Mary Ellen Courtney - Hannah Spring 01 - Wild Nights Read Online Free PDF Page A

thee!
     
    I had expected the cautious voice of an old Victorian babe sniffing around in ruffled silk and velvet, with strings of pearls and a pince-nez draped around her neck. Archaic language or not, Emily didn’t pussyfoot around. The text described it as “a poem of unrestrained sexual passion and rapture.” Got it. Two epiphanies. My grandmother understood passion and rapture. And bellowing “Wild Nights,” during storms required a sense of humor.
    “Wow,” I said.
    “Sounds like Grandma understood passion,” he said.
    “Yeah, and was funny. All I knew was a little white-haired lady with fat ankles.”
     
    We found a place on the street right in front of the restaurant. The décor was subtle; they’d held back on the sombreros and striped rattles.
    He smiled as he dipped a chip. “This has been an interesting day.”
    “You think? I can’t imagine what my repair bill is going to be. It better be under warranty, I’m about out of a job.”
    He wanted to know about work. I was just finishing up a television show called Layla’s Loft; the edgy adventures of a hip political-social single woman artist.
    “We all think Layla’s a mouthful, but the writer met Eric Clapton once so it was non-negotiable.”
    I told him Layla went to a brooding Gorky’s café, like Cliff went to Cheers in the old TV show; she slept around with the other artists in her building. She was twenty-two and going through a nihilist phase. She had a misunderstood pit bull, which always caused complications. Somewhere along the line she sold enough paintings to get by, but we never saw an actual sale.
    “You don’t sound too excited about it,” he said.
    “Nobody was. We’ve been canceled.”
    He thought the business sounded interesting. I told him it was, but that a lot of time was spent standing around bullshitting with blockheads. He said that sounded like his job.
    I told him the director had spent our hiatus in rehab. His coke habit blew up after the show was canceled. He had maniacally shot an hour of material for every half hour show. The editor was losing her hair, either from stress or her constant pulling. When the studio sent down the suits to rein him in, he screamed, “I will not be held captive by the laws of mathematics!” Off he went.
    “The suits?” he asked.
    “Ten year-old MBAs. They run things. In his case it was a good call.”
    “Should make it tough for him to get a new job.”
    “It’ll be the excuse for not hiring him, but the real reason will be having a flop. It’s a business of short term memory.”
    I told him I was deciding between a project in New Mexico and one in India. I didn’t happen to mention that the one in New Mexico was with Steve.
    Dinner came and we feasted. I had a margarita, then a Bohemia, my favorite Mexican beer. Probably ill-advised. We split an order of flan for dessert.
    “That was real Mexican food,” I said. “Good suggestion. Do you come here often?”
    “I haven’t been here since my divorce,” he said.
    “Do you have children?”
    “No.”
    “You want children?” I asked.
    “I figured I would. You?”
    “I guess, but I need to figure out how to have a relationship first,” I said. Uh oh, the Bohemia was blabbing, but that didn’t stop me.
    “My marriage was a bad idea that I’ve followed up with more bad ideas.” Sigh. Really, Hannah? You couldn’t just stop at I guess ?
    “What about the guy now?” he asked.
    “He’s my first good idea.”
    “Ah.”
    I paid the bill and we started to leave. I wondered if he could hear the pinging slot machine over the live music that was blasting out the door of the restaurant’s side bar. The band obviously had a following; the place was packed and people were dancing.
    Stroud grabbed my hand, “Let’s go.”
    He spun me out onto the dance floor. He was good. I wasn’t bad. He taught me some version of what he called the Texas Two Step. The band, Nancarrow, played a country honky-tonk sound with a lot of