practically living together now. All marriage means is that we only get one listing in the phone book. What about kids?”
She looked stricken. “I—I can’t talk about this now. I’m late. And there’s—”
“Just say yes,” he implored, practically on bended knee. “Julie, I’m asking you to marry me. Please?”
The cabbie, delighted with all this, spoke up. “Hey, Mac,” he said, “have you got a ring in that box, or is that where you keep your dirty socks?” He laughed uproariously at his keen wit.
Peyton straightened. “Ring? Holy Christ!” He handed the box to her and she opened it. She gasped. The driver leaned close to Julie. “If you ask me,” he said, “this fellow doesn’t show much commitment. Or common sense.”
She gave him a furious glare that made him turn back around to his own business. He ratcheted the meter, grumbling, and it began to tick.
“Peyton, I love the necklace, but we’ll have to talk later. This is all too fast for me.”
“But I love you,” Peyton said, panicked. He could see it all crumbling. Why hadn’t he waited for a romantic evening to drop this bombshell?
“And I love you,” she said. “But I’ve got to think about it.”
That said, she shut the door and the cab pulled away with a brief screech of its tires. One cabbie, highly irritated; one Peyton sinking into despair.
He hailed a taxi. None stopped.
He had to walk eleven blocks before anybody took pity on him, and by then he was so deep in the mental cesspool called depression that he no longer cared.
3
Julie
T HE TAXI DROPPED her off eighteen miles out of town, at the Felix Heights Hunting Club, a nose-in-the-air outfit if she had ever seen one, very posh and pooh-pooh. The front entrance was as beautiful as a grand European hotel. Sculptured marble horses the size of merry-go-round ponies flanked the huge double doors, prancing eternally to nowhere. A fountain was splashing somewhere beyond the hedges; aging men shambled about in ridiculous-looking jodhpurs and knee-high boots, bleary eyed, martinis in hand. A fat woman was preparing to tee off on the distant golf course. When Julie saw all this as she walked to the door, she was suddenly gripped by the fear that she might not be as well dressed as she should be. After all, this place was simply crawling with upper-crust types, most of them ugly and old, no doubt about it, but since most of them had more money in the bank than, say, Scrooge McDuck, they could afford to fool themselves.
She looked down at herself, feeling oddly naked and vulnerable. She was wearing a corporate power suit, the standard version that Sears peddled through the mail to all those executive women who wanted to look like small men: shirt, tie, the works. This suit happened to be green, which she found strangely inappropriate at this moment. Hadn’t she read somewhere that you never wear a green suit if you want to impress somebody. God, had she blown it already?
Get a grip on yourself, she thought, snarling inwardly, and adjusted her hair with nervous little sweeps of her hand. She discovered, with a burst of horrified shock, that she was wearing a hat. It was pinned in her hair. It was stylish as hell, but it was also very green. She felt suddenly like a frumpy housewife with a head eternally full of curlers, or the party guest who invariable winds up wearing a lamp shade, much to everyone’s disgust. The hat was very heavy, almost enough to topple her over. She quickly unpinned it, looked around, and shoved it into a dark nook in the hedges. The pins followed.
She discovered also that she needed to go to the bathroom. With her mutton hock at Bowser’s, she had downed three or four glasses of Zinfandel Auslese, a German import that seemed to go well with anything. Almost anything. Her kidneys were manning the pumps in a frenzy, stretching her overworked bladder inexorably to the full mark on the gauge. She hurried inside, expecting to see the clients standing
She looked stricken. “I—I can’t talk about this now. I’m late. And there’s—”
“Just say yes,” he implored, practically on bended knee. “Julie, I’m asking you to marry me. Please?”
The cabbie, delighted with all this, spoke up. “Hey, Mac,” he said, “have you got a ring in that box, or is that where you keep your dirty socks?” He laughed uproariously at his keen wit.
Peyton straightened. “Ring? Holy Christ!” He handed the box to her and she opened it. She gasped. The driver leaned close to Julie. “If you ask me,” he said, “this fellow doesn’t show much commitment. Or common sense.”
She gave him a furious glare that made him turn back around to his own business. He ratcheted the meter, grumbling, and it began to tick.
“Peyton, I love the necklace, but we’ll have to talk later. This is all too fast for me.”
“But I love you,” Peyton said, panicked. He could see it all crumbling. Why hadn’t he waited for a romantic evening to drop this bombshell?
“And I love you,” she said. “But I’ve got to think about it.”
That said, she shut the door and the cab pulled away with a brief screech of its tires. One cabbie, highly irritated; one Peyton sinking into despair.
He hailed a taxi. None stopped.
He had to walk eleven blocks before anybody took pity on him, and by then he was so deep in the mental cesspool called depression that he no longer cared.
3
Julie
T HE TAXI DROPPED her off eighteen miles out of town, at the Felix Heights Hunting Club, a nose-in-the-air outfit if she had ever seen one, very posh and pooh-pooh. The front entrance was as beautiful as a grand European hotel. Sculptured marble horses the size of merry-go-round ponies flanked the huge double doors, prancing eternally to nowhere. A fountain was splashing somewhere beyond the hedges; aging men shambled about in ridiculous-looking jodhpurs and knee-high boots, bleary eyed, martinis in hand. A fat woman was preparing to tee off on the distant golf course. When Julie saw all this as she walked to the door, she was suddenly gripped by the fear that she might not be as well dressed as she should be. After all, this place was simply crawling with upper-crust types, most of them ugly and old, no doubt about it, but since most of them had more money in the bank than, say, Scrooge McDuck, they could afford to fool themselves.
She looked down at herself, feeling oddly naked and vulnerable. She was wearing a corporate power suit, the standard version that Sears peddled through the mail to all those executive women who wanted to look like small men: shirt, tie, the works. This suit happened to be green, which she found strangely inappropriate at this moment. Hadn’t she read somewhere that you never wear a green suit if you want to impress somebody. God, had she blown it already?
Get a grip on yourself, she thought, snarling inwardly, and adjusted her hair with nervous little sweeps of her hand. She discovered, with a burst of horrified shock, that she was wearing a hat. It was pinned in her hair. It was stylish as hell, but it was also very green. She felt suddenly like a frumpy housewife with a head eternally full of curlers, or the party guest who invariable winds up wearing a lamp shade, much to everyone’s disgust. The hat was very heavy, almost enough to topple her over. She quickly unpinned it, looked around, and shoved it into a dark nook in the hedges. The pins followed.
She discovered also that she needed to go to the bathroom. With her mutton hock at Bowser’s, she had downed three or four glasses of Zinfandel Auslese, a German import that seemed to go well with anything. Almost anything. Her kidneys were manning the pumps in a frenzy, stretching her overworked bladder inexorably to the full mark on the gauge. She hurried inside, expecting to see the clients standing
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