Alison Lurie - The Truth About Lorin Jones

“Shouldn’t we —”

“Shh.”

“Jesus, look at the time,” Mac said after a considerable interval. “Maybe we should get some clothes on.”

“All right,” Polly agreed. This isn’t his house, she suddenly remembered, it’s a rental property. He’s not supposed to be here, not like this. She imagined Hugh Cameron walking in; or, much more likely, the rental agent. Shameful for her; disastrous for Mac. Rapidly, she bent to retrieve her red cotton bra and panties from the floor.

“Listen, I’ve got to go back to the job, check with my crew,” Mac said, dragging on his jeans. “But that shouldn’t take long. How about supper?”

“All right,” Polly heard herself agree, too eagerly.

“It’s nearly five now. Say six o’clock?”

“Sure.” But what about that woman Mac said he was living with? she thought, tying her track shoes. The woman with whom, presumably, he had supper last night — and then lied to so that he could go with Polly to the Sagebrush Lounge. Well, it was none of her business.

None of your business? her guardian angel remarked, appearing suddenly in Polly’s mind; she was a tall stern marble figure like a Greek statue, probably the Artemis of Artemis Lodge. Where’s your female solidarity, your sympathy with your own sex? You don’t have to see him again tonight.

It’s just for a few hours, Polly explained. Then she can have him back.

“I’ll drive you home now,” Mac said, opening the door for her. “Then I can pick you up in about an hour at the guest house, okay?” He smiled as if sure of her answer.

“Well. ... Okay,” Polly said.

As dusk fell the low clouds thickened; flushed indigo and purpled gray, they billowed over the island like O’Keeffe’s giant dark flowers. The wind that had started up that afternoon was blowing stronger.

“Yep, that storm the TV promised is on its way,” Lee said, smiling, nodding. She had already congratulated Polly on the discovery of Lorin Jones’s missing paintings, and promised to borrow a Polaroid camera for her. When Polly let on that she was going out again that night with Mac, Lee grinned knowingly. “That’s right, honey,” she said. “You can’t work all the time, not in Key West.”

“Well,” Polly said. “This is work in a way; it’s research. I’m hoping he’ll tell me something about Hugh Cameron.”

“I’ll bet.” Lee’s wide flat Polynesian lips spread in another grin. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing anyhow.”

“Oh, I do, don’t worry,” Polly lied — because what the hell was she doing? What had she done already?

Well, one useful thing: she had called Jacky Herbert at the Apollo Gallery to report her discovery of the two lost paintings. After all, even if she hadn’t found Hugh Cameron, this trip to Key West had been a kind of success.

In more ways than one, she thought now, looking sideways at Mac, who sat next to her at the outdoor bar of an oceanside restaurant called Louie’s Back Yard. The wind, stronger here, shook the trees overhead, sending down a scatter of tiny leaves; it flung a succession of spotlit creamy green waves against the sea wall. Most of the other customers had retreated to a higher and more sheltered deck or gone inside.

“You want to try a piña colada?” Mac suggested. “It’s the local specialty.”

“Sure.”

The bartender, a long-lashed Michael Jackson type, squirted syrups and shook them in a blender, then placed before Polly what looked like a tall vanilla milkshake, with its own pink paper umbrella. She sipped the sugary froth warily.

“Too sweet, maybe?”

“Well, kind of.”

“Don’t drink it then,” Mac said. “Have something else.”

“All right. I’ll have a spritzer.”

Mac waved and ordered. “Listen, I don’t want you to give up on Key West. Tomorrow we’ll go to the Full Moon Saloon; it’s a kind of funky place, but they have good conch chowder and real Key Lime pie.”

“You think I’m having supper with you tomorrow,” Polly said, trying not to smile.

“What’s the matter, can’t you make it?”

“I’m not sure. I just wondered —”

“Yes?”

“What about that woman you told me you were living with?”

“That’s my problem.” Mac’s voice went cool, then uneven. “Does it bother you?”

“Not really,” she said, equally cool.

“Okay then.” He stared out over the darkening, churning sea.

It might not bother me, but it bothers you, Polly thought. You feel guilty because you’ve slept with another woman. And I feel guilty because I haven’t. It’s a joke, really.

“The thing is, Varnie and I, we’ve been having some rough times lately,” Mac said after a pause. “She’s a real eighties type: what she’s looking for is security, and a father for her kid. She has this four-year-old daughter, see. She wants to get married and set up a nuclear family, but I’ve been dragging my feet.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Last night, I didn’t even go back up there. I stayed at the house we’ve been working on, here in town.”

“Oh.” There was an awkward pause. “You don’t want to get married,” Polly said finally.

“No.” Mac shook his head several times. “Not to Varnie anyhow. I know what it’d mean. Life insurance, holidays with the in-laws, what they call a job with a future, and sleeping with somebody twice a week because you promised the State of Florida you would. That’s not my scene.” He pulled his gin and tonic toward him, but instead of drinking took the plastic straw out of the glass and, holding one finger over the top, released two drops of liquid onto the straw’s crushed paper casing. The paper caterpillar squirmed, expanded, collapsed.

“I haven’t seen anyone do that since sixth grade,” Polly exclaimed.

“Want to try it?” He grinned.

“All right.”

As her caterpillar in its turn rose and subsided, she realized for the first time what it resembled. The other kids must have known all along: that was why they had giggled and shoved each other so.

“Hey,” Mac said. “Do you really have to go back to New York Sunday morning?”

“Well, I was planning to.”

“Why don’t you stay awhile? There’s a lot here I’d like to show you. And I’ve got the whole day off Sunday. We could go out to the reef, if this storm blows over.” Mac glanced again at the waves, now spotlit to a milky aqua. “You ever been snorkeling?”

“No,” Polly admitted.

“It’s beautiful under the water. Literally out of this world.” He leaned toward her, stroked her arm. “I bet you could change your ticket.”

Don’t do it, Artemis cried, suddenly reappearing with a swirl of stony draperies. You’ve had your fling; if you don’t watch out you could become emotionally involved with this unsuitable person.

“Well; I could try,” Polly said, stubbornly refusing to listen to this inner voice. “But I’ve got to be back by Wednesday, I have an interview scheduled then.” What does it matter, she argued; it’s only three more days. I just want to get him out of my system. Yes, Artemis remarked. That’s what addicts always say. One more fix. Get it out of my system.

“Great.” Mac leaned farther toward Polly; he touched the side of her face.

“I said I’d try, that’s all.” In spite of her resolve, she smiled. Okay, she admitted. I like him. I could love him, even. What’s the matter with that? It’s stupid and dangerous; you’ll get hurt, Artemis replied, but her voice was shrill and faint.

“Great,” Mac repeated, putting his hand on her arm. The wind blew harder; the thick pale green lace-trimmed waves churned under the deck. He and Polly gazed at each other, half smiling.