Magic Hour by Susan Isaacs (i want to read a book TXT) 📗

pulled my feet out from under Moose; the dog peered up at me, surprised at the sudden withdrawal of intimacy. “What’s the problem? Was he happy to see you or not? This shouldn’t be something you have to think about.”

“He seemed upset that I came uninvited,” she said at last.

“Not furious, like he’d want to beat me to a bloody pulp and stomp on my head and—” Suddenly her eyes grew wide with embarrassment. “Oh, God, for a minute I forgot what you did for a living. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to make fun of…”

“It’s okay. You were saying he wasn’t about to do you permanent damage.”

“Right. But he wasn’t about to be polite and say: ‘Tsk-tsk, you might have called first, Bonnie, dear.’”

“What was his attitude?”

“Something between—let’s see—nonchalance and rage.”

“Do you want to be a little more specific?”

“He didn’t yell.” I did a speed-of-light survey; her red sweater was just tight enough to show she had standard, conventional tits. If you took the entire female adult popula-tion of the world, Bonnie Spencer’s tits would mark the median. “But maybe that’s because he was trying so hard not to spit.”

“If you were such great friends, why would he act that way?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he was in the middle of a MAGIC HOUR / 143

tantrum about something else and I just showed up at the wrong time.”

“Maybe.” I wanted to give myself a swift kick in the ass: to think that over the day I’d built up this Marlboro Man’s sister to be an embodiment of sensuality.

And then Bonnie reached up and smoothed back her hair.

For just a second, she held it up in a ponytail. The undersides of her forearms were pearly, flawless. I pictured her stretched out on the couch beside me, her head on the pillow, her arms lifted, showing off that soft skin. I’d bend over and kiss it. Run my tongue over it.

I coughed to clear my throat. “Did you drop in on him to ask about your screenplay?”

“No.” She let her hair drop. The action was beautiful, graceful, like a slow-mo replay of a perfect catch. “We’d gone over all his notes. I was working on the revisions.”

“And you say he liked it?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever think he might be saying nice things about your work to lead you on?”

“Why would he do that?”

“The truth?”

“Go ahead.”

“Maybe he found you more interesting than your screenplay. Maybe deep down you sensed that and—”

Her face turned a hot pink. “Let me clue you in to something. I am not one of those typical New York neurotic dames, just dying to believe the worst about herself. And Sy wasn’t some sleazo who’d say, ‘Ooh, baby, love your montage.’ My work was good, and Sy liked it. I knew he did.”

“Hey, I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. It’s just my job to probe. Okay?”

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She calmed down. “The fact is, Sy and I were friends. Look, I wasn’t his type, not even when he married me, and ten more years didn’t do much for me in the lusciousness department. I know what he went for. A Lindsay, someone breathtaking. Or someone wispy and intellectual and twenty-two from Yale. Or a jet-setty type with a French accent who could quote Racine—with hair under her arms and a château.

I was his ex-wife; he had no reason to hand me a line. He knew better than anyone what I had to offer—and he’d already said no thank you.”

“What about for old times’ sake?” She shook her head hard. Her hair swung softly. “Bonnie, were you sleeping with Sy? Is that why you felt so free to drop by? Maybe just a nice, spontaneous gesture?”

“No!”

“Or maybe to let the world know you were back on the map?”

“No!”

“Because if you were, that wouldn’t bring you under any suspicion.” Bullshit, of course. “Here you were, two adults who knew each other very well, who liked each other…”

“Nothing personal, but that’s a lot of bull.”

“Okay, no more questions,” I said, getting up and walking over to her. Moose, the town slut, stayed by my side. “For now.” Then I laid it on thick. Smile. Wink. Charm, charm.

“I’m sorry if I offended you.”

“It’s all right,” she said, her voice softening. Charm, charm was working. She looked up at me; her eyes actually became a little misty, almost as if she expected to be kissed.

“Good,” I said. “Glad you understand.” I reached over and ruffled her hair. Too bad: the button on the sleeve of my sports jacket got caught in her hair. “Sorry,” I said, really sincerely, and tried to get the button free. Her hair smelled of some spring flower I

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couldn’t identify: lilac, maybe, or hyacinth. I grasped the button and got it away, but unfortunately it yanked on her hair. “Listen, this doesn’t count as police brutality.”

She smiled. A great, wide-open, western smile. “I know.”

“See you around, Bonnie.”

When I got back to my car, I slipped four strands of Bonnie Spencer’s hair into a small plastic envelope. Three had roots. Enough for a DNA comparison analysis.

I always hated making it with women who couldn’t shut up.

Listen, no guy minds an encouraging word here and there, a helpful suggestion, a sincere scream of enthusiasm. But for the longest time before Lynne came into my life, nearly every woman I picked up was a Gray Line tour guide of sex.

They’d all memorized the same script. About how the trip was going: Oh, it feels so wonderful. Oh, don’t stop….

Directions to the driver: A little harder. No, easy, slow. No, up higher, higher…. And what tourist treat was just around the corner: I’m going to take you/it in my mouth (an offer I never sneezed at, since it embraced the twin joys of gratific-ation and silence)…. And of course, they’d always let you know when the tour was over: Oh, it’s happening. Oh, yes.

Wait, just a second. Oh, this is too much. Please, no, God, Jesus.

Lynne, though, was quiet.