Ann Beattie - Love Always

“You’re not writing about the party, are you?” the man said.

“No,” she said. “I’m sort of crashing, too. I came with a friend.”

She never knew what to say to men. He seemed pleasant enough, and fairly attractive; she wanted him to stay and talk to her so she wouldn’t be standing alone.

“What assignment would you be doing in New York?” she said.

“Photographing an elevator,” he said. “Pardon me?” she said, leaning closer. The dog was in the pool, swimming, and the woman was laughing.

“Photographing an elevator,” he said. “Somebody put a million dollars into designing Art Deco elevators. I don’t know New York very well — I can’t remember what building they’re in. The owner is getting cold feet about letting them print the name, because he thinks people will think he’s a rich pig and blow the thing up.”

He finished his drink. “Would you like me to make a run this time?” he said.

“Sure,” she said. “Thank you.”

Christie Brinkley and the man were playing keep away, tossing a yellow ball back and forth, while the dog swam wildly and snapped at the air. One man tiptoed up behind another and pushed him toward the pool. He didn’t push hard enough to throw him in, but the man’s drink spilled on his white pants. Mary came up, with a Japanese man. “Mr. Yamamoto,” she said, “this is my friend Myra. Mr. Yamamoto, if you can believe it, is quite an expert on Japanese pottery. We met by the bar over there …”

When Myra’s new friend came back with drinks, Mary and Mr. Yamamoto drifted away, into another circle of people who exclaimed with delight when they saw him.

“The tennis courts are lit,” the man said. “Do you by any chance want to play a game of tennis?”

She was feeling a little high. “Why not?” she said.

They maneuvered past the large group of people gathering around Mr. Yamamoto and walked down a flagstone walkway, which ended where the grass started to get high. There was a tennis court below, but two people were already playing.

“Doubles,” he said. “Come on.”

By the time they got there the people were having such an energetic game that neither of them wanted to interrupt. They sat and watched until the mosquitoes started to bother her.

“There were none around the pool,” he said. “Let’s go back.”

She could feel the bites stinging her neck. She held her cup against them. She wondered if the man felt stuck with her, but the next second, she didn’t much care if he did. She realized that they had never told each other their names. She introduced herself.

“Edward Bartlett,” he said.

“What part of California?” she said.

“L.A.”

A crowd had gathered around Mr. Yamamoto, who was standing on his head. Several of them applauded. The wet dog was standing just outside the circle of people, peering in. A man in a ten-gallon hat, jeans, and a sleeveless denim jacket turned away, smiling, and her eye met his. It took her a second to realize that it was Hildon. The woman who was with him turned. Myra was looking at Lucy Spenser. Lucy had on a white miniskirt, a pink T-shirt, and an unzipped camouflage jacket. She had a mane of light-brown hair. She looked very much like her picture. Edward was waving. “There’s my pals,” he said.

“Who?” Myra said.

“Lucy and Hildon,” he said. “Actually — do you and Lucy know each other?”

“Not really,” Myra said. “We’ve talked on the phone.”

“She sure has been nice to me,” Edward said, still holding his hand up in greeting as they walked toward them. Myra wondered why Hildon had on … what else could she call it but a costume?

“Lucy,” Hildon said, “this is Myra DeVane.”

“I didn’t realize you knew each other,” Edward said to Hildon.

“Myra’s writing a story about Country Daze ,” Hildon said.

“How are you?” Lucy said, extending her hand. Cool. Pleasant. Myra was never prepared for it, when a woman held out her hand. She shook her hand.

“Are you the hostess’ friend, or the host’s, or both?” Hildon said. His hand hovered behind Lucy’s back. Lucy had kept the smile on her face too long; Myra understood that Lucy was not particularly interested in meeting her. If Lucy thought she was spying, that was outrageous. Just outrageous.

“The host’s,” Myra said.

“You know our host?” Edward said. She remembered that she had told him she was crashing. No way out of it now. “Yes,” she said, hoping that the host — whichever one he was — didn’t materialize. Someone jumped up, grabbed his knees, and cannonballed into the pool. It was getting dark.

“Well, it’s good he’s your friend, because that way you can say hello. I understand that our hostess left.”

“She did?” Hildon said.

“She took the dog and left,” Edward said. “Our host — your friend — was apparently unprepared.”

“Unprepared for what?” Myra said.

“Her leaving,” Edward said. He shrugged. “I was talking to the bartender yesterday, and he told me.”

“You’ve been here since yesterday?” Myra said.

“No. I just came both days.” He looked at Lucy. “Thanks for the hot tip,” he said.

“Any time,” Lucy said. She smiled again, and turned to leave.

Myra didn’t like the way Lucy was acting. Or rather, that she let it show that she was acting: that she was being perfectly polite, temporarily. And she didn’t care if Myra lived or died.

“I love her column,” Edward said. “Don’t you love that column?”

“Yes,” Myra said. “Have you been friends a long time?”

“Just since I came here on assignment. They sent me to do sketches and take photographs of Nicole Nelson.”

“Nicole Nelson?” she said. “What’s the connection?”

“She’s her niece.”

“Her niece?” Both aunt and niece were involved in the broken hearts biz?

“I’ll tell you something really off the record,” he said. “Nicole’s been sneaking into town to see a guy who’s a dishwasher at the inn. Can you imagine? He told her his room is plastered with Stephanie Sykes pictures. That must be the strangest feeling for her.” He shook his head. “You can’t print that,” he said. “Swear you won’t.”

“I wouldn’t,” she said. She liked it that he trusted her. He was nervous (and anybody who trusted a reporter was foolish, categorically), but he trusted her, and he was right to. It was obviously more than Lucy Spenser did.

“Hey, listen,” he said. “Assuming I don’t have to go to New York tomorrow, would you like to have dinner?”

“Sure,” she said.

“Give me your phone number,” he said, taking out his wallet and looking for a piece of paper. He found a cash register receipt. He gave her his pen. She wrote her name and number on the piece of paper, remembering as she wrote that you don’t write your name: you just assume that the man doesn’t have a collection of names and numbers. Of course, since he actually does, yours is always the one that stands out.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said. “There are public courts, apparently. Maybe we can play.”

“Great,” she said.

He held up his hand in parting, even though he was standing two feet away. He was quirky enough to charm her. She smiled goodbye. As he walked away, she started to feel as awkward as she always did when she was alone at a party. She looked for the outside bar, found it, and got another drink. Straight wine this time. No one talked to her, so she sipped it and walked around. She saw the man and the little boy again, and wondered how it could be that the dog hadn’t killed the peacock. Then again, there was such a crowd that perhaps the dog had just not encountered the peacock. What a coincidence, really, that out of this large crowd, Edward had talked to her, and that it was Lucy Spenser who had told him about the party. She walked around, looking for Mary. She went inside, finally, and looked in the living room. When she came out, Lucy Spenser was sitting alone, on the stairs.