Long Summer Nights. Kathleen O'Reilly

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СКАЧАТЬ a journalist. I’m here to write about this town, this place, the Summer Nights Festival, and I’m fighting for my job against a femme fatale who is sleeping with the boss. I don’t have a chance in hell of keeping my job, but if I do, then my parents aren’t right, and I’m twenty-seven years old, which is too old for my parents to be right, and so I have to come up with something here. Something fascinating. Something illuminating. Something mesmerizing. Something that will titillate my editor far more than the sight of Miss Nolita’s naked garbanzos.”

      Carolyn knew desperation when she saw it. “You’re sure you don’t want to check out now? The Wildrose has this great chef. Four stars. In fact …”

      Jenn held up a courageous hand.

      “Let’s forget about the chef for a minute. What would you do if you weren’t here?”

      “I don’t let myself think that far ahead.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because usually it’s not good, and I like being happy. If I don’t think too much about tomorrow, then I’m happy.”

      Most other female New Yorkers aspired to be dancers, or media captains, or heart-free mistresses to high-powered men. All Carolyn wanted was to be happy. Jenn made a mental note to investigate this self-satisfaction concept more fully. Women choosing happiness over the rigid expectations of the world? Story at eleven.

      AARON BARKSDALE DRUMMED his fingers on the mahogany tabletop, glancing at his watch for the hundredth time, not wanting to look like an impatient male in a frilly, feminine world, but as a writer, he believed in absolute honestly, so yes, he was an impatient male in a frilly, feminine world.

      But not impatient without cause. The elegant dining room of the Wildflower Inn was overstuffed with flowers, smothered by the rabid scents of hairspray … and potpourri.

      Aaron hated potpourri. Neither was he especially fond of hacked-off flowers that were crammed into vases, and in his soul he knew that a woman’s hair was best left soft and unshellacked. Feeling rather justified in his criticism, he leaned back in the pint-size chair and his fingers drummed even faster.

      Where was Didi? She was always late, he reminded himself, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

      “Excuse me. I don’t mean to interrupt, but can you move your chair please?”

      At the sound of a woman’s voice, his fingers ceased their drumming, and he turned to contemplate this newest irritation. Automatically his mouth curved into the politely expected smile, but it wasn’t as difficult as usual.

      She had soft brown eyes, possessing that wondrous sort of delight most commonly seen in magazine ads for cleaning products. Her face was long and thin, with a sharp nose well suited to intruding where it didn’t belong. But she had nice hair, he admitted, only to be fair. Autumn gold waves that fell past her shoulders, soft and unshellacked—as it should be.

      “Your chair?” she repeated in that same no-nonsense tone, and he reminded himself that people must be more dense in frilly, feminine worlds. Trying to oblige, he shifted an inch forward, until his knees lodged painfully against the adjacent chair. All social obligations now complete, he nodded to dismiss her.

      “Do you need that much room?” asked the woman who would not be dismissed. “I’m trying to work,” she offered as way of explanation, as if everyone chose a dining room as their personal office. Of course, with the hodgepodge of electronic gadgets spread on the table in front of her, he wasn’t surprised she needed extra space.

      “The chair’s aren’t that big,” he argued, because if he moved any closer to the table, he’d be on top of it.

      She looked him up and down, and smiled, patently fake. “You don’t look fat.”

      Fat? Then he noticed the teasing look in her eyes. “Don’t get nasty,” he answered testily, because Aaron had never handled teasing well.

      “I’m trying to work here, but I can’t move my elbows. I need to move my elbows,” she explained, flexing her arms over the small tabletop, her expression politely determined in that way of people who didn’t know when to give up.

      “Don’t we all?” he muttered, before unhappily adjusting his knees. Trying to block out the rest of the world, his fingers began nervously drumming once again.

      She looked up, scowled at his hand.

      “I’m making you unhappy, aren’t I?” he asked, strangely happy about it.

      As soon as he spoke, a heavily embalmed dowager at the next table shushed him. Obviously people in her world enjoyed the oozing scent of bad potpourri and didn’t mind having their legs compressed in unnatural positions.

      Cranky old biddy, he thought. Probably owned cats.

      “Sorry,” the younger woman apologized in a stage whisper, with a nod toward the next table. He nearly smiled when the older woman sniffed.

      “It’s not your fault,” he told the younger woman magnanimously.

      “I won’t bother you again,” she promised, but after that, he could still feel her staring at his back, and he told himself that the woman was very attractive, and he shouldn’t mind having her stare at him. But this time, he could feel the tightness of his collar, the instinctive desire to cover his face. He told himself it was the surroundings, the filigreed trappings and overindulgence of gilt. When faced with too much noise, too much gold and too many eyes, he had an overwhelming urge to flee.

      Finally he turned around, shuffling his chair sideways to face her. “I don’t like being in crowds,” he explained. “Especially fussy crowds with pearls and rose patterns and cucumber sandwiches.” It was as close to an apology as he’d ever admitted.

      “You don’t get out much, do you?” she asked.

      “Enough,” he lied. He got out more than he wanted, and every time he did, he regretted the experience. When he got right to the point, as he knew he should, Aaron preferred isolation. He preferred the voices in his head, the world he created, the perfect turn of the phrase.

      He preferred alone.

      “Why are you here?” she asked, seeing through the lie.

      “Lunch.”

      “Dragged the dragon out of his lair? Must be some friend.”

      He snickered at the thought. Didi? “She’s not a friend.”

      “Oh,” she replied, a wealth of innuendo in the word, and he choked back his laughter. She thought Didi was a date. “I’m sorry. I’ll get back to work.”

      “Don’t let me keep you from it,” he said when she turned away, not bothering to correct her assumption.

      Eventually she shifted again, knocking into his shoulders. “I can be a very bad procrastinator. Sometimes I’ll know I should be working, but if I know I have the time, it’s like pulling teeth.”

      “You should be more disciplined.” Deciding that maybe she did need more room to work, he shifted to the other chair at the table. It was a little better. СКАЧАТЬ