The Widow's Mate Read Online Free PDF Page B

months passed and Wally did not join her, did not call or send any message. Sandy felt as deserted as Wally’s wife. Not as well off, of course, but Wally had contributed to Sandy’s portfolio, which under his direction had doubled in value.
    Sorrow gave way to anger, even rage, and then subsided. Wally had made a fool of her, and there was nothing to be gained from brooding on it forever. Her self-esteem returned. She remembered that she was an attractive young woman and had the wherewithal to lead a carefree life. Vegetate in the California sun? After a few months of it, she longed for some purpose in her life, so she enrolled in a business course, suppressing the thought that knowledge of financial matters would be a link to Wally. There was a practical purpose; she intended to nurture her own investments, using an online broker. Another thought to be suppressed: She would make her money into a golden mountain, and somehow that would show Wally. Then she met Greg Packer.
    He had been studying a bulletin board in the hallway when she came out of class, and he turned from it and stopped her. “Are you a student here?”
    She might have ignored him, but his smile was disarming, and he was good-looking.
    â€œWhy do you ask?”
    â€œI was thinking of taking a course. Look, where can we have coffee?”
    Just like that. But why not? He was a potential fellow student. It felt good to be consulted about the courses. They went to the Starbucks up the street and sat at an outside table. She noticed that he did not have the mandatory California tan. She commented on it.
    â€œI’ve only been here a few days.”
    â€œWhere are you from?”
    He brought out cigarettes and then paused.“Do you mind?”
    â€œI’ll join you.”
    â€œI’m from the Chicago area.”
    He was lighting her cigarette. “You came to stay?” She exhaled the question with the smoke.
    â€œThat depends.” He sat back and looked around with contentment. “You natives have no idea how wonderful all this seems.”
    She did not correct him. He had taken a brochure from the rack by the bulletin board, and they began to talk about the courses.
    â€œWhat are you taking?”
    She told him.
    â€œI wonder if I could sit in to see if I could handle it.”
    â€œWell, I can’t give you permission, but I don’t see why not.”
    â€œWhen is the next class?”
    â€œWednesday.” It was a Monday. “It starts at three.”
    â€œCan we get anything to eat here?”
    â€œNot a meal.”
    â€œWhere do you suggest?”
    She couldn’t believe it. Half an hour later, they were sitting across from one another in a Mrs. Paul’s, and she was telling him all about life in California. She had felt like a recruiter for the school; now she felt like someone from the tourist bureau. He seemed to get better-looking all the time, and he clearly found her attractive—and, after all, this was California. He appeared to think it was perfectly natural for two attractive strangers to be having dinner together an hour after they had first met.
    She said, “Tell me about Chicago.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t like it.”
    Again she failed to mention that she, too, came from Chicago. What would he say if he knew she was almost as much of a newcomer as he was? A week later, when she told him, she approached the subject indirectly, asking if he knew The Great Gatsby.
    â€œTell me.”
    So she told him how Nick Carraway had felt when, new in West Egg, he had been asked directions, the questioner conferring on him the freedom of the neighborhood.
    â€œI don’t get it.”
    â€œI’m almost as new here as you are.”
    â€œCome on. I don’t believe it.”
    What a lovely smile he had. Once she fessed up, the fact that they were both from Chicago was a bond. They went on a picnic on the shore below San Juan Capistrano. Sandy had bought a