cheekbones, taut muscles-even to the extent of abdominal definition, if not quite a six-pack-and with the grape- sized diamond and the oxymoronic wine cellar and the rest of the life she must lead, Mrs. Zorn didn’t seem to have much in common with his mom.
“Weren’t you staying for the holidays?”
“That’s very nice of you, Mrs. Zorn. But I’ve got to be getting back.”
She looked almost alarmed. “I don’t understand.”
“No emergency or anything like that,” Nat said. “I’ve got a lot of work to do, that’s all.”
“Work?”
“Studying and stuff.” He thought of the list waiting on his wall: clean room, laundry, write home, work out, get to know town and surroundings, ‘ on next semester. Over Mrs. Zorn’s shoulder, he could see the Persian cat watching him from the couch in the elevator.
“Schoolwork?” said Mrs. Zorn.
“Yes.”
“But it’s vacation, and the twins say you’re a brilliant student.”
“I don’t know how they can. First-semester results aren’t even in yet.”
“The girls are always right about this kind of thing. And you’ll miss out on-” She glanced around, like someone seeking help. “How about some breakfast?”
“Thanks, but it’s really not necessary.”
“I’m fixing myself a little something anyway,” said Mrs. Zorn. “It’ll be my pleasure.”
Mrs. Zorn made an omelet, a beautiful glistening omelet with goat cheese-Nat knew that only from a quick glance at the label-onions, and peppers; the best-looking omelet he’d ever seen. She squeezed a glass of orange juice for him, made her frothy blue drink from a big cube of blue ice she took from the freezer and put in the blender, sat down opposite him in a little alcove jutting into the sky; a sky the color of her drink, the cloud level for the moment a few stories below.
“That’s not very fair,” said Nat as Mrs. Zorn divided the omelet into two highly unequal portions, taking one tiny end and giving the rest to Nat.
“This is plenty for me,” said Mrs. Zorn. “Too much.” The alarmed look crossed her face again. “You don’t want coffee, do you?”
He did, but thought it best to shake his head.
“One of the deadliest poisons there is,” she said.
Nat didn’t look up. He cut off a piece of his omelet, tasted it. “My God,” he said.
“You like it?” She didn’t sound surprised.
“It’s great.”
“My father taught me how to cook,” said Mrs. Zorn. “I hardly ever get a chance, but the staff’s off today, of course.”
A maid in uniform entered, laid a vase of flowers and some folded newspapers on the table, left. A young maid, Hispanic: she resembled one of the cheerleaders at Clear Creek High.
“The cook’s off, anyway,” said Mrs. Zorn, who still hadn’t touched her food. She sipped her blue drink. “Where are you from, Nat?”
He told her.
“I’m from Denver, myself,” she said.
“You are?”
“Do you know the city?”
“Not really.”
“My father had a diner in Arvada. He cooked and my mother served.”
Nat was amazed. Arvada was where his own mother had spent the first few years of her life, for one thing. “How long have you lived here?” he said.
“New York, you mean, or this place?”
“New York.”
“Since I was sixteen.”
“Did your parents open another diner?”
“I’m sorry?”
“When you moved here.”
“I came by myself. I’d always wanted to be a model, for some reason, and this is where you have to go, here or Paris, and I wasn’t ready for Paris back then. Or ever.”
“And did it… uh, work out?”
“Did what work out?”
“The modeling.”
“Yes indeed,” said Mrs. Zorn. She stared out the window, where the cloud level had risen and there was nothing to see but swirling fog. “I’m the third Mrs. Z.”
Nat ate more of his omelet, biting down on an onion-filled mouthful that tasted especially delicious.
“You didn’t think I was the twins’ mother, did you?”
“Oh, no,” said Nat. “If anything, I thought you were an older sister.” His true thought, but it sounded a little oily out there in the open.
“Aren’t you a charmer,” said Mrs. Zorn. “I’ll let you in on a secret. I work my ass off to stay like this, and it’s all fading fast, no matter what I do.”
Nat didn’t know what to say to that.
“Maybe not such a charmer,” said Mrs. Zorn. “You’re supposed to say something reassuring, like ‘not at all.’ ”.
“You’re… beautiful,” Nat said, and felt his ears reddening again. He’d never said that to a woman, or girl, before; so strange that the first one would be her, so stupid that his voice would crack on the phrase, like he was thirteen or something. “You must know that,” he added, making what he hoped was a mature recovery.
Mrs. Zorn smiled. “I know it officially. But it’s always nice to hear. How’s the omelet?”
“Fantastic.”
“Enjoy, as the locals like to say,” she said. She took another sip of her blue drink; he noticed it was turning her lips and teeth blue. “What do you know about the second Mrs. Z?” she said.
“Nothing.”
“No? She’s their mother. The girls, I’m talking about. Lives in Paris. A lifestyle you would not believe. What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Sorry.”
“She was a model too,” Mrs. Zorn continued. “Wanted to be an actress. That became a problem, a marriage buster eventually, because she has a voice like Daffy Duck. With a head cold, but don’t tell the girls I said that.”
“Was she ever in any movies?”
“He financed one for her in the end.” Mrs. Zorn named it, a slasher sequel he’d seen one Friday night at the little two-screen cinema in his town.
“Was she the aerobics instructor?”
“Something like that.”
Nat remembered nothing remarkable about her voice.
“But that was it,” Mrs. Zorn said. “She overplayed her hand. He didn’t like being pressured, not by her, not by those Hollywood people.” Outside the sky darkened and lights went on in the kitchen automatically. “He doesn’t like being pressured by anybody.”
“What does Mr. Zorn do, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“It’s complicated,” said Mrs. Zorn. “Let’s just say he takes his cut.”
“Of what?”
“You name it.” She glanced at Nat’s plate, saw it was bare. “What else can I get you?” she said.
“Nothing,” he said. “It was great.”
“I’ve enjoyed our little breakfast, too,” said Mrs. Zorn, although she still hadn’t touched her food. She looked
