The Polka Dot Nude Read Online Free PDF

used to talk about “a few years from now,” after he was settled more securely in his career. In a few years, I’d be thirty. I was ancient. I felt Time clawing at my back. Helen was thirty, and made no bones about wanting to get married. If Helen were here, Brad would be on his knees proposing before the end of the summer. How did she do it? What was the trick?
    It seemed almost impossible that Brad had turned up here, in the woods of northern New York. What was a man like that doing here? Even I found the cottages awful, and he was used to the best. For privacy, he could have gone anywhere—to Cape Cod, or some quiet corner of Mexico, or Majorca. There had to be a lead lining in this bright and breezy cloud.
     

CHAPTER 3
     
    Just as I was settling in at my desk the next morning, I heard Brad’s screen door bang. I hurried to the window for a glimpse of him. There he was, running along past the window in a navy fleecy and white shorts, which gave a stunning view of his long, tanned legs. In his white Reeboks and with a red sweatband around his head, he looked as if he’d just jogged out of a high school gym. He lifted an arm in friendly salute; I waved back, already feeling proprietarial.
    The presence of a critic next door should have been enough to distract me, but it didn’t. I considered it a goad, and a challenge. The words specious good and prelapsarian didn’t actually appear on my pages, but I began to perceive some deeper meaning than mere entertainment in Rosalie’s story. I missed seeing Brad jog home, but that afternoon I spotted him down at Simcoe’s dock, getting into a boat with a fishing rod over his shoulder.
    While he was out fishing, a small moving van stopped at his cottage, and as he wasn’t there, the driver came to mine.
    “You can just leave the things in his cottage,” I suggested.
    “We can’t get in, lady. The door’s locked, and somebody’s got to sign.”
    “Locked? That’s funny. I guess you’d better put the things in my cottage then.”
    They deposited an oriental carpet, a vacuum cleaner, boxes labeled FRAGILE, and a modern chair, all chrome and leather, of the sort immortalized by Mies van der Rohe. The old traditional and the best of the modern—it seemed symbolic of Brad. I tried the chair and found it uncomfortable. When I saw Brad wending his way up from the dock with his rod, I called out to tell him I had his things.
    “You locked your door. Are you afraid of the wild critters, or me?”
    “Force of habit, I guess. I’ll be right over. I have to put this gear away. Got any cold beer?”
    “Coming right up.” I hurried in to brush my hair and put on some lipstick. It was five o’clock, and time to take my hard-earned leisure. The book was going great, which always put me in a good mood.
    He was soon at the door, lounging in with only a preliminary tap. A day in the sun had deepened his tan to a rich, warm bronze. The white shirt contrasted sharply with it.
    “How was the fishing? Did you catch anything?”
    “Not yet. I was testing the water, and my lures. I see my Barcelona chair arrived. I can’t get comfortable on that lumpy sofa.”
    “Sit yourself down on it, and I’ll get the beer. What have you done with yourself all day?” I asked, to conceal that I’d monitored his every movement.
    “I jogged my four miles this morning, did a bit of housecleaning before that. I spotted some wild mushrooms when I was out jogging. It was a temptation, but they can be dangerous. Incidentally, I hope you like chicken Marengo. It’s not too late to change the menu if you don’t,” he said, with a questioning look.
    “If it was good enough for Napoleon, it’s good enough for me. Does this mean I’m invited for dinner again?”
    “I hope you’ll come. Presumptuous of me . . ."
    “Presume away—I’m free. I’ll have to cook you a meal one of these days,” I said rashly.
    “You’re too busy. And I like cooking. I finished Rosalie’s diary over lunch.