What's for Dinner? by James Schuyler (to read list .txt) 📕

“If you mean it, just this once, then all right. Perhaps we better have a little chat.”

“I think I’d prefer a drink to coffee,” Mag said. “Why not the Chez Ami? No one will be there this time of the day.”

When Norris got to the darkened bar, all red plush and white plaster swags, Mag was the only customer. She was sitting in an intimate booth, toward the back.

After they had ordered (a whisky sour for Norris, a vodka martini on the rocks for Mag), Norris said, “I’m both annnoyed and disappointed with you. To date, we’ve been moderately discreet, a thing desired by both of us, and essential to me. I call this anything but circumspect, it’s obvious, it’s risky, it’s foolish. I am, really, angry with you. If events are going to take this turn, then we are going to cut everything short, right now.”

“Oh Norris, don’t talk like that. I’ll cry.”

“Oh great. That’s all I need. To have some acquaintance walk in and find me with a wailing woman in a dark bar in the middle of the afternoon. How long do you think it takes a story like that to get around? I don’t want to be talked about myself, I don’t want you to be talked about, and what’s between us is never going to reach Lottie’s ears. Not if I can help it. You’d better remind yourself that you’re having a fling with a very much married man.”

“Norris, for the love of God, stop. I’ll lose control of my emotions. Norris, I’m in love with you. Have a little pity.”

“Couldn’t this have kept until our next meeting? I’ve told you how I feel about you. But if hysteria is going to rear its lovely head, we’re through. I mean that, Mag.”

“Yes. You make it very plain.”

“I know you’re impulsive, even flighty, but you’ve got a lot of control as well. It showed in the way you handled yourself when Bartram passed on. Call on that will-power of yours, and we’ll both be happier. We’ve had some good times together, Mag. Don’t mess it up.”

“And we’re going to have more. Look. I’m chastised. I’m sorry I was impulsive—it seemed innocent enough when it occurred to me to call you. Surely a lawyer sometimes has a drink with a client? At least, that’s how it seemed to me. I even said, on the phone, I’m not setting any precedents.”

“That,” Norris said, “you can say again.”

“All right, I will. This is no precedent. Just a quiet drink between friends and neighbors. And I’d like another drink. I’m miserable.”

“It seems to me you’re drinking more than you used to. You better watch it.”

“Is that how you nagged Lottie into the sanatorium?”

“That’s the remark of a bitch. I’m going back to my office.”

“Oh Norris, I am sorry. I didn’t mean that at all. I know it wasn’t that way. I felt a sudden flare of anger at your bawling me out and had to say something. I do, do apologize. Sincerely. Please, dear. Stay.”

Norris made no reply, but flagged the waiter and ordered two more drinks. “OK Mag. I was rough on you. End of lecture. With the proviso that if I said some hard things, I meant them. Now to pastures new. What were you shopping for?”

“Oh, a dress and some other things I scarcely need. And I returned a defective hair drier. Filling in time. Shopping is practically a full time job for a widow. The girl at the exchange window at Lathem’s gave me a ‘What, you again?’ look. I couldn’t have cared less. I see no reason to keep a machine that doesn’t work. Why, it might have been dangerous.”

“You were right to return it. Oh no. Bryan Delehantey just walked in the door and if you think he doesn’t see us think again. He’s trying to decide whether to pretend he hasn’t seen me. Can’t have that.” Norris stood up and waved, and Bryan joined them.

“Bryan,” Norris said, “I’d like to introduce you to a client of mine: Mrs Carpenter, this is Bryan Delahantey: Bryan, Mag Carpenter.”

“Client, eh?” Bryan said. “Hope you’re not thinking of selling your house, Mag. I know realty is Norris’ big number.”

“Heavens no,” Mag said. “Not as long as I can still creak up the stairs. I put years of my life into creating my own haven and nothing is going to prise me out of it.”

“I think I’ll order a drink,” Bryan said, and did so: rye and water.

“It was too silly,” Mag went on. “But last night, I don’t know what made me think of it—I was brushing my hair—it dawned on me that I’ve never changed my will since Bartram passed on. And of course Bartram was my legatee. That would leave a fine kettle of fish if I was knocked down by a car one of these fine days. I have some cousins who would doubtless get it all if I left that kind of will and, while I plan to remember them, we’re not all that close. No one could accuse me of being a wealthy woman, but Bartram did leave me comfortably off.”

“Yes,” Bryan said, “Bartram had a fine head for business. He was much respected, and is much missed.”

“Yes,” Mag said, “much, much missed.”

“Well, Norris,” Bryan said, “you’re a gay dog, cutting out of the office with a beautiful widow.”

“Every dog has his day,” Norris said. “And one might ask what brings you here? A hair of the dog that bit you? Were you bitten last night?”

“Haven’t had a hangover since I was in college. Not what you could call a real hangover. No, Maureen’s in town shopping so we’re going to have an early supper and catch a show.” At these words, Maureen entered.

“This is a surprise,” she said. “You two joining us for a little quiet revelry?”

“Not me,” Norris said. “I’ve still got an hour’s work on my desk, then it’s one of my evenings at the hospital. Family