Four of a Kind Read Online Free PDF Page A

lot, and drove down Hicks Street to Atlantic Avenue to make a left and head into Red Hook.
    “Is that Robin?” said Carla, pointing at a figure on the street.
    Alicia peered through the windshield at the slim figure of a redheaded woman, dressed in a flowing skirt, as she ducked into Chip Shop, a pub on Atlantic Avenue. Through the storefront window, Alicia thought she saw Robin greet a man at the bar before the car pulled too far away. Could Robin have pretended to go up to her apartment, and then turned around to go back out? To meet a man at ten o’clock on a school night? Was he a friend? Or (thrilling to imagine) a friend with benefits? Did single moms make booty calls? The very thought was exciting and terrifying to Alicia. So she dismissed it.
    Nah
, she thought.
Had to be someone else
.

2

Robin
    Robin Stern, thirty-seven, twirled her dessert fork on the tablecloth. That would be all the action the fork got from her tonight. Stan, her date, had eaten only a few bites of the cheesecake he’d ordered. He’d acted suspicious when she said she didn’t want any. “I thought women loved to share dessert,” he said.
    “I’m not like most women,” Robin explained.
    Stan excused himself to the bathroom and the waiter brought the bill. It sat on the table, in a leather fold, waiting to be paid … by whom? Would Stan spring for the first date like a gentleman, or would he expect her to split it with him like a cheap bastard?
    The problem with Internet dating, thought Robin, for perhaps the thousandth time, was that you never knew what to expect. You could exchange emails with a guy for months, have a dozen phone conversations, but nothing—
nothing
—was as telling as meeting a man inperson for a meal. How he treated waiters, how and what he ordered, his table manners, eye contact, use of salt, chewing with his mouth closed, ability to listen, and whether or not he disappeared into the bathroom moments before the arrival of the check. Her late-night drinks date a couple of weeks ago with that loser at Chip Shop tore it. Recession or not, unemployed or not, the guy had to pay for the first date.
    Stan had passed most of Robin’s tests (although he ate too slowly, which annoyed her). Since she was lukewarm on him, she’d leave the bill where it lay, untouched. If he had the balls to ask her for money, she’d excuse herself to the ladies, and sneak out of the restaurant.
    “Great smile,” Stan said, reclaiming his seat opposite her at the Heights Cafe, an upscale restaurant on Montague Street. “What were you thinking about just then?”
    Robin shrugged. “Thanks for coming to Brooklyn.”
    “No problem,” he said, reaching for the leather fold, opening it and examining the check before he put his card inside it. “Brooklyn is the new Manhattan. I like what I’ve seen of it so far.”
    Of course, he was looking right at Robin. He was Trying Too Hard. She wanted to like him more, to find his fifteen extra pounds, comb-over, and prison pallor attractive. Life would be so much easier if she could fall in love with one of these shlubs.
    The waiter took the card and brought back the slip. Stan signed it with a flourish. “I’ve always wanted to see the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. Would you show me? Take an after-dinner stroll?”
    Robin would rather not. It was a school night, and she was tired. If she went home now, she could get in a solid hour of HBO before she put herself to sleep. She pictured her beautiful daughter, Stephanie, nestled under her pink bedspread. The image gave Robin a visceral tug to go home.
    “I’ve got to relieve the babysitter,” said Robin.
    Stan checked his watch. “It’s only nine o’clock.”
    “I had a long day on the phones,” she said.
    “What was the question today?” he asked.
    “ ‘Do you feel like our country is moving in the right direction?’ ” she said, pushing her chair back, letting Stan guide her by her bony elbow out of the café.
    “And?” he