"Yes . . . No . . ." Paul answered them both. He was medium sized,
sinewy, and graying--surprisingly light on his feet for someone who
installed slabs of ornamental marble.
"It's so nice to see Verdi again. Kitty, kitty," she called. Verdi
stretched and remained in the corner. "Oh well, be that way," she said,
straightening. Lip gloss, touches of eye shadow, and her full wavy
blonde hair broadcast femaleness like a lighthouse. The good body could
be taken for granted. You might as well assume it, the message flashed,
cuz you sure as hell weren't going to be lucky enough to find out. She
and Paul were well matched. "I knew I was onto something, our first
date," she'd told Oliver. "I was cooing about Michelangelo and Paul
said, 'yes, but he used shitty marble.' "
She looked pointedly at Paul. "Sun's over the yard arm," he said.
DiMillo's was uncrowded. They sat at a window table, ordered drinks,
and talked as boats rocked quietly in the marina and an oil tanker
worked outward around the Spring Point light. Oliver's mother bragged
about his niece, Heather, and her latest swimming triumphs. She
complained about the long winter and how crowded the Connecticut shore
had become.
Pages:
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40