her skirt provocatively. He took no notice of the regions thus revealed.
'What do you specialize in?'
'How marvelous!' he said. 'She does not say, 'Are you a doctor?' But immediately goes on to 'What do you specialize in?' assuming the obvious. It occurs to me, young lady, that behind that starlet facade and comic-book body, there may be a brain.'
'Please, good sir,' she mock pleaded, 'you flatter me unmercifully. And I am not a 'starlet.' I'm an actress. To forestall your next riposte, I'm currently playing in a small theater to very good reviews and very small audiences. In A Midsummer Night's Dream, and it's not a rock musical.'
He was nodding. 'Good, good.'
'Do I get a gold star on my test, teacher?' she pouted.
'Two. To answer your question, if you're really curious, I happen to specialize in endocrinology. You,' he continued comfortably, 'do not appear to be adversely affected where my field is concerned. Please don't go and make an idiot of me by telling me about your thyroid problems since the age of five.'
She laughed. 'I won't.'
'Isn't this a delightful party?'
'Oh, yes,' she deadpanned. 'Delightful.'
He really smiled then, a wide, honest grin-a white crescent cracking the tan.
'If you're interested in art, I have a few pieces you might appreciate. Oils, pen and ink, no etchings.' Grin. 'The people in them don't move, but they're more full of life than this bunch.'
'I think I'd like that.' She smiled back.
It was a longer drive than she'd expected. In Los Angeles that means something. A good twenty minutes north of Sunset, up the Pacific Coast Highway, then down a short, bumpy road.
The house was built on pilings out from a low cliff, to the edge of the ocean. The sea hammered the wood incessantly, December songs boiling up from the basement.
'Like something to drink?' he asked. She was examining the den. Cozy like mittens, masculine as mahogany. Hatch-cover table; old, very unmod, supremely comfortable chairs; a big fat brown elephant of a couch you could vanish in.
'Can you make a ginger snap?'
His eyebrows rose. 'With or without pinching her?'
'With.'
'I think so. A minute.'
Behind the couch the wide picture window opened onto a narrow porch overhanging a black sea. The crescent of lights from Santa Monica Bay had the look of a flattened-out Rio de Janeiro, unblinking in the clear winter night. Northward, the hunchback of Point Dume thrust out of the water.
The opposite wall was –one huge bookcase. Most of the volumes were medical tomes and had titles stuffed with Latin nouns. There were several shelves of titles in German, a single one in French, yet another in what seemed like some sort of Scandanavian language.
Crowded in a small corner of the north wail, almost in embarrassment, was a group of plaqued diplomas from several eastern institutions and, to match the books, one in German and another in French.
The art, of which there wasn't much, consisted mostly of small pieces. Picasso she expected but not the original Dali, or the Winslow Homer, the charming Wyeth sketches, some English things she didn't recognize, and the framed anatomic drawings of da Vinci . . .not originals, of course. And over the fireplace, in a massive oak frame, a big Sierra Nevada glowing landscape by Bierstadt.
A distinctive collection, just like its owner, she mused.
'With pinch.'
She whirled, missed a breath. 'You startled me!'
'Fair play. You've already done the same to me tonight. '
She took the glass, walked over to the couch, sat, and sipped.
'Very slight pinch,' she murmured appreciatively.
He walked over and sat down next to her.
'I wouldn't expect you to be the sort to go to many of Norma's parties.'
'Was that the name of our charming hostess?' he queried. 'No, I don't.' There was a long rack holding twenty-odd pipes on the table. A lazy Susan full of different tobaccos rested at one end. He selected a new pipe, began stuffing it.
'If you believe it, I was invited by one of my patients. '
She giggled. The drink was perfect.
'I'm afraid it's true.' He smiled. 'She was concerned for my supposed monastic existence. Poor Mrs. Marden.' He put pipe to lips and took out a box of matches.
'Let me,' she said, the lighter from her purse already out.
'Huh-uh. Not with that.' He gently pushed her hand away. The wrist tingled after he removed his hand.
'Gas flame, spoil the flavor. Not every smoker notices it, but I do.'
She reached out, took the box of Italian wax matches. She struck one and leaned forward. As he puffed the tobacco alight, one hand slipped into her decolletage.
'I didn't think you were wearing a foundation garment.'
'Oh, come on!' She blew out the match. His hand was moving gently now. 'You sound like a construction engineer!'
'I apologize. You know, you're very fortunate.'
She was beginning to breathe unevenly. 'How . . . so?'
'Well,' he began in a professorial tone, 'the undercurve of a woman's breast is more sensitive than the top. Many aren't sufficiently well endowed to experience the difference. Not a problem you have to face.'
'What,' she husked, brushing his cheek, 'does the book say about the bottom lip versus the top?'
'As to that-' He put the pipe on the table and leaned much, much closer. '-opinion is still somewhat divided.'
New Year's Day came and went, as usual utterly the same as an old year's day.
It wasn't an affair, of course. More like a fair. A continuing,wonderful, slightly mad fair. Like the fair at Sorochinsk in Petroushka, but no puppets here. Walt never shouted at her, never had a mean word. He was unfailingly gentle, polite, considerate, with just the slightest hint of devilry to keep things spicy.
He had fewer personal idiosyncrasies than any man she'd ever met. The only thing that really seemed to bother him was any hint of nosiness on her part. A small problem, since he'd been quite candid about his background without being asked, and about his work.
She'd been a little surprised to learn about the two previous marriages. But since there were no children, nothing tying him to the past, her concern quickly vanished.
And next Tuesday was his birthday. She was determined to surprise him.
But with what? Clothes? He had plenty of clothes and was no fashion plate to begin with. She couldn't afford a painting of any quality. Besides, choosing art for someone was an impossible job. Electronic gadgetry, the modern adult male's equivalent of Tinker Toys and Lincoln Logs, didn't excite him.
Then she thought of the tobacco.
Of course! She'd have some of his special blend prepared. Whenever he lit a pipe, he'd think of her.
Now, she considered, looking around the sun-dappled den, where would I hide if I were a tin of special tobacco? There must be large tins around somewhere. The lazy Susan didn't hold much, and it was always full . . . though she never saw him replenishing it. Of course she couldn't ask him. That would spoil the surprise.
It wasn't hidden, as it turned out. Just inconspicuous, in a place she'd had no reason to go. There was a small storage room, a second bedroom, really, in the –front of the beach house. It held still more books and assorted knickknacks, including an expensive and unused set of golf clubs.
The tobacco tins were in an old glass cabinet off in one dark, cool corner. The case was locked; but the key was on top of the cabinet. Standing on tiptoe, she could just reach it.
Hunt as she did, though, giving each tin a thorough inspection, there was nothing she could call a special
