Hot Streak

first class reunion.

Georgia and Marge were at her door first and within the half-hour had rounded up Linda and Nancy for a late lunch. Sitting beside the pool, eating with the ravenous appetites peculiar to the morning after a long night of drinking, the old friends relived the previous night. So-and-so hadn't changed, so-and-so had changed immeasurably. Professional job choices were analyzed, new husbands or wives scrutinized, who had danced with whom and who hadn't were noted. The conversation was fluid, rapid, neurotically funny as it can be with old friends who share the same sense of humor.

“Should we go and knock on Carey's door? He's here, you know,” Marge teased, her audacity as prime as it had been at fourteen.

“I don't think his bed-partner would appreciate it.” With a grin, Molly pulled Marge back into her chair.

“You saw him?” Linda breathed, wide-eyed and awestruck, her naivetй undiminished by the years.

“Briefly,” Molly said. “He and a model-type redhead walked in around three. I was out on the balcony getting away from the smoke.”

“Did you talk to him?” Marge asked, and every eye at the table swiveled to Molly. They could all display a certain blasй facade-all except Linda-but Carey Fersten was as close to a star as any of them had ever known.

“No, so put your tongues back in. Jeez, he's only another guy-not some superhero,” Molly replied, a sudden image of Carey and the adoring woman last night provoking her nettled tone.

“Just another guy?” Marge repeated in accents heavy with disbelief. “Are you blind, deaf, and dumb? He's the sexiest guy I've ever seen, and if I could be certain Bill who's snoring three doors down wouldn't wake any time soon, I'd be tempted to knock on his door. I could introduce myself as Molly Darian's best friend. I'm sure he'd remember you.”

“Don't be so sure. I expect several dozen women have come and gone since my little fling with him.”

“He was a hunk,” Nancy reminisced with a small sigh. “Do you remember how he looked on court? Nobody had muscles like Carey Fersten.”

“An ex-marine back from Vietnam,” Marge added. “Experienced, older, the women were panting after him even then. You met him in that film appreciation class, didn't you? The one on Saturday mornings at Creswell.”

Molly nodded, but she wasn't about to reminisce about that. It was one of the most enduring memories in her life, and hers alone-not available for public consumption. It was the spring quarter of her senior year, and honor students were allowed to take college courses across campus at Creswell. Carey was doing T.A. work for the professor, and did most of the grading for the course. She'd gone in one afternoon to pick up her test score, and he'd asked her out to a movie.

She said, “I'm engaged.”

He'd looked down at her from under those half-raised, heavy brows and said, “So?”

She'd heard all the stories concerning the old count's wayward son; the one who'd been expelled from every good prep school in the country. The rich kid-bad boy image had evolved somewhat with maturity, Vietnam, and his enthusiasm for film, but a touch of the renegade lingered in the improved persona. And that nervy insolence was manifest in the softly spoken, “So?”

But he was experienced enough to recognize the modest uncertainty in the young woman who'd attracted his attention since the first day of class, so he damped the predatory fire in his eyes and suggested coffee at the student union. Molly could say yes to that, and before twenty minutes had passed she'd said yes to the movie as well. It was the beginning of her introduction to passion Carey Fersten-style; it was also the spring prelude to a glorious, passionate summer that served forever after as a merciless measure of perfection.

“They're filming out at Ely Lake Park, I hear,” Linda said, “using the pavilion for some midsummer kind of festival. Judd's folks have been working as extras.”

“What's the story about?” Georgia asked.

“I don't know exactly… something about the early emigrant labor movement.”

“Sounds socially significant.”

“None of his movies have been pure fluff.”

“You mean those good looks and that sexy charm and he's got brains, too?” Marge jestingly commented. “Do you suppose women love him for his mind?”

“And money, and title-all of the above previously mentioned,” Linda answered.

“So is he really some kind of intellectual, Molly?” Marge persisted, intrigued by the celebrity in their midst, alive with lurid curiosity.

“He was on the dean's list, if that means anything. I don't know much about his intellectual aspirations. We didn't discuss literature and philosophy much,” she replied with a touch of mockery.

“I'll bet you didn't. If I had Carey Fersten within arm's reach, I'd use my mouth for better things,” Marge smartly retorted.

“Vulgar as ever, Marge,” Linda remonstrated, casting her eyes skyward.

“I meant I'd kiss him.”

“Sure, sure, we know you. Kiss him where, darling?” Nancy said pointedly. “You didn't mention where.”

“Talk to Molly about kissing Carey Fersten,” Marge said, her smile broad. “Is he really as good as all the jet-set gossip implies?”

Molly went quiet for a moment, then said, “He's nice.”

“Nice?” Marge exclaimed. “Nice? What the hell does that mean? You mean he goes to church twice on Sunday and doesn't step on ants?” Leaning across her plate, she looked directly at Molly and, with a playful leer, softly asked, “How nice?”

Molly sighed in friendly resignation, her pink flamingo earrings swaying gently with the movement of her breathy sigh. “If you must know, you lecherous ladies,” and Molly couldn't help but smile at the expectancy on each face, “nice means he's very good at pleasing you.”

“Oh, Lord,” Nancy breathed, “I'm going to die right here. I'm always sexy as hell after I drink. What do you think he'd say if I knocked on his door?”

“‘Good morning' and ‘I didn't ring for the maid'?”

Nancy shot Marge a black look. “Screw you.”

“Hey, I'm only teasing. You look great. I love your California tan.” And Marge smiled her warm, sincere smile that endeared her to her Sunday school students, her karate instructor, her husband Bill, and the world at large.

The waitress interrupted with fresh coffee, and by the time everyone had been served, the conversation centered on whether Jane Wilcox had said “I own a Mercedes,” thirty or forty times the night before.

CHAPTER 17

T wo hours later farewells were exchanged, promises to see each other more often solemnly pledged, and each woman went her separate way.

Molly slid behind the wheel of her four-year-old sedan, the only remnant of her marriage not expropriated by a vengeful husband at divorce time. And Bart would have tried to take that too, she thought, starting the car, if the title hadn't been in her name.

Bart Cooper had been extremely uncooperative when their marriage broke up. It had to do with the fact she'd asked for the divorce. It had to do with his ego and anger and statements like: “You want out of this marriage? I'm not the husband you married? You're growing away from this?” He'd swept his arm out, taking in the antique furniture, the enormous living room, the lake view beyond the bow windows. “Fine!” he'd shouted. “That's just fine! But you're not taking me to the cleaners, and you're not taking this all with you because I worked for this and paid for this. And if this style of living isn't good enough for you, find out what it's like on your own. And I mean on your own! I'm not supporting you and your new boyfriend.”

“There isn't any boyfriend.”

“I'm sure there will be. For the record, he'll have to make his own living.”