Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances Read Online Free PDF Page B

people lived there and some infamous people. Money was the requisite, though controversial political figures and flamboyant film personalities had a tough time finding their way into the bastion. It was well patrolled and there had been relatively few burglaries and there was a marked absence of small children, though there were many pint-sized dogs with cranky barks who had been trained to wait until they were out on the sidewalk before emptying their bowels.
    Carl Jennings had had the foresight to see the wave of the future, that cooperatives and condominiums would swallow the rental market, a shark wolfing down smaller fish. You didn’t have a prayer these days unless you had lots of money in the bank. If you had it you thanked God for it and tried not to think of less fortunate people. For the eight-room apartment Carl had bought in 1977, he had paid the sum of $190,000 which, at the time, had seemed a princely sum but which inflation had beggared, so that by this time the asking price would be something like three times that amount, and he never tired of reminding Christine of that fact.
    He arrived home while Christine was putting the artichokes in the steamer. “What’s to eat, honey?” he asked her, accompanying the question with a pat on the rump.
    “Linguine with clam sauce. Artichokes, and I made a flan for dessert.”
    “Sounds tasty.” He kissed her. “How was your day?”
    “I had lunch with the girls. You?”
    “So so. Anything I can do?”
    “No, sit down and read the paper or something. This will be ready in half an hour. Tell Nancy.”
    No one had to tell Bruce; he was setting the table. He was increasingly thoughtful, maybe a little apprehensive too, wistful, clinging even, for he would be going away to college next year, and anyway he had always been her shadow. Nancy was Daddy’s girl, but Bruce and Christine had a dialogue that was very precious to her.
    Next fall he would be vamos. Home for the holidays, but no longer under her aegis. His room would be empty.
    God, I’ll miss him, she thought.
    It was a good dinner, she was a good cook. Many years had accomplished this, and these days it was her only duty around the house. It irked her that Nancy was picking at her food. “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked her daughter.
    “Not very.”
    “I can imagine why. You had junk food after school. Why do I bother to cook?”
    “Why don’t you hire a
chef de maison
, then you won’t have to slave over a hot stove.”
    “There’s little enough for me to do as it is. At least I can make a meal for my family. Damn it, Nancy, why do you do that?”
    “Eat junk food? Live dangerously, I always say. You should be grateful I don’t go in for angel dust.”
    “You go in for angel dust, you look for other accommodations,” Christine said calmly.
    “May I be excused?”
    “No you may not. Sit there and move the food around on your plate. What did you do with your hair?”
    “Got tired of it and threw it in the trash can,” Nancy answered sassily, and Carl laughed.
    Christine smiled. “Look who’s picking me up on semantics, of all people. However you fixed it, it looks nice. I used to part my hair in the middle.”
    “I remember that,” Carl said. “You looked like a Renaissance Madonna.”
    “She’s not a bad-looking chick,” Bruce conceded. “Not that she’ll ever be any competition for you, Mother. She’ll go downhill fast, she’ll be blowsy in her thirties.”
    Nancy threw a crouton at him. “What’s for dessert?” she asked.
    “I made a flan.”
    “Oh. So I’ll hang around.”
    “I thought you would.”
    We’re really a pretty nice bunch, Christine thought, sitting at her end of the table, the day dying, the prospect of a good documentary on television later on. Her daughter was blooming, getting to look more like Ali McGraw every day, and her son had those soft, velvety eyes. Facing her husband, she had to admit that he was a fine-looking man, though his hair was