around grumpily checking their watches. Julie put on a false smile as she entered the foyer of the giant club.
No one there looked even remotely familiar. Two old geezers were examining an ancient flintlock rifle. Three others dressed in colorful plaid pantaloons were comparing putters, one of them loudly arguing that a Glen Cook was the best ever made; whatever a Glen Cook might be, Julie had no idea and didn’t want one.
She looked around, her nose picking up the scent of luxurious new carpet and cigar smoke. There were no doors except the ones behind her. Where was the john in this joint, anyway?
She walked up to the men arguing over their putters, cleared her throat, and waited for the clamor to die down. They hesitated in mid-sentence and stared at her.
“Excuse me,” she said, smiling uneasily, “but could you gentlemen tell me where the ladies’ room might be?”
One of them raised a finger and pointed it at her chest. “She’s impartial,” he crowed. “Ask her!”
She got a faceful of putters and a demand to choose the best one. She raised her hands and backed away. “I’m afraid I don’t golf.”
“All the better,” one of them roared, sloshing his martini all over his shoes and the thick red carpet. “She’s impartial to the bone!”
“Mine’s a Hogan original,” another said. “Wooden shaft. See?”
She saw without an inkling of interest. “How nice. The ladies’ room?”
“Over thataways.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I use the same one as Arnie Palmer, and by God, if it’s good enough for Arnie, it’s good enough for me.”
“What?” number three said. “You mean to tell me Arnie uses the ladies’ room?”
They broke apart, howling, coughing, generally getting red in the face. Julie slunk away, feeling very much like the center of attention, which she did not want to be. There was a row of potted palms on the right, and she wished she could dive in. Her nerves had already turned the day sour.
And Peyton, good God, Peyton. Of all the worst moments to pop the question, he had to go and do it today. Her mind was too full of worries and pressing concerns, too filled up with doubt to handle a sticky point like marriage, kids, one telephone listing. Her thoughts were scattering like autumn leaves. For one brief second she wished Pappas were here to guide her. But no, she decided, she had to sink or swim on her own.
She found the ladies’ room, much to her relief. While she washed her hands she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror: blond, slim, attractive, terrified, green. Damn the color, damn the terror. She dug in her purse and hauled her lipstick out, along with an amazing amount of other junk. She shoveled it back in, pausing for a moment to look at the strip of photo-booth pictures for which she and Peyton, just for fun, had posed a week or so ago at the carnival. In the first picture they both sat grim and stony. The next one had them making faces. The third was them kissing while Peyton made rabbit ears behind her head. The fourth was a hand reaching for the camera. Yes, it had been fun, quite hilarious. Looking at these pictures brought back a measure of composure, and she did her lipstick with hands that were no longer shaking. An hour from now it would be over, she would have done just fine, and the deal Pappas should have handled would be wrapped up and finished. Now was not the time to lose her nerve.
She went out and asked a very nice old gent where the kitchen might be found. He was kind enough to take her arm in arm and show her. For his trouble Julie did not smack him when he dug his fingers into her fanny. Instead she thanked him and disappeared inside . . .
. . . and returned five minutes later, just in time to greet her new clients at the door. She was smiling radiantly with what she hoped was a measure of authority—the perfect lawyer, slick, suave, unimpeachable, in command. Of course she felt none of these, but the little excursion
No one there looked even remotely familiar. Two old geezers were examining an ancient flintlock rifle. Three others dressed in colorful plaid pantaloons were comparing putters, one of them loudly arguing that a Glen Cook was the best ever made; whatever a Glen Cook might be, Julie had no idea and didn’t want one.
She looked around, her nose picking up the scent of luxurious new carpet and cigar smoke. There were no doors except the ones behind her. Where was the john in this joint, anyway?
She walked up to the men arguing over their putters, cleared her throat, and waited for the clamor to die down. They hesitated in mid-sentence and stared at her.
“Excuse me,” she said, smiling uneasily, “but could you gentlemen tell me where the ladies’ room might be?”
One of them raised a finger and pointed it at her chest. “She’s impartial,” he crowed. “Ask her!”
She got a faceful of putters and a demand to choose the best one. She raised her hands and backed away. “I’m afraid I don’t golf.”
“All the better,” one of them roared, sloshing his martini all over his shoes and the thick red carpet. “She’s impartial to the bone!”
“Mine’s a Hogan original,” another said. “Wooden shaft. See?”
She saw without an inkling of interest. “How nice. The ladies’ room?”
“Over thataways.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I use the same one as Arnie Palmer, and by God, if it’s good enough for Arnie, it’s good enough for me.”
“What?” number three said. “You mean to tell me Arnie uses the ladies’ room?”
They broke apart, howling, coughing, generally getting red in the face. Julie slunk away, feeling very much like the center of attention, which she did not want to be. There was a row of potted palms on the right, and she wished she could dive in. Her nerves had already turned the day sour.
And Peyton, good God, Peyton. Of all the worst moments to pop the question, he had to go and do it today. Her mind was too full of worries and pressing concerns, too filled up with doubt to handle a sticky point like marriage, kids, one telephone listing. Her thoughts were scattering like autumn leaves. For one brief second she wished Pappas were here to guide her. But no, she decided, she had to sink or swim on her own.
She found the ladies’ room, much to her relief. While she washed her hands she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror: blond, slim, attractive, terrified, green. Damn the color, damn the terror. She dug in her purse and hauled her lipstick out, along with an amazing amount of other junk. She shoveled it back in, pausing for a moment to look at the strip of photo-booth pictures for which she and Peyton, just for fun, had posed a week or so ago at the carnival. In the first picture they both sat grim and stony. The next one had them making faces. The third was them kissing while Peyton made rabbit ears behind her head. The fourth was a hand reaching for the camera. Yes, it had been fun, quite hilarious. Looking at these pictures brought back a measure of composure, and she did her lipstick with hands that were no longer shaking. An hour from now it would be over, she would have done just fine, and the deal Pappas should have handled would be wrapped up and finished. Now was not the time to lose her nerve.
She went out and asked a very nice old gent where the kitchen might be found. He was kind enough to take her arm in arm and show her. For his trouble Julie did not smack him when he dug his fingers into her fanny. Instead she thanked him and disappeared inside . . .
. . . and returned five minutes later, just in time to greet her new clients at the door. She was smiling radiantly with what she hoped was a measure of authority—the perfect lawyer, slick, suave, unimpeachable, in command. Of course she felt none of these, but the little excursion
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