Oliver's Story

'Hey, I'm naked, Marcie.'

'What is that supposed to mean?'

'You caught me in the shower.'

'Shall I call you back? I wouldn't interrupt your monthly ritual.'

'Never mind,' I snarled, ignoring her remark. 'Just tell me where the hell you are.'

'The White Plains shopping center. In Binnendale's.'

'Then be outside the front in twenty minutes and I'll pick you up.'

'Oliver,' she said, 'it's fifteen miles away!'

'All right,' I casually replied. 'I'll pick you up in fifteen minutes.'

'But, Oliver, please do me one small favor.'

'What?' I said.

'Put on your clothes.'

Thanks to the mechanical perfection of my Targa 911S and also to my driving creativity (I even pass on center strips — the cops are always too impressed to stop me), I zoomed into the shopping center twenty-seven minutes later.

Marcie Nash was waiting (posing?) just where I had told her to. She had a package in her hand.

Her figure looked — if possible — more perfect than the other night.

'Hello,' she said. As I leaped out, she came and kissed me on the cheek. And put the package in my hand. 'Here's a little gift to mollify and butter you. And, by the way, I like your car.'

'It likes you too,' I said.

'Then let me drive.'

Oh, not my little Porsche. I couldn't …

'Next time, Marcie,' I said.

'Come on, I know the way,' she said.

'To where?'

'To where we're going. Please … '

'Marcie, no. It's much too delicate an instrument.'

'Don't sweat,' she said while climbing into the driver's seat. 'Your instrument will be in expert hands.'

And I confess it was. She drove like Jackie: Stewart. Only he would never take a hairpin turn as fast as Marcie did. Frankly, I confess to intermittent trepidation. And some total fear.

'Do you like it?' Marcie asked.

'What?' I said, pretending not to notice the speedometer.

'Your present,' Marcie said.

Oh, yeah. I had forgotten all about the butter-up. My panicked fingers were still clutching that unopened offering.

'Hey, unscrew your digits — open up and take a look.'

It was a soft black cashmere sweater with Alfa Romeo emblazoned on the chest. In vivid red.

'It's Emilio Ascarelli. He's the new Italian whiz kid.'

Clearly Marcie had the money to afford this kind of thing? But why'd she buy it? Guilt, I guess.

'Hey, this is gorgeous, Marcie. Thanks a lot.'

'I'm pleased you're pleased,' she said. 'Part of my business is to guess the public's taste.'

'Ah, you're a hooker,' I replied, with tiny smile to punctuate my witticism.

'Isn't everybody?' Marcie said. With charm. And grace.

And maybe truth?

One may well ask, since I'd been recently a bit uncertain of myself, how could I be so sure I would seduce Miss Marcie Nash.

Because its easier without emotional involvement. I know by definition making love implies affection. But often nowadays the act is merely a competitive event. In this regard I felt completely comfortable — psyched up, in fact — to handle Marcie Nash.

And yet the more I paid attention to the comely driver and forgot to watch the dash, the thoughts that London had evoked came back to me. Notwithstanding all the mystery and my ostensible hostility, did not I maybe slightly like this girl? And was I maybe faking myself out in order to reduce anxiety?

For was it really possible, once having made most tender love with Jenny Cavilleri, to dichotomize? Could I divide the act of love, be sensual yet insincere?

People can and do. As I would prove.

For in my present state, without involvement was the only way I thought I could.

 

Guidebooks give Le Mechant Loup in Bedford Hills an 'adequate' for its cuisine. But for its rustic atmosphere and lodgings it receives an 'excellent'. Nestled (as they say) within the green and tranquil trees, it offers an escape from all the pressures of our urban lives.

What the guidebooks need not even mention is Le Mechant Loup is perfect for a shack-up.

Dinner may just barely pass, but up the stairs awaits the atmosphere that critics praise. Learning this would be our destination, I concluded that my chances for success were … 'excellent'.

Yet in a way I was annoyed.

Who had chosen this locale? And who had made the reservation on whose own without consulting whom? And who was driving there so swiftly in my lovely Porsche?

We turned off the highway, entering a forest with a narrow road which seemed to stretch for miles. At last a light shone up ahead. A lantern. And the sign: LE MECHANT LOUP, A COUNTRY INN.

Marcie slowed (at last) and turned into the courtyard. In the moonlight, all I could distinguish was the outline of a Swiss chalet. Visible within were two huge fireplaces flickering illumination on a dining room and living room. Nothing glimmered in the floors above. As we crossed the parking lot, I noticed but a single other car, a white Mercedes SLC. The place would not be overpopulated. Surely conversation could be … intimate.

'Hope the food is worth the drive,' I quipped (ho ho).

'Hope you won't be disappointed,' Marcie said. And took my arm as we went in.

They sat us at a table by the fireplace. I ordered drinks.

'One orange juice and a carafe of any cheapo California white that isn't Gallo.'

'Cesar Chavez would be proud of you,' said Marcie, as the waitress bustled off. 'You should make her check to see the oranges are union-picked.'

'I'm not a watchdog for your morals, Marcie.'

Then I looked around. We were the only people there.

'Are we too early?' I inquired.

'I think because it's so far out, the people mostly come on weekends.'

'Oh,' I said. And though I'd told myself I shouldn't ask, I asked: 'Have you been here before?'

'No,' Marcie said. But I figured she was lying.

'Why'd you pick it sight unseen?'

'I heard it was romantic. And it is romantic, don't you think?'

'Oh … excellent,' I said. And took her hand.

'They've got a fireplace in every upstairs room,' she said.