The Summer We Read Gatsby Read Online Free PDF Page A

felt his presence as something of a shock, an immediate and intense physical chemistry I’d never experienced before. My determination, in the face of the very strong drinks to which I was entirely unaccustomed, immediately fizzled as his eyes—the palest light brown, the color of caramels—fixed on mine and locked in.
    He wore his white dinner jacket as though he’d been born in it, and he said he was sorry for my loss. He didn’t introduce himself but he’d known Aunt Lydia well, from the sound of it, and he expressed his sadness that she was gone. He had slightly long hair, lightened by the sun, that fell over his forehead and curled up where it met the collar of his shirt. But his presence was that of a courtly, well-mannered athlete, one to whom life had been kind. He carried himself with supreme confidence, only slightly bordering on arrogance, and he struck me as someone who’d always been cool, like he’d had one of those American boyhoods during which he’d always sat with the other sports stars at the right lunch table.
    I’d always been too cynical to believe in love at first sight, or the “ coup de foudre ,” as Peck would carefully pronounce it. Besides, I was wearing that ridiculous hat. But when he looked at me, something clicked into place in a way that I’d never experienced before. It took my breath away.
    He had two martinis in his hand and eventually he held one out to me. “Drink?”
    I think my mouth gaped open like a fish’s for a few seconds as I sought air. But then I helped myself to another martini, which I definitely did not need, and said, in a flirtatious tone that was totally uncharacteristic of me, “You’re very dexterous.”
    “Dexterous, huh?” He smiled, intelligent eyes crinkling. He held the other glass up in a gesture of greeting. “Are you flirting with me?”
    “I never flirt.” This was true. That-Awful-Jean-Paul was hardly the flirtatious type. His idea of words as foreplay had been “I’ll pay for lunch.” Of course, he said them in French. But flirting was not something I knew how to do. I was much more inclined to make sarcastic remarks that were usually misinterpreted.
    This fellow, on the other hand, was clearly used to having people flirt with him. Most women would find a guy with a smile like his irresistibly attractive. But, I told myself in the stern tone that had become a habit, there must definitely be some kind of rule—like waiting an hour after lunch to swim—about waiting at least two years after a divorce before flirting with anyone.
    “Really?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “I figured you as quite the subtle expert.”
    I found myself saying something like, “If I were inclined to flirt, which I’m not, I certainly wouldn’t opt for such an obvious choice.” As I said, I wasn’t good at it.
    He wasn’t beaten down the way men in their thirties could start to look, as they gave up their youthful dreams and settled into the reality of adult expectations. Not like my ex-husband, for whom life had been a series of disappointments, all someone else’s fault. “I’m an obvious choice, am I?” he asked, a smile playing at his lips. He had the loose confidence I’d always associated with people who grow up with many siblings, and he grinned at me like he knew exactly what I was thinking.
    I took a sip of the drink he’d handed me, feeling wildly out of control, the alcohol taking hold. I was nodding and grinning and probably even blushing as I realized I was speaking words that did not seem to belong to me.
    “What’s so obvious about me?” He had a unique voice, deep and raspy like sandpaper, and I felt it in my chest. It made me want to think of things for him to say, just so I could hear what they sounded like coming out of his mouth.
    Another sip of the martini. “Well, for one thing, you’re overtly charming. Clearly something of a ladies’ man. So, an obvious choice for someone inclined to flirt. If I were that kind