Larry, eyes as soft as a spaniel's.
"Hope it works out," he said.
I stared into my glass. The ice had melted to slush. "Think I will have something stronger."
I elbowed my way through the crush at the bar and ordered a double gin and tonic that fell just short of single strength. On the way back to the table I came face to face with Kruse. He looked at me. His eyes were light-brown flecked with green, the irises unusually large. They widened—with recognition I was certain—then flicked away and focused somewhere over my shoulder. Simultaneously, he shot out his hand, grasped mine firmly, covered it with his other, and moved our arms up and down while exclaiming, "So nice you could come!" Before I had chance to reply, he'd used the handshake as leverage to propel himself past me, spinning me halfway around before relinquishing his grip and moving on.
Politician's hustle. I'd been expertly manipulated.
Again.
I turned, saw his tailored back retreating, followed by the shimmering silver sheet of his wife's Page 27
hair swaying in counterpoint to her narrow, tight derriere.
The two of them walked several steps before being taken in hand by a tall, handsome, middle-aged woman.
Slim and impeccably assembled in a custard-yellow silk cocktail dress, white rose corsage, and strategically placed diamonds, she could have been any President's First Lady. Her hair was chestnut accented with pewter, combed back and tied in a chignon that crowned a long, full-jawed face. Her lips were thin, molded in a half-smile.
Finishing-school smile. Genetic poise.
I heard Kruse say, "Hello, Hope. Everything's just beautiful."
"Thank you, Paul. If you've a moment, there are some people I'd like you to meet."
"Of course, dear."
The exchange sounded rehearsed, lacking in warmth, and had excluded Suzanne Kruse. The three of them left the patio, Kruse and the First Lady side by side, the former Suzy Straddle following like a servant. They headed for a group of swans basking in the reflected light of one of the pools. Their arrival was heralded by the cessation of chatter and the lowering of glasses. A lot of flesh was pressed. Within seconds the swans were all listening raptly to Kruse. But the woman in yellow seemed bored. Even resentful.
I returned to the table, took a deep drink of gin. Larry raised his glass and touched it to mine.
"Here's to old-fashioned girls, D. Long may they fucking live."
I tossed back what was left of my gin and sucked on the ice. I hadn't eaten all day, felt a light buzz coming on and shook my head to clear it. The movement brought a swatch of custard-yellow into view.
The First Lady had left Kruse's side. She scanned the grounds, took a few steps, stopped and flicked her head
toward a yellow spot on the lawn. Discarded napkin. A waiter rushed to pick it up. Like a captain on the bow of a frigate, the chestnut-haired woman shaded her eyes with her hand and continued to scan the grounds. She glided to one of the rosebeds, lifted a blossom and inspected it. Another waiter bearing shears was at her side immediately. A moment later the flower was in her hair and she was moving on.
"That's our hostess?" I said. "In the pale-yellow dress?"
"No idea, D. Not exactly my social circle."
"Kruse called her Hope."
"Then that's her. Hope Blalock. Springs eternal."
A moment later, he said, "Some hostess. Notice how we're all kept outside, no one gets into the Page 28
house?"
"Like dogs that haven't been housebroken."
He laughed, lifted one leg off the chair and made a rude sound with his lips. Then he cocked his head at a nearby table. "Speaking of animal training, observe the maze-and-electrode crowd."
Eight or nine grad students sat surrounding a man in his late fifties. The students favored corduroy, jeans, and plain cotton shirts, lank hair and wire-rims. Their mentor was stoop-shouldered, bald, and wore a clipped white beard. His suit was mud-colored hopsacking, a couple of sizes too large. It shrouded him
"Hope it works out," he said.
I stared into my glass. The ice had melted to slush. "Think I will have something stronger."
I elbowed my way through the crush at the bar and ordered a double gin and tonic that fell just short of single strength. On the way back to the table I came face to face with Kruse. He looked at me. His eyes were light-brown flecked with green, the irises unusually large. They widened—with recognition I was certain—then flicked away and focused somewhere over my shoulder. Simultaneously, he shot out his hand, grasped mine firmly, covered it with his other, and moved our arms up and down while exclaiming, "So nice you could come!" Before I had chance to reply, he'd used the handshake as leverage to propel himself past me, spinning me halfway around before relinquishing his grip and moving on.
Politician's hustle. I'd been expertly manipulated.
Again.
I turned, saw his tailored back retreating, followed by the shimmering silver sheet of his wife's Page 27
hair swaying in counterpoint to her narrow, tight derriere.
The two of them walked several steps before being taken in hand by a tall, handsome, middle-aged woman.
Slim and impeccably assembled in a custard-yellow silk cocktail dress, white rose corsage, and strategically placed diamonds, she could have been any President's First Lady. Her hair was chestnut accented with pewter, combed back and tied in a chignon that crowned a long, full-jawed face. Her lips were thin, molded in a half-smile.
Finishing-school smile. Genetic poise.
I heard Kruse say, "Hello, Hope. Everything's just beautiful."
"Thank you, Paul. If you've a moment, there are some people I'd like you to meet."
"Of course, dear."
The exchange sounded rehearsed, lacking in warmth, and had excluded Suzanne Kruse. The three of them left the patio, Kruse and the First Lady side by side, the former Suzy Straddle following like a servant. They headed for a group of swans basking in the reflected light of one of the pools. Their arrival was heralded by the cessation of chatter and the lowering of glasses. A lot of flesh was pressed. Within seconds the swans were all listening raptly to Kruse. But the woman in yellow seemed bored. Even resentful.
I returned to the table, took a deep drink of gin. Larry raised his glass and touched it to mine.
"Here's to old-fashioned girls, D. Long may they fucking live."
I tossed back what was left of my gin and sucked on the ice. I hadn't eaten all day, felt a light buzz coming on and shook my head to clear it. The movement brought a swatch of custard-yellow into view.
The First Lady had left Kruse's side. She scanned the grounds, took a few steps, stopped and flicked her head
toward a yellow spot on the lawn. Discarded napkin. A waiter rushed to pick it up. Like a captain on the bow of a frigate, the chestnut-haired woman shaded her eyes with her hand and continued to scan the grounds. She glided to one of the rosebeds, lifted a blossom and inspected it. Another waiter bearing shears was at her side immediately. A moment later the flower was in her hair and she was moving on.
"That's our hostess?" I said. "In the pale-yellow dress?"
"No idea, D. Not exactly my social circle."
"Kruse called her Hope."
"Then that's her. Hope Blalock. Springs eternal."
A moment later, he said, "Some hostess. Notice how we're all kept outside, no one gets into the Page 28
house?"
"Like dogs that haven't been housebroken."
He laughed, lifted one leg off the chair and made a rude sound with his lips. Then he cocked his head at a nearby table. "Speaking of animal training, observe the maze-and-electrode crowd."
Eight or nine grad students sat surrounding a man in his late fifties. The students favored corduroy, jeans, and plain cotton shirts, lank hair and wire-rims. Their mentor was stoop-shouldered, bald, and wore a clipped white beard. His suit was mud-colored hopsacking, a couple of sizes too large. It shrouded him
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