The First Warm Evening of the Year Read Online Free PDF Page A

the past few minutes, but Eliot was now walking me to a table by the window, telling me what a great place this was, more like a club than the local bar, really. That it gave people the feeling of belonging.
    â€œIt’s important to feel part of something,” he said. “Don’t you think?”
    I pressed the tips of my fingers against the spot that Marian had touched, as though I were taking my own pulse.
    Yes,” I said—I didn’t know what I was saying—“that’s important.”
    Once we sat down, Eliot lifted his hand for the waiter, and asked me what I wanted to drink. I asked shouldn’t we wait for Marian. Eliot said there was no telling how long she’d be, besides, he knew what she liked, and ordered her a Grand Marnier.
    Maybe that was his way of letting me know who was who in the cast. Anyway, it was enough to stop me from thinking about her.
    The television above the bar was dark. There was music playing, but not so loud that we had to talk above it. Eliot said they had live music here on Saturday nights, jazz usually. He used to hope Laura would come in and play, but she never did.
    Marian was still talking with her friends when the waiter brought our drinks. Eliot left his drink alone, and I didn’t touch mine, either.
    â€œShe didn’t always do this, you know.” He raised his eyes and stared past my shoulder. “Her gardening business. That’s what she’s probably talking to Jennifer and Kate about. She takes care of their gardens. Theirs and a lot of other people’s. She used to do landscaping with her husband.” He took a sip of his brandy, waited for me to take a sip of mine. “But she gave that up. She just does gardening now. It must be what she likes doing or she wouldn’t be doing it, don’t you think?”
    I heard Marian’s voice before I saw her, and I turned around with a bit more eagerness than her appearance required. She was still approaching us, already apologizing for taking so long, offering a thin smile, looking at neither Eliot nor me. She was about to sit down when a woman a few tables away stood and shouted Marian’s name. Marian told us she really did have to talk to her about her spring schedule and was very, very sorry, in a way that made it clear that this was not the first evening that had been interrupted like this, and walked away.
    â€œShe was crying before, wasn’t she?” Eliot asked. “She’s very sad about Laura, and I think Laura’s death brought back the sad memories about her husband.”
    â€œDid you know him?”
    Eliot turned his head and nodded toward the front window. “Out there is one of the most beautiful town squares you’ll ever see. It was in magazines. Won awards. Buddy designed it. Everyone knew Buddy. He was a hell of a guy.” Eliot didn’t say this with acrimony, nor like a jealous lover, only with a tone of failure.
    O n the way out of town the following morning, I realized what it was that I’d been hearing in Eliot’s voice that past evening. It was the voice of a man alone in love.

Four
    I f I kept a list of people who make me feel bad about myself, Simon Welles would be at the top.
    It was the morning after I’d returned from Shady Grove. I was tired from the drive, from carting my inheritance from the parking garage, and when the doorman phoned to tell me that Simon was in the lobby I could have sent him away, but we did share some history, and he was Laura’s brother, so I let him come up.
    He looked about twenty-five. Of course he was much older than that. He had wild, curly blond hair, a subtle suntan, and a quick smile that was not, as I recalled, necessarily a sign of amusement or pleasure. But what was most noticeable were his clothes, his thin cotton shirt, his light khakis. The wrong clothes for the wrong climate.
    I asked him what he wanted and why he came to see me.
    â€œWhy