Dear Rita. Simona Taylor

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ the conversation always swung around to Rita’s rank among the unattached. Every time she asserted her loner status, the response was surprise and disappointment. Beatrix, especially, seemed to think that Santa Amata was a metropolitan version of Temptation Island, throbbing with sexy young singles just waiting to hook up. It was downright ridiculous. In spite of all evidence to the contrary, Beatrix remained hopeful that once, just once, Rita’s story would be a little more titillating. She was like an older sister who sat up on a Saturday night waiting for her younger sister to come home from a date with the boy next door, hoping that the news would be juicy.

      But neither of them was a teenager, and there was no boy next door, or high school sweetheart, or football hero, or break dancer or biker boy. As far as Rita was concerned, Beatrix needed to grow up.

      “I hate to disappoint you, Bea, but I’m alone.”

      “Well, a coffee shop’s not so bad. Lots of young businessmen fueling up on their way to work. Nice and creative ad execs. Pinstriped suits from Banker’s Row. Yummy. You should start up a conversation with one or two. They’re not as stuffy as you’d think, you know. Trust me.” She could almost hear her mother wink.

      “I’m writing,” Rita answered pointedly. “It’s how I get paid. I haven’t got time to throw myself at strangers.”

      She thought she heard her mother mumble, “Might do you some good.”

      “What?”

      “Nothing, kiddo.” Bea went quiet for a while, then sighed. “Well, if ever you need—”

      “No, thanks,” Rita said hastily. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what Beatrix had on offer this time.

      “Because, you know, speaking of writing…”

      Rita braced herself. Moving from her dismal, manless state to her abysmal writing was only the second verse in an all too familiar song.

      “I read your column last week…”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “And I was thinking…”

      “Yes, Mom?”

       “Bea,” her mother answered impatiently. This time, Rita didn’t correct herself.

      Bea went on. “I was just thinking, you know, sweetheart, if you ever need a few pointers…For example, what you said to Fidgety in Phoenix? Well, I don’t agree with you. This poor woman was having serious sexual issues, and I don’t think you took the right approach. You had the wrong perspective. Not that you probably could have had the right one, given the fact that you choose to live your life in cloisters.”

      “I do not,” Rita managed. “And there’s nothing wrong with what I said to Fidgety.” Her throat was tightening up, and it was the kind of automatic response that even a swig of her favorite coffee couldn’t fix. Being a relationship writer, seeking out the right words with which to say the right things, was enough of a challenge. Being a relationship writer, and living in the shadow of parents whose two blockbusters on sex and relationships had taken up permanent residence on every bestseller list in Christendom, and whose names were buzz words on the talk-show circuit, was a different story. Beatrix was a sexologist with a collection of erotic art that made her cocktail parties a hit. Her father was an anthropologist whose doctoral thesis on the primal nature of human sexuality was still one of the most requested documents in half the universities on the East Coast. As proud as she was of them, it didn’t cheer her up to know they scrutinized every word she wrote.

      Beatrix was undeterred. “Feel free to run your column by me next time. It wouldn’t be a problem. Torrance and I—” Torrance was her father. He insisted that Rita call him by his first name, too “—we’d be happy to help. And by the way, when’re we seeing you? We’re home for a whole week. After that, ah…”

      Rita jumped on the small conversational bone. “You’re off again?”

      “As usual. No rest for the wicked.” Beatrix laughed. “We’ve got a whole week of signings in the southwest. Three or four radio programs, couple of TV spots. Most of them cable,” she added dismissively. “But we are looking forward to being back in Vegas again. You know how much your father loves the cabaret. He finds it…inspiring.”

       Ick, Rita thought. Here it comes….

      “Last time we hit the clubs, your father ordered champagne and strawberries up to our suite the minute we got back. I don’t have to tell you, most of the champagne wound up in the hot tub—”

      “Mom!” Rita pleaded. Beatrix relished regaling strangers with stories about her erotic adventures with her husband, but it wasn’t the kind of thing a daughter needed to hear about her father. Why couldn’t she just have a mother who played mahjongg and a father who liked golf?

      “All right,” Bea gave in. “Have it your way. Wouldn’t want to traumatize you. But that offer still stands, okay?”

      “Okay, Bea. Thank you. I will,” Rita promised, scanning the sky for flying pigs. “But I really have to go. I’ve got a deadline.”

      “Say no more, I read you loud and clear. I’m hanging up, okay? But I’m aching to set eyes on you. Don’t forget we live in the same town, all right?”

      Rita smiled. “All right. I’ll see you soon. Maybe over the weekend.”

      “Looking forward to it. Love you, baby.” And before Rita could return her mother’s air kisses, the line went dead.

      The conversation left her feeling as though she’d done two rounds in the ring with Tyson. Rita slumped forward, resting her forehead on the cool tabletop, and took several deep breaths. Ah, parents. Couldn’t live with ’em….

      But there was work to be done. She went back to her e-mails. Junk…more junk…and then the next few messages in her In-box made Rita pause and frown. There were five e-mails, all coming from the same address, all sent within the space of three minutes, sometime yesterday. The first thing that came to her mind was that they were more of the much loathed spam, but something stopped her before she could wipe them off her screen. The subject lines of all the messages were identical: Dear, dear, dear Rita. That was puzzling. Spammers didn’t yet have the ability to identify each of their targets individually. That technology just did not exist…did it?

      Cautiously, she opened the first message.

      Dear Rita,

      Bet you think you’re real smart.

      A.F.

      Rita pursed her lips. A lot of her mail came from readers, rather than people with questions. Fan mail. Some were complimentary, even fawning. Some were from men wanting to date her. A lot of it came from men in prison—all wrongfully convicted, of course—who swore they had nothing but love and respect for their “strong Nubian sister.”

      But not all of it was that good. Frustrated individuals, readers offended by a column or bored Web surfers looking to start a flame war—she’d had to deal with them all.

      She moved to delete the other four, assuming they’d be more of same, but stopped in mid-action, morbidly curious to see what else this person had to say. She opened up another. I bet you think you’re all that.

      Someone СКАЧАТЬ