glad.” She squeezed her friend’s hand.
Carla was touched. Ronnie was someone with whom she had always shared everything. It felt good sharing now. “So, Ronnie, I couldn’t help noticing the quality of your wardrobe. And the new Cadillac. Jack’s obviously doing well.”
“Well enough. But the Caddie’s mine.”
“You work?”
Ronnie smiled in a way that puzzled Carla. “Yes, I work.” She paused, then continued. “And I take occasional courses in creative writing at NYU. I’ve even had a few articles published.”
“That’s great.” The waitress brought their wine and a basket of bread dripping with butter, garlic, and herbs. When she had poured them each a glass and left, the two women picked up their glasses and tapped them together.
“To work in all its forms,” Ronnie said mysteriously, then laughed.
Puzzled, Carla drank.
For the next hour, Carla and Ronnie caught up on everything that had happened since they lost touch after graduation when Ronnie traveled in Europe for a year. As the two women finished espressos and the last of the bottle of wine, Ronnie looked at her watch. “I hate to say this, but I have to run. Someone’s meeting me at two. But let’s get together next week. Noon. Why don’t we meet out front and eat somewhere else? And, don’t worry about the damage to my car. I’ll let my collision coverage take care of it.” Ronnie took the check, added a generous tip, and split the amount. After settling up, the two women stood and Ronnie reached out and hugged Carla. “God, I’ve missed you.”
For each of the next three Mondays the two women lunched in the same neighborhood: at a Chinese restaurant specializing in Peking Duck, an Indian hole-in-the-wall that made the best mulligatawny Carla had ever tasted, and today at a sushi bar where Carla sampled raw fish for the first time. Over ginger ice cream and green tea, Ronnie suggested their next meeting place. “I’d like you to see my place,” she said. “Let’s have lunch chez moi next week.”
“In Hopewell Junction? I guess I could. You’ll have to give me directions.”
“Not Hopewell Junction. Around the corner.” With an enigmatic smile, Ronnie gave Carla an address on East 54th.
“I don’t get it, Ronnie. You have an apartment right here?” She saw Ronnie nod, then pause. “No wonder you know all the good spots to eat. Have you got a secret life? Tell me everything.”
“Next week I promise you’ll know all.” As Ronnie left for her usual two o’clock meeting, she added, “I’ll arrange to have the whole afternoon free. We’ll talk.”
The address that Ronnie had given Carla led her to a small, three-story brownstone on East 54th. Carla climbed the four steps to the entrance and rang the bell. Ronnie opened the door dressed in a soft gray wool long-sleeved jumpsuit, her dark blond hair loose around her shoulders. A pair of large, free-form silver earrings and a silver herringbone choker were her only jewelry. Carla was glad that she had chosen to forgo her usual jeans and had worn a dark green wool suit with a beige raw silk blouse.
The two women bussed cheeks, and Carla followed Ronnie through a small vestibule and into a beautifully furnished living room.
“Some fantastic place,” Carla said as she looked around. Everything was done in black, white, and shades of gray. The sofa was overstuffed, covered in black leather banded with leather straps secured with heavy metal buckles. It was accented with throw pillows in black-and-white stripes and plaids. The two comfortable-looking soft chairs were white jacquard fabric with identical black-and-white pillows. A fluffy white rug covered the center of the floor; Carla could see the original highly polished inlaid wood where the rug ended. The walls were covered with a soft silver-gray silk and the windows were draped in a slightly darker gray damask. End tables of black lacquer held white-based, modern lamps that filled the room with light.
Vases and pots of flowers placed on tables and pedestals around the room provided the only color. Roses, chrysanthemums, and geraniums added their hues to blooming cactuses and unusual blossoms that Carla didn’t recognize. Several hanging baskets of living blooms hung from hooks in both the walls and ceiling. One wall was all windows with a decorative but highly functional iron grill outside. The opposite wall contained a long, white, glass-fronted wall unit filled with books of every kind, from popular novels to poetry to volumes on natural sciences and history. The other walls held black-and-white Ansel Adams prints and other, smaller black-and-white photographs by artists Carla didn’t know. At one end of the room sat an antique maple desk.
Carla whistled. “Holy cow.” Through her real estate wanderings, she had learned enough to appreciate the class and expense of the decorating.
“Just a little hideaway,” Ronnie said, laughing.
“Little? Either you inherited a small fortune, your writing is doing extremely well, or Jack indulges you and your ‘little hideaway.’”
“Or ‘D’ none of the above.” Ronnie handed Carla a champagne flute and filled it from an already opened bottle of Dom Pérignon. She clinked her glass against her friend’s and, with an enigmatic smile, said, “To ‘none of the above.’”
They drank. “Okay,” Carla said, “give.”
“I think we know each other well enough for me to show you my photographs. Sit down.” She motioned toward the sofa and Carla picked up a photo album covered in black satin and sat down next to her friend. When she opened the album Carla saw a picture unlike anything she had expected. A statuesque brunette posed, wearing a black leather and chain bathing suit-like outfit. The links draped over her naked breasts, the supple leather caressed her hips and belly. On her hands she wore soft, elbow-length, black leather gloves and her legs were covered with thigh-high patent leather boots with five-inch heels.
The woman’s wavy, auburn hair hung softly across her chest with one curl surrounding an erect dark brown nipple. In one hand she had a short, black leather riding crop. Her makeup was heavy, with bright red lipstick and exaggerated eyeshadow and liner. “I don’t get it,” said Carla.
“Turn the page.”
The picture on the following page was of a woman with pale white-blond braids that hung down in front of her dress. She was turned slightly sideways, looking shy and vulnerable and dressed in a puffed-sleeve pink dress, an adult version of the dress a five-year-old girl might wear, with a fluffy full skirt over several petticoats and a wide sash tied into a large bow which peeked out from behind. Her white ankle socks were neatly cuffed and her black patent leather Mary-Janes gleamed. Her face, artfully made up with soft rouge and pale pink lipstick, looked youthful and familiar. As Carla examined the face more carefully, she gasped. “That’s you.” She flipped the page backward. “So’s this.”
“Turn the page.”
The pictures that followed were all of Ronnie in various costumes: a harem girl with a transparent veil covering the lower half of her face, a prim gray-haired woman in a white high-necked blouse and sensible shoes, a voluptuous female pirate wearing short shorts that showed the half-moons of her ass peeking beneath and a blouse unbuttoned to the waist, and a woman in a black satin teddy standing over a man whose arms and legs were secured to the frame of a brass bed with lengths of heavy-link chain and padlocks.
“Phew. Ronnie, I’m amazed here. Okay, fill me in.”
“I
