Summer at Castle Stone. Lynn Hulsman Marie

go yet.” He took my arm down to a sitting position. “We haven’t finished talking. Ten more minutes.” He looked into my eyes, his face softening.

      “Please.” He flashed me a smile, this time with lots of teeth. They were, of course, very white. I relaxed onto the leather seat. Why did I say I had a cold? No one wants to have sex with someone who has a cold. “OK, just a little while longer.”

      I imagined his chest underneath the tight-fitting black western shirt with the surprisingly masculine turquoise embroidery. It snapped up the front instead of buttoning. It would be so easy to undo. I reached for my drink.

      “Great. I was having such a nice time. I didn’t want it to end”, he said. Sabina passed by, walking closer to our table than I felt was strictly necessary. Jordan’s eyes were on her as he said, “So tell me, what makes Shayla de Winter tick?”

      “Excuse me?”

      His focus landed back on me. I could see him back-pedaling, trying to figure out why I was snapping at him. “Uh…”

      “Did you just call me Shayla de Winter?”

      For a brief moment, he appeared rattled. I watched him pull himself together, face relaxing, opening his legs a little wider to take up more space on the bench. “Yeah, I did,” he owned it. “I mean, you are after all.”

      “Why did you ask me out?”

      Without missing a beat, he said, “Because you looked so cute sitting there in front of the name badges. I had my eye on you all night. Didn’t you feel it?”

      I wavered. If he thought I was cute, maybe I’d get to feel his smooth skin under the palms of my hands. On the other hand, if he was using me to get to my father, I had an appointment with the shower head. Hat still on my head, I challenged him.

      “I’ll give you two more minutes. What question do you want to ask me more than anything?”

      His face contorted in frustration. He was struggling to come up with the right answer. I stood up. “Wait!” he said. “Hang on.”

      “Clock’s ticking,” I said, faking confidence.

      “All right, all right! I guess… can you get me a meeting with your father?”

      Son of a bitch! I grabbed my coat. It bumped across the table, upsetting my full drink. Now the hem was doused in whiskey, and it dripped down the back of my tights as I pushed my arms into it, heading for the door.

      “Shayla, wait!” he called.

      The question couldn’t have been, ‘What do you love about your book?’ or ‘If you could live anywhere other than New York, where would it be?’ or even, ‘Do you drink coffee or tea in the morning?’ could it?

      “Shayla!”

      I blew past Sabina and she deftly protected her tray of full drinks. “Loser,” I thought I heard her whisper, but it was hard to hear with my hat on.

      I took the stairs two at a time, pushed open the heavy, upholstered door, and hurled myself out onto the slippery New York street. Veering in toward the wall of the building to avoid a crowd of St. Patrick’s Day revelers, walking three abreast, and caterwauling Irish drinking songs. I bumped into a pale young man decked out in green from head to toe, wearing a leprechaun hat. “Sorry,” I said.

      He whipped around and looked me bleary-eyed in the face. “No, lady. I’m sorry,” he slurred.

      “Why?” I asked. I looked down. He was peeing on my boot.

       Chapter Three

       As the big hound is, so will the pup be.

      Coffee in hand, I padded to the door of the apartment. A flashback of last night’s date debacle threatened to play in my head. “No!” I said out loud. Living through the humiliation once was bad enough, I didn’t have to play it on a loop. Why did every guy in this city have to be a jerk?

      I undid the chain, the lock, and the deadbolt, and bent over to pick up my New York Times from the mat. The Times was the best thing about a Sunday morning. Scratch that, The Times was the best thing about living in New York, period. This morning was especially sweet because Maggie had stayed over at Eric’s and I had the place to myself. I love Maggie, but our apartment is tight, and we’re always on top of each other. I wish we had a terrace, or a little backyard like the brownstones in Brooklyn, but publishing assistants couldn’t afford outdoor spaces in Manhattan. I wondered what the advance money was for Maggie’s book. If she got rich, would she leave me and get her own place? I shook my head hard. If she did, she deserved to enjoy it. Maggie worked hard, and I was proud of her success. My stomach dropped. I was ashamed that I hadn’t asked her about her book deal since Friday night. I would, though, and with a smile on my face.

      Later, I took the L train up to Hank’s, stopping in at Zabar’s to pick up a pound of Nova lox to bring with me. I knew it was kind of silly. He always hired caterers to do the food for his brunches. Gourmet fish wasn’t within my budget, either, but it was my father’s favorite and I wanted to make him happy.

      Hurrying up the block on West End Avenue, I spotted the weekend doorman, smoking out by the curb, semi-crouched behind a parked van. Noticing me, he rushed to throw down his cigarette, and rushed back under the pre-war canvas awning that ran the length of the carpeted walkway that lead to the glass-paned double doors at the apartment building’s entrance. It was painted with the words The Witherspoon. The font seemed old-fashioned to me when I was growing up there, but had now taken on a retro-hip quality. I shuddered to think what new tenants, without rent-controlled leases, paid for the three-bedroom apartments complete with maid’s rooms, formal dining rooms, and high ceilings today. Not that Hank couldn’t afford it.

      “Miss Shayla! How nice to see you. You never come around anymore.”

      “I’m pretty busy, Dmitry. Got bills to pay and all,” I was rushing in, worried I’d be late.

      “Well, your dad misses you.”

      I stopped. “Did he say that?”

      “No, he didn’t say that in those words,” Dmitry answered, popping a mint, “but he’s your dad! He must. Right?”

      I headed in. “Right. By the way,” I called over my shoulder, “Don’t toss away a cigarettes on my account. I’ll never rat you out.”

      “You are a beautiful girl, Miss Shayla!” I heard him call as the elevator doors closed. Yes, that’s me, I thought, beautiful. Wowing the over-60 crowd. It would be nice to hear that from a man who wasn’t paid to say it.

      I knocked on the door, even though I have a key. I’d walked in on more than one half-dressed woman in the last decade, and I didn’t need a shock on top of my bad-date hangover. The door swung open, and Hank said, “Oh, Shayla. It’s you. There are Bloody Marys in the kitchen.” He headed over to the docking station and fiddled with the music. Soon, Django Reinhardt was twanging out of the surround-sound speakers.

      “I brought you some lox,” I said. He didn’t answer. To be fair, his hearing wasn’t what it used to be. “I’ll just put it on a platter.” I swung through the heavy wooden door to the kitchen, and came face-to-face with Brenda Sackler. She was pouring extra vodka into one of the pre-made drinks on the sideboard.

      “Oh! What a surprise. Hello, Brenda.”

      “Shayla!” she barked. I don’t think she’s capable of whispering. “Imagine seeing you here.” Was that a command? A pleasantry? She leaned over and slurped the top of her too-full drink. “Huh!” She plunged a long stalk of celery into it and swung out the door, leaving me hanging.

      While I was plating the fish and making myself a virgin cocktail, I heard the bell ring a few times and the murmur of voices growing