A Matter Of Taste by Fred Saberhagen (best reads .TXT) 📗

that. I want you to know that—well, that you’re welcome to come to our wedding if you want.” The young man raised his head with a look of determination, ready to confront his parents and anyone else who might object.

      “Of course you are,” Angie agreed warmly. She liked Non-Uncle Matthew, was coming to like him better and better as the evening progressed, and it was her wedding, and if that scandal-mongering liar Valentine Kaiser ever dared to call her again …

      Uncle Matthew said nothing for a moment. His face hardly changed, but nevertheless Angie had the impression that he was moved.

      The dinner moved along. Uncle Matthew entertained his guests with stories of extremely odd people he had known years ago when he had lived in Paris and in London. Unlike many fascinating speakers, he was a good listener too. When Angie ventured an anecdote or two of her own, he seemed genuinely interested in the problems of hospital administration.

      The food and wine and coffee were superb, and in Angie’s perception time passed with amazing speed As they were leaving the restaurant Uncle Matthew took the opportunity to return to the table to leave a cash tip, and at the same time to manage a few quiet words alone with the red-haired waitress.

      Angie, looking on from a distance, nudged her fiancé. “I wonder if something’s developing there.”

      “I wouldn’t be surprised.” John’s tone was dry.

      Neither of them felt inclined to resist Uncle Matthew’s invitation to stop in at his apartment for a nightcap.

      Reentering the tastefully decorated condo a few floors down, Angie was on the point of starting to tell the two men about Valentine Kaiser. But at once she felt reluctant to mention the man and his ridiculous suspicions—or insinuations—for fear of spoiling the evening.

      The party, having developed delightfully during dinner, continued in the same vein. The old piano was a natural conversation piece, and it proved to be in excellent condition when Angie picked out something on the keys.

      “Do you play, my dear?”

      “Very little. I should say, no, not really. I did have lessons once.”

      After he had served the drinks Uncle Matthew was not shy at all about sitting down at the piano, where he revealed an impressive talent. Within half an hour, Angie, a glass of amazingly good brandy in her hand, found herself singing what her host assured her were old Balkan folk songs, parroting from his instruction what he said were the words of the original language. John, not usually much of a singer, and somewhat flushed with brandy, was gamely joining in.

      Time, in Angie’s mind at least, was soon forgotten. Then her concentration on the music was interrupted by a savage slosh and rattle of sleet against the curtained windows, and the building could be felt swaying, minimally, in the wind. Their host, evidently a long-term resident, took no notice. Momentary uneasiness was quickly squelched by an obviously sincere invitation from Uncle Matthew, offering Angie and John one of his spare bedrooms in which to spend the night. During the dinner conversation, enough had been said to make it plain to him that they were already cohabiting.

      They both accepted, with relief; and John was reminded of old times. “Remember the big snow we had, sir, about the time we had that—trouble?”

      “Yes indeed. No storm like that tonight, fortunately, but plenty of freezing rain and icy streets.” Thoughtfully he struck a chord, then began to pick out from memory yet another simple but lovely melody that Angie had never heard before. “Here is a song about winter. Hunters wandering in the snow.”

      John, his brandy glass in hand, had gone to the window and pulled back a curtain to peer out past its edge. “Yep, looks like rotten weather out there,” he announced in the cheerful tone of a man who has already made his arrangements to stay in.

      Angie yawned. Not so their host. Despite his years, he seemed to be getting only more wide-awake as the evening—actually for some time now it had been the morning—progressed.

      Again she yawned, quite uncontrollably. The old man, she thought, perhaps subliminally noticing that he looked even a trifle older than at dinner, had probably slept till noon. But she’d had a tough day at work, and it was really getting late. And of course she’d been drinking, more than she ought, really, while he never seemed to drink at all.

      “I hate to be the one to call it quits—but—” A helpless yawn preempted the explanation Angie had been about to offer.

      There were actually three bedrooms in the apartment, she noted while making her way down the angled hallway to the one her host had specified.

      John had lagged behind in the living room, where he was still talking with his energetic non-uncle. Angie groped inside the doorway at the hallway’s end; a bedside table lamp came on when she found the wall switch. The bedroom she and John had been assigned was as neatly furnished as the living room, with no signs of recent habitation. A couple of commonplace paintings were on the walls. Certainly the room contained no more sign of disgusting pornography than did the more accessible areas of the apartment. Valentine Kaiser! she thought with disgust. What had that man’s real game been? Angie had a notion to tear up his business card and flush it away. No, she was certainly going to tell the men about him. Only—it would have to wait till morning. She wasn’t in the best of shape for any serious discussion now.

      On second thought—it might be important.

      She was on her weary way back to rejoin the men in the living room when the door chime sounded melodiously. Who would that be, at this hour of the morning? Probably some sleepless neighbor with a complaint about their noise, though Uncle Matthew had told them earlier that the building’s soundproofing was excellent.

      As Angie reentered the living room, her host had just admitted someone from the hallway and was closing and bolting up the door. Angie needed