Magician's Wife Read Online Free PDF Page A

beef, cabbage, and spud, bat out a waltz on your Steinway, parlez-vous French a little, and fake along about art.” She sighed, then added, remembering: “ Oh! And twirl! Now, there’s an accomplishment for you!”
    â€œYou mean, like a majorette?”
    â€œThat’s it, and I was one, at the high school football games in Baltimore, where we lived. I was starred between the halves—what got me in trouble later and led to my plunge into show business.”
    â€œWith acrobatics, no doubt?”
    â€œOh, yes, especially them! ”
    She was in the center of the room, and with no more ado, pressed her palms to the floor and cartwheeled over toward him, a flash of whirling skirt, silk panties, and soft, shapely legs. Then she came smartly upright before him—or would have except that a loafer flew off and threw her slightly off balance, so she toppled into his arms. Until then their moment at Portico and the other one over the phone, with little cat’s-paws of wantonness darting boldly out, hadn’t once returned. But now a tidal wave swept over them as their mouths came together and their hungry fingers dug in. Then, lifting her, he carried her back to the bedroom.

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    T WO HOURS LATER, STRETCHED out on one of the sofas, her head in his lap, she stared at the fire he had built and amiably answered his questions, about her childhood, her family, her schooling. She told of her years in Paris, of others in Baltimore, when her father had been summoned to teach there; of her attendance at Sarah Mitchell School, where “Bunny Granlund taught deportment before she married Steve.” This surprised him, and she admitted that at Portico she was Mrs. Granlund’s protégée. She told of her father’s death and her mother’s lean years, “when she couldn’t afford Sarah Mitchell and had to put me in Western High”; of how she had twirled with the band, “and then at one of our shows, I was the cute little thing that got picked to be sawed in half, by a young magician who came and helped us with our production.” He said: “O.K.—I can imagine the rest of that ,” but she pursued the subject a little, saying: “He’s the Great Alexis, and if you haven’t heard of him, you must have heard of the Lilac Flamingo, that club in Baltimore where he works.” He said he sold the Flamingo meat, and “Mike Dominick’s a pal—at least he thinks he is.” They laughed over Mike, and she went on: “Of course Alexis is what he calls himself—it kind of sounds like magic, so he took it. He’s really Alec Gorsuch.”
    â€œAny relation to Mr. El?”
    â€œMr. El’s his father.”
    He whistled, for Mr. El, with his auto-accessory stores, was a fabulously rich man. She said: “I don’t wonder you’re surprised that the son of someone like him would get himself mixed up with magic—but you needn’t be. In the first place he’s hipped on it, and in the second place he doesn’t like junkyards, as he calls his father’s outlets. So, that’s that. So pink brocade still looks—”
    â€œLike Christmas in July?”
    â€œNow you know.”
    She took his wrist to look at the time, but he assured: “I promised you’d go back on time, and on time you’re going to go. ... If you still want to go, that is.”
    â€œIf I want to go? How do you mean, Clay?”
    â€œIf you want to go at all.”
    â€œThat I’d stay? Here with you? Tonight?”
    â€œTonight—and the rest of your life.”
    She sat up, staring, and seemingly baffled. Then: “Well!” she said. “I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at, but— Clay, we’ve only known each other since morning. Afternoon, to be exact, as the luncheon menu was out, and it doesn’t come from the printers till twelve. For the rest of my—? Honey, is this a