Magic Hour by Susan Isaacs (cheapest way to read ebooks .txt) 📕

junk she thought was a screenplay—or to get him to love her again? Or was she simply a no-talent loser who had barreled onto the set after pumping up her courage with cocaine or booze or some dopey assertiveness training book?

And what about the threat Gregory had overheard? Look, telling someone it’s the last time he’s going to be a rotten bastard is, to a homicide cop, somewhat less significant than a vague “I’m gonna get you” or a specific “I’m going to hack your balls off and make

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them into cuff links.” Still, when I’d interviewed her, Bonnie had tossed off her visit to the set in a couple of words, giving the impression that dear old Sy had asked her to drop by just to be friendly: a little cheek-to-cheek air kiss, a little “Oh, Bon, you must meet Johnny, our key grip,” a little chat about some dangling participle in her screenplay.

And what about her story about being invited to Sy’s house, getting the fifty-cent tour? Why would a smart operator like Sy Spencer risk the Wrath of Lindsay by bringing home his tall-in-the-saddle ex-wife to have a look around the master bedroom suite with its king-size closets, its emperor-size bed? Why would he offer Bonnie a tour of a house that had to have pointed out to her: Sweetheart, did you get fucked over on alimony! Was he that insensitive? That much of a prick? Or had Bonnie pushed her way in there too? And why had she told me about it? Good old honesty? Or had anyone seen her, maybe making an unseemly fuss? rifling through drawers? taking something that didn’t belong to her? Had she been smart enough to know we’d be dusting everything—from the doorknobs to the blade of Marian Robertson’s Cuisinart—for prints and knew hers were there?

Goddamn Bonnie. It ticked me off that all day long I hadn’t been able to get her out of my mind. When I thought about it, she was the one who’d ruined Lindsay Keefe for me. Here I’d been expecting at least a cheap thrill, and what happened? I’d actually gotten turned off because Lindsay, posturing in front of the window, had seemed so false after Bonnie’s “naturalness.”

Big deal. She was in great shape and she’d…I don’t know.

She’d amused me. But I knew, as I sat there, tuning out the AA meeting, that I was acting nuts, fixating on Bonnie. By any rational standard, I’d never had it so good. Lynne was great-looking, sweet,

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young. But there I was, eyes closed, imagining running my hands over the flawless satin of Bonnie’s arms—even though, for all I knew, she could have clammy, fish-belly flesh or rough lizard skin, or her entire body could be dotted with dime-size brown freckles.

I wasn’t sure what was going on. Had Bonnie Spencer gotten to me? Or had I gotten to me? Gregory, after all, had been right on target about her: a plain Jane. Barely nice eyes—okay, an interesting color. An ordinary nose. A forgettable mouth, most likely with chalky, premenopausal lips; I really hadn’t noticed. So what the hell was I doing wanting to…I can’t even say wanting to see her again. Just wanting her.

Forget reality. I wanted my fantasy too much to open my eyes: I had dropped my jacket onto her kitchen floor. My tie was unknotted, my shirt was open, and I was tearing off Bonnie’s bra so I could hold her against me, skin to skin.

Applause startled me. I looked up. Jennifer, smiling with lipsticked teeth, was stepping down.

Engaged-guy nerves. That was my problem. Definitely.

After more than half a lifetime of drinking—and womanizing—of being a master self-deceiver (“Only three beers tonight”) and a consummate liar (“Oh, sweetheart, oh, you’re so beautiful, oh, I love you”), it was so hard to keep it simple.

Willie, the leader, a big local guy in a plaid shirt who was a motorcycle mechanic, stepped to the front. Years before, he’d gotten his teeth knocked out in a fight; his dentures looked as if they’d been molded for a giant; they made him lisp. “Thith hath been a great meeting!” he boomed. “Time to clothe now. Would all thothe who feel like it join me in the Therenity Prayer?”

Was it only that I was having the normal alcoholic’s trouble of keeping it simple? Or was I in deeper shit, MAGIC HOUR / 123

really looking to self-destruct? To throw over Lynne, which equaled throwing over happiness, stability, a chance to be a human being? Was I still drawn to oblivion?

Forty-five of us stood and held hands. I squeezed tight. I felt warm I’m-with-you squeezes back, even from the yuppie jerk in tennis whites on my right. I thought: This is what I’m here for. Support. I can’t do it myself. I need these people.

I need God. I need…

I couldn’t fight Bonnie. Something is wrong about her, I thought. Plus, objectively, there is absolutely nothing about her to turn me on. And yet now I was imagining kissing her soft, warm skin.

“God grant me the serenity…” My voice was embarrassingly loud.

Maybe I could keep it simple: Just admit she was one of those women who, despite the most commonplace looks, had always been an erotic genius, even now, even as she was getting too old for anyone to want. A not-homely, not-pretty woman you’d overlook on the street but who, in close quarters, knows exactly how to get to you. Or maybe she wasn’t devious. Maybe she did it unconsciously: she gave off primitive, subliminal signals or secreted some subtle female animal smell. Whatever it was, I wasn’t going to let it affect me.

“…To accept the things I cannot change,” I prayed.

“Courage to change the things I can; / And wisdom to know the difference.”

Amen.

On the basis of its architecture, my mother’s house, an old place with weathered cedar siding and a deep front porch, should have been charming or quaint or inviting. But it wasn’t. There