Daisy Buchanan's Daughter Book 1: Cadwaller's Gun Read Online Free PDF

The Gal I Left Behind Me , of course,” Andy said, either ignoring or delighting in my unstifled groan of horror. “And Meet Pamela , which I bet you’ve never seen.”
    “No, but why would I want to? Didn’t it come out and flop agesago? Honestly, Andy. Since it’s my birthday, you could at least have asked yourself what I’d enjoy.”
    “I did, but I can’t perform miracles and we’ve already seen every Kirsten there is. Except Intervi ew with th e Vampire ,but you never wanted to.”
    “Of course not. She was too, she was only a child back then. Realizing she was one would just force me to acknowledge even Kirsten has feet of clay.” Less clay than veined pottery with toes, one of Pam’s nudged the Metro section wallward. “Well, no bother! You watch whichever one you like. I’ll probably just fall asleep and you can let yourself out.”
    “Pam! It’s your birthday. Promise to stay awake through at least one.”
    “Why?”
    “Oh, to help me pretend it’s some sort of occasion,” Andy said. “I always let myself out.”
    Posted by: Pam
    If you’re getting ready to weep for the lonely old bag roosting on upper Connecticut Avenue, I wouldn’t blame you. I might laugh at you, though. Let me dash last year’s Christmas-card list in your face.
    By 2005’s tally, Pam had one hundred and fifty-seven extant friends. I don’t mean near strangers to whom she feels an inexplicable need to suck up. I mean chronologically protean faces in snapshots stretching over decades, mutually misremembered anecdotes, e-mails from California or India about politics, books, upcoming trips, and recent losses in the club. The next time they came to Washington or I got to California or India, they’d’ve been as glad to see me as I them.
    Those are the people I sent cards to. Another eighty or ninety jokers I’d just as soon forgot I’m alive burdened the postman with what neither they nor he knew was junk mail. The reaper’s gouges have whittled down both totals from their circa-1975 peak.
    Closer to home are Nan Finn and Laurel Warren, with whom I can do the biddy bit at Martin’s or La Chaumière anytime. We knock waiters around like ninepins as they wait for the heftier bowling ball of their tip: “More wine!” Plus Carol Sawyer, also from Nagon days, not that I’d eat with her alone. Fond of my fingers.
    Plus Callie Sherman, though Callie doesn’t get out much anymore. Ninety, blind, often turbaned (oh, please), occasionally dabbling in an unseen cigarette the way Tiberius in old age enjoyed the nips of little fish while swimming, she Receives.
    Even so, I’ve got only one favorite endtable. One gent who not only willingly accompanies me to the Kennedy Center, Martin’s, La Chaumière, the Folger, and Arena Stage but puts up with the late-blooming crush I’d never admit to even my fellow movie addict Nan Finn. I’ve literally disturbed young girls with my knowledge of Kirsten Dunst’s career.
    Mind, the day I see the closing credits of any of her pictures, even those Andy’s Netflixed or Nextflicked for me multiple times, will be when I realize I’ve died and there isan afterlife. Then I’ll be too resentful about the nonsense I’ve been put through to pay attention to the happy ending. Yet Andy loyally sat through Bring It On to the end so he could tell me, in detail ,how Kirsten’s cheerleading team had fared after I dozed off during one green-pantied set of splits.
    I sometimes wonder what I look like, schnozz buzzsawing at a Leaning Tower of Pisa angle and dentition gaping like I’m one of the freaks at Bomarzo—clearly, Italy figures somewhere in my idea of pleasant dreams—as Andy hangs in there in order to elucidate the last act’s plot turns for Pam’s sake. And to think he was our man at the Berlin Wall: the last, rotated home just before it came down for good. Maybe it taught him patience.
    Posted by: Pam
    In regular contact, if mostly in cyberspace and by phone since I gave up my visits