He was waiting in the cool living room. The furniture was all shades of brown, and the walls were papered in burlap. Wooden shades covered the windows. The lighting was indirect, soft and easy on the eyes. It was a restful room. He was on the big sofa, reading the latest issue of his favorite comic book,
She smiled at him, ruffled his hair, and said, “What kind of a day have you had, Skipper?”
“It was okay,” Colin said, aware that she didn’t really want the details and would gently cut him off when he was halfway through the story. “What about your day?” he asked.
“I’m pooped. Will you be a love and mix me a vodka martini the way I like?”
“Sure.”
“Twist of lemon.”
“I wouldn’t forget it.”
“Of course you wouldn’t.”
He got up and went into the family room, where there was a well-stocked wet bar. He couldn’t stand the taste of hard liquor, but he mixed her drink quickly, with professional skill; he had done it hundreds of times.
When he returned to the living room, she was sitting in a large chocolate-brown chair, her legs tucked under her, head laid back, eyes closed. She didn’t hear him coming, so he stopped just inside the doorway and studied her for a moment.
Her name was Louise, but everyone called her Weezy, which was sort of a kid’s name but which suited her because she looked like a college girl. She was wearing jeans and a short-sleeve blue sweater. Her bare arms were tan and slender. Her hair was long, dark, shiny; and it framed a face that Colin suddenly thought was pretty, really quite beautiful, although some people might say the mouth was too wide. As he looked at her, he began to realize that thirty-three was not really old, as he’d always thought.
For the first time in his life, Colin was consciously aware of her body: full breasts, narrow waist, round hips, long legs. Roy was right; she had a terrific figure.
Why didn’t I ever notice it before?
He answered himself at once: Because she’s my own
Heat blossomed in his face. He wondered if he was turning into some sort of pervert, and he forced himself to stop looking at her well-filled sweater.
He cleared his throat and went to her.
She opened her eyes, lifted her head, took the martini, and sipped it. “Mmmmm. Perfect. You’re a sweetheart.”
He sat on the sofa.
After a while she said, “When I got into this thing with Paula, I didn’t realize that the owner of a business has to work harder than the employees.”
“Was the gallery busy today?” Colin asked.
“We had more people in and out of there than you’d find in a bus station. This time of year you expect a lot of browsers, tourists who don’t really intend to buy anything. They figure that because they’re vacationing in Santa Leona they’re entitled to a few free hours of each shopkeeper’s time.”
“Sell many paintings?” Colin asked.
“Surprisingly, we sold quite a few. In fact, it’s the best day on record.”
“That’s great.”
“Of course, it’s just one day. Considering what Paula and I paid for the gallery, we have to have a lot more days like this if we’re going to keep our heads above water.”
Colin couldn’t think of anything more to say.
She sipped her martini. Her throat rippled slightly when she swallowed. She looked so dainty and graceful.
“Skipper, can you make your own supper this evening?”
“Aren’t you eating at home?” he asked.
“The shop’s still very busy. I can’t leave Paula alone this evening. I just came home to freshen up. Much as I dread the thought of it, I’ll be going back to the grind in twenty minutes.”
“You’ve only been home for supper once in the past week,” he said.
“I know, Skipper, and I’m sorry about that. But I’m trying hard to build a future for us, for me and you. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I guess so.”
“It’s a tough world, baby.”
“I’m not hungry anyway,” Colin said. “I can wait until you get home after the gallery closes.”
“Well, baby, I won’t be coming straight home. Mark Thornberg asked me to share a late dinner with him.”
“Who’s Mark Thomberg?”
“An artist,” she said. “We opened a show of his work yesterday. In fact, about a third of what we’re selling is his stuff. I want to persuade him to let us be his sole representatives.”
“Where’s he taking you to dinner?”
“We’re going to Little Italy, I think.”
“Boy, that’s a neat place!” Colin said, leaning forward on the sofa. “Can I come? I won’t be any bother. You wouldn’t even have to stop back here to pick me up. I can ride my bike and meet you there.”
She frowned and avoided his eyes. “Sorry, Skipper. This is strictly for grown-ups. We’ll be talking a lot of business.”
“I won’t mind.”
“Perhaps not, but we would. Listen, why don’t you go to Charlie’s Cafe and have one of those big cheeseburgers you like so much? And one of those extra-thick milkshakes that you have to eat with a spoon.”
He settled back against the sofa as if he were a balloon that had rapidly deflated.
“Don’t pout,” she said. “It doesn’t become you. Pouting’s for little babies.”
“I’m not pouting,” he said. “It’s okay.”
“Charlie’s Cafe?” she prompted.
“I guess so. Sure.”
She finished her martini and picked up her handbag. “I’ll give you some money.”
“I’ve got money.”
“So I’ll give you some more. I’m now a successful businesswoman. I can afford it.”
She brought him a five-dollar bill, and he said, “It’s too much.”
“Blow the rest of it on comic books.”
She bent down, kissed his forehead, and left to freshen up and change clothes.
For several minutes he sat in silence, staring at the five-dollar bill. At last he sighed and stood and took out his wallet and put the money away.
6
Mr. and Mrs. Borden gave Roy permission to have supper with Colin. The boys ate at the counter at Charlie’s Cafe, basking in the incomparably wonderful aroma of bubbling grease and onions. Colin paid the check.
From the diner they went to the Pinball Pit, an amusement arcade that was one of the chief gathering places for young people in Santa Leona. It was a Friday night, and the Pit was crowded with kids feeding coins to pinball machines and a wide variety of electronic games.
Half the customers knew Roy. They called to him, and he called back. “Ho, Roy!” “Ho, Pete!” “Hi there, Roy!” “What ya say, Walt?” “Roy!” “Roy!” “Here, Roy!” They wanted to challenge him to games or tell him jokes or just talk. He stopped here and there for a minute or two at a time, but he didn’t want to play with anyone but Colin.
They competed in a two-player pinball game that was decorated with paintings of big-breasted, long-legged girls in skimpy bikinis. Roy chose that machine rather than one with pirates, monsters, or spacemen; and Colin tried
