The Right Thing to Do Read Online Free PDF

and charm, surrounded by actresses, Malcolm would’ve predicted the one-carat diamond ring from Tiffany would’ve ended up on the finger of a voluptuous, artfully cosmeticized, seductively garbed, somewhat flighty blond bombshell. The type unfolded in the stack of girlie mags Steve kept in the guest bathroom. The type that still caught Steve’s eye when he and Malcolm were out in the Caddy.
    Ramona had a homespun accent and wore her long dark hair in a plait that hung down the center of her back. She didn’t bother to touch up the few strands of gray at her temples, did use a bit of eye shadow but no lipstick, and dressed in button-up blouses, tailored slacks, and flat shoes.
    Maybe she thought well of herself, confident without embellishment. She
was
a goodlooking woman, in the right light, beautiful, with a perfectly oval face, high cheekbones that Steve attributed to “some Indian background, a little Navajo, she’s from Arizona.”
    Her features were fine and symmetrical, her profile as crisp as that of relief on a cameo. Wide brown eyes radiated curiosity and intelligence. She kept her nails short, eschewed polish because “with fabric you never know.”
    She’d trained as a seamstress, worked as a wardrobe mistress at Paramount Studios, was often called for “emergencies,” meaning an actress had gained weight. Perhaps living with fashion and camouflage all day made self-adornment a busman’s holiday for her. Whatever the reason, Malcolm admired her low-key, pleasant nature and her intelligence. Was fascinated to see the change in Steve when he was with her.
    Quieter, deferential, listening more than talking. Able to sit still.
    More
adult.
    Maybe
that
was the point: True love was when you found someone who brought out new virtues in you.
    It was an interesting theory—the kind of supposition Malcolm had learned to engage in as a psych major. When it came to women, theory was all he could rely on; his personal experiences were pitifully thin: No dates until his junior year when he’d hazarded a few platonic attempts with Radcliffe students and girls who arrived on the Wellesley bus. Every one of them losing interest when they began their little pop quizzes and he kind of turned off and informed them he wasn’t sure what he was going to do with his life. He continued that withdrawal even after the law school acceptance; female hunger put him off, the obvious play for financial security.
    Not that he could blame the girls, everyone needed to take care of themselves. And why else would a female want him other than for earning potential?
    The only female he’d come across who intrigued him was a Cliffie junior named Sophia Muller, ash blond, six feet tall, cool in demeanor, bespectacled without inhibition.
    Muller.
The pale hair and blue eyes and upturned Nordic nose: fun explaining
that
to his parents. She wore cashmere as a matter of course, sported diamonds in her ears. Park Avenue or the like. Way out of his league.
    If he thought a bit, he was sure to come up with other obstacles.
    A sociology major, the elite Miss M. had taken a few psych classes at Harvard, always sat in the back row, as did Malcolm. A pair of giants careful not to obstruct.
    She and Malcolm had exchanged smiles and a few pithy comments about lecture topics as they left classrooms and went their separate ways. One day before class, she dropped some papers and Malcolm picked them up for her.
    “Thanks,” she said.
    “Bitte.”
    She peered at him through her glasses. “You speak German?”
    “My family used to live there. Before they were declared persona non grata.”
    She nodded. “My father said if Hitler hadn’t kicked out the Jews, he’d have won the war.”
    —
    Dinner finished at one fifteen a.m., Steve unfazed by the bizarre timing, Ramona not eating, Malcolm’s gut churning from too much, too late.
    “Okay,” said Steve, rising to his feet. “We need to get up early, let’s hit the hay.”
    Ramona said,