but Simcoe would be gauche enough to call before eight o’clock. Except Brad O’Malley.
“Hi,” Brad said with a bright smile. He looked vigorously awake. Freshly shaved, he was wearing a matched set of fawn shirt and cords. “I saw your bedroom light go on, and came to invite you to breakfast, since I didn’t feed you last night.”
“You sure know the way to a person’s heart.”
His eyes roamed over my turbaned head, the dressing gown, pulled taut across my chest, and the bare legs issuing beneath it. “You too. You do strange and wonderful things to that coat. That turban really suits you, Audrey. You look—regal,” he said, fishing around for the right word. “Like Queen Nefertiti. It’s the high cheekbones that do it."
“I’m not used to heady compliments so early in the morning. What do you serve a queen for breakfast—fish?”
“I didn’t have any luck.”
“After staying out so late, you came back empty-handed?”
“I’m sorry I bothered going.” His steaming eyes suggested what alternative occupation would have been more enjoyable. “Come over as soon as you can.”
He left, and I scrambled into my work clothes—a shirt and jeans—but I scavenged around till I found a pair of sandals to replace the open-toed moccasins. Delicious aromas filled the cottage when I went in. There was bacon sizzling, coffee perking, some tantalizing yeasty smell mingling with it.
I went to the kitchen door and said, “Can I help?”
He was just pouring some eggs into an omelette pan. “You can give those mushrooms a stir,” he said.
While he finished the omelette, I buttered English muffins and poured coffee. We had a perfectly congenial breakfast, unmarred by bickering. Expansive from this royal treatment, I complimented him as we cleared the table.
“That was a feast. You’re going to make some woman a great wife one day.”
“The line forms to the right.”
“I bet it does. How come you’re not afraid to cook and clean, and do all those un-macho things?”
“Cooking isn’t un-macho. The great chefs of the world are mostly men. Both men and women have male and female hormones,” he said.
There were such things as bisexuals. This talk of mixed hormones almost sounded like a hint. “Did you have a sex-change operation or something?” I joked.
“Nope, I was born with my masculine appendage. Do you know what an appendage is, Audrey?”
“Sure. According to Webster, it’s an adjunct to something larger or more important.”
“Did you memorize the whole dictionary?”
“Appendage is a word that crops up in publishing.”
“And sex. Being a man is just an adjunct to being a person. Persons have to eat, and some persons like to cook, too. They like nice houses, and when they outgrow the notion that only half the persons are allowed an interest in those things, they express that interest. The tail has stopped wagging the dog.”
“An apt analogy.” I grinned. He hit my rump with a spoon. “I guess it makes sense.” I didn’t say, but was aware that it took guts to act openly on his philosophy. “So you just do what you want—within the law, I mean?”
“The law’s a crock.”
“A cobweb that catches gnats, and lets the bumble bees fly right through.”
“My law is not to hurt anybody.”
“That’s not your law. It’s the Golden Rule. ‘Do unto others . . ."
“I’ve been trying. Don’t you have any desire to do unto me?” He gave me a meaningful smile and said, “It wouldn’t hurt you a bit to be nice to me, Audrey.”
He was joking, but when I looked at him, our eyes held. I watched while his smile turned to a hopeful question. His arms reached for me. “The tail’s beginning to wag the dog,” he warned, as he pulled me into his arms, but slowly, giving me time to stop him if I wanted to.
It was a strange kiss—a gentle, tentative touching, then he pulled back and gazed at me uncertainly. When I tightened my arms around him, he stiffened for a
“Hi,” Brad said with a bright smile. He looked vigorously awake. Freshly shaved, he was wearing a matched set of fawn shirt and cords. “I saw your bedroom light go on, and came to invite you to breakfast, since I didn’t feed you last night.”
“You sure know the way to a person’s heart.”
His eyes roamed over my turbaned head, the dressing gown, pulled taut across my chest, and the bare legs issuing beneath it. “You too. You do strange and wonderful things to that coat. That turban really suits you, Audrey. You look—regal,” he said, fishing around for the right word. “Like Queen Nefertiti. It’s the high cheekbones that do it."
“I’m not used to heady compliments so early in the morning. What do you serve a queen for breakfast—fish?”
“I didn’t have any luck.”
“After staying out so late, you came back empty-handed?”
“I’m sorry I bothered going.” His steaming eyes suggested what alternative occupation would have been more enjoyable. “Come over as soon as you can.”
He left, and I scrambled into my work clothes—a shirt and jeans—but I scavenged around till I found a pair of sandals to replace the open-toed moccasins. Delicious aromas filled the cottage when I went in. There was bacon sizzling, coffee perking, some tantalizing yeasty smell mingling with it.
I went to the kitchen door and said, “Can I help?”
He was just pouring some eggs into an omelette pan. “You can give those mushrooms a stir,” he said.
While he finished the omelette, I buttered English muffins and poured coffee. We had a perfectly congenial breakfast, unmarred by bickering. Expansive from this royal treatment, I complimented him as we cleared the table.
“That was a feast. You’re going to make some woman a great wife one day.”
“The line forms to the right.”
“I bet it does. How come you’re not afraid to cook and clean, and do all those un-macho things?”
“Cooking isn’t un-macho. The great chefs of the world are mostly men. Both men and women have male and female hormones,” he said.
There were such things as bisexuals. This talk of mixed hormones almost sounded like a hint. “Did you have a sex-change operation or something?” I joked.
“Nope, I was born with my masculine appendage. Do you know what an appendage is, Audrey?”
“Sure. According to Webster, it’s an adjunct to something larger or more important.”
“Did you memorize the whole dictionary?”
“Appendage is a word that crops up in publishing.”
“And sex. Being a man is just an adjunct to being a person. Persons have to eat, and some persons like to cook, too. They like nice houses, and when they outgrow the notion that only half the persons are allowed an interest in those things, they express that interest. The tail has stopped wagging the dog.”
“An apt analogy.” I grinned. He hit my rump with a spoon. “I guess it makes sense.” I didn’t say, but was aware that it took guts to act openly on his philosophy. “So you just do what you want—within the law, I mean?”
“The law’s a crock.”
“A cobweb that catches gnats, and lets the bumble bees fly right through.”
“My law is not to hurt anybody.”
“That’s not your law. It’s the Golden Rule. ‘Do unto others . . ."
“I’ve been trying. Don’t you have any desire to do unto me?” He gave me a meaningful smile and said, “It wouldn’t hurt you a bit to be nice to me, Audrey.”
He was joking, but when I looked at him, our eyes held. I watched while his smile turned to a hopeful question. His arms reached for me. “The tail’s beginning to wag the dog,” he warned, as he pulled me into his arms, but slowly, giving me time to stop him if I wanted to.
It was a strange kiss—a gentle, tentative touching, then he pulled back and gazed at me uncertainly. When I tightened my arms around him, he stiffened for a
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