her shoulders to her calves, and from the way the dress was molded to her body, it was obvious to one and all that she considered undergarments to be unnecessary. Short platinum curls framed her high Slavic cheekbones, and her almond-shaped grey eyes gazed indolently at Bert from under artificially thick eyelashes. Bert was entranced.
My former best friend aided and abetted Blondie all the way. Pam fed her lines and plots from books that I had slaved and sweated blood over, and together they coaxed and encouraged Bert, alias Leonard, to tell all. The platinum goddess batted her long sooty eyelashes and thrust out her bosom as she asked questions loaded with double entendre. It was a thoroughly disgusting spectacle.
I sat at the same table as the others and ate the same food, but I had on a cloak of invisibility like the young boy in Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Not one word was addressed to me in three-and-a-half hours.
I buttered every roll in the bread basket until one shot out of my hand and landed on the floor. I plucked the petals from all the radish roses on my salad and cut my salmon steak into pieces tinier than Pam’s black widow tattoo. I had hardly eaten a thing, but I wanted to throw up. Finally, when I could stand it no longer, I decided to take desperate measures.
“Leonard, honey,” I whined. “I’m real tired. Don’cha think we can go back to our room now? Baby will rub Snookum’s wittle back.”
The three of them turned and stared at me as if I had suddenly transported from the planet Zarcon.
I stood up and sauntered slowly towards Bert with the sexiest walk I could muster. Unfortunately, the buttered bread I dropped on the floor earlier had rolled out from under the table and lay in the path of my right foot. The next few humiliating minutes of my life probably provided the two women with several months of amusing dinner party conversation. It afforded Bert a knee-slapping belly laugh right on the spot.
My right foot shot out in front of me, but the left lagged a few seconds behind. I was never very flexible, yet somehow I found myself doing something I had only seen twelve-year-old gymnasts do. In the process, my dress hiked up over my hips and exposed the Winnie the Pooh underwear Cassie had given me last Christmas.
I tried desperately to get to my feet, but the butter on the bottom of my boot, coupled with the highly polished wood floor, gave me no purchase. Pam stared in horrified disbelief as I scooted my white-cottoned, lace-edged butt over to the table and hauled myself up. I jerked my skirt back down over my rear end and grabbed Cassie’s cape. I didn’t wait for the elevator. Instead, I flung the door to the stairwell open and ran down all fifteen flights.
I waited in Bert’s car in the parking lot for another hour. When he finally climbed in beside me, I was shivering from the cold. He took one look at the fury in my eyes and didn’t say a word. We drove all the way back home in absolute silence.
Chapter Nine
Christmas came and went before you could say “Ebenezer Scrooge.” I suppose it was pleasant enough, but thinking back, all I can remember were the quiet good times Mother and Cassie and I shared after the guests were gone.
Two days after New Year’s Eve, Cassie went back to school and left a big old empty hole in my heart. Aggie and I sulked around the house for the next three weeks like two souls lost in purgatory. One evening after supper, Mother finally commented on my behavior.
“Paisley, for heavens sake! You have to get used to being without your daughter. I did. Believe me, it wasn’t easy for me when you moved to South America.”
“Well, I’m just not the iron maiden you are, am I? And besides, where is that daughter now, hmmm? Right here, that’s where I am, back on the farm. Does that make you happy?”
I stormed off to the library with a huffy little puppy dusting my heels. Aggie was much better at disdain than I. She didn’t look like a naughty little child. And she did not feel guilty about acting like a spoiled, middle-aged brat.
We lay down side by side on our stomachs in front of the French doors and looked out at the January night. The first days of the new year had brought warmer winds to melt the snow. With the lovely white blanket stripped away, the land looked stark and dead in the harsh green light of the mercury lamp.
Aggie barked halfheartedly at a dry leaf bouncing across the yard in the wind, then fell asleep. I lay there listening to her soft little doggie snores, wondering why I was so down in the mouth. Mother was right, I should have gotten used to Cassie’s being gone by now. After all, she did have a life beyond hearth and home, and soon she would be leaving for good—that I could not deny. How had Mother coped so well, I wondered. The answer was obvious. She had a vast network of friends, not to mention her adoring Horatio. At the drop of the first lonely tear, I’m sure he was at her side with all manner of distractions. I had no one. And that was the problem. I was lonely.
While I was deeply engrossed in writing a book the characters became my friends, or my enemies, depending on how well they got along with Leonard. But those were only paper acquaintances—I needed the flesh and blood kind.
When the phone rang I tried to get up, but my stiff limbs were full of pins and needles. Mother came to the door and peered inside.
“Paisley, dear, the phone is for you.”
She held the cordless receiver out towards me and said clearly and distinctly, “It’s that charming Bert Atkins you’re so fond of, dear.”
I managed to raise up on one stiff knee, grabbed the phone, and covered the mouthpiece with my hand.
“For Pete’s sake, Mother!”
She winked broadly and closed the door behind her.
I flopped back down and accidentally landed on Aggie’s tail. She jumped up and bit the first thing she could reach.
“Ahhhhh, shit!” I screamed as I flung the phone across the room and grabbed my left breast.
“Damn dog!”
I scrambled across the carpet on my hands and knees looking for the telephone.
“I’m coming, Bert,” I shouted.
“Please don’t hang up,” I whispered to myself.
Finally I located the receiver under the upholstered ottoman and put it up to my ear. All I heard was a dial tone. Bert Atkins was gone.
I pulled myself up on the sofa holding the phone against my wounded breast. Tears were starting to fall when he called again.
“Hello,” I sniffed. “Bert? Is that you?”
“Yes, Paisley,” he answered in a tightly controlled voice. “I can call back later if you have company.”
“No, no. It’s only Aggie. The dog, that is. Her real name is Agatha Christie, but we call her Aggie. You haven’t met her. You would probably hate her. I know I do. I mean, I don’t really hate her, but…”
I suppose I would have continued making nervously inane remarks, but mercifully, he interrupted.
“Paisley, we need to talk.”
“We do?” I squeaked.
“I don’t think I should come to your home. I’ll explain why when I see you.”
Bert
