of a do’s in progress. I heard it on my car radio when I went into town to buy a fishing rod today. I stopped for a hamburger on the way home, since I’m going fishing tonight. Want to come?”
I had skimped on lunch in anticipation of another feast. If there’s anything more boring than drowning worms, I don’t know what it can be. “I don’t think so. I have a bunch of letters I’m matching up with one of Rosalie’s diaries, trying to get a few facts straightened out. I’ll pass.”
We finished our beer with no further bickering. While I scrambled two eggs and burned some toast, I saw Brad go over to Simcoe’s dock with his fishing rod. As twilight fell, the cottage seemed dull and dark and lonely, so I went out to watch the sun set on the river. Before I’d been there two minutes, Mr. Simcoe came pattering over for a chat.
“Not fishing, eh?" he asked, snapping his suspenders.
“No, I don’t care for it.”
“Don’t worry. He won’t stay out long.”
“I’m not worried,” I said, swift to imagine a slur on my magnetic powers.
“You ought to give him a good talking-to. You have to work all day and he goes out fishing at night. That’s no way for a fellow to behave with his girl friend.”
I laughed at his romanticism. But Brad and I were probably his major entertainment for the summer, and to fashion a love affair between us would amuse him endlessly. It seemed a shame to disillusion him. “We’re just friends,” I said.
He laughed merrily. “You don’t fool me. I’ve had a few chats with Mr. O’Malley.”
“What did be say?” I asked, startled.
“Nothing but compliments.”
What innocent remark had Simcoe revised into a grand passion? I wondered if he planned to hang around and pester me till I went inside. His wife soon came to the door and called him. “Phone, Eddie,” she said, but their windows were wide open, and the phone hadn’t rung. I think the woman was actually jealous. I soon went inside, and passed the evening reading my research and watching TV for any new items on Rosalie. I also kept an eye out the window for Brad’s return. I didn’t see him come back, but around nine, I noticed there was a light on in his cottage. The curtains were closely drawn, but little strips of light seeped through around the edges. He’d probably just left the lights on when he left. It stayed bright so late I hadn’t noticed it before. Simcoe’s boat wasn’t back, but unless Brad O’Malley was already in that cottage at nine, he didn’t get back till after twelve. That was when I finally dozed off to sleep. Did men fish from six till twelve? Lord, how boring.
The combination of the early sunrise and the flimsy curtains usually got me up around seven-thirty in the morning. I was just coming out of the shower when someone knocked at the front door. I pulled my terry dressing gown tightly around me, bundled my wet hair up in a towel turban, and opened the door a crack. Nobody
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