Night Whispers
Page 39
Paris looked shocked by the suggestion. "No, but he'll be extremely disappointed."
"I see. You mean 'disappointed' in the way he was disappointed in your tennis game this morning?"
"Yes, only he'll be extremely disappointed in both of us this time. This morning he was disappointed in me alone. He doesn't get over disappointments as quickly or easily as some people do," she explained as if that were her problem, instead of his—a justifiable fact that Sloan should accept and understand in the same way Paris did.
Sloan understood it perfectly: Her father was not physically abusive. He engaged in emotional tyranny instead, a more subtle but equally effective form of brutal domination. "If I absolutely refused, then he can't be disappointed in you, can he?"
"No, I guess not."
"Do you want to play golf?"
She hesitated for so long that Sloan wasn't certain whether Paris didn't want to answer or didn't know what she wanted, period. "No, I really don't. I'm not as fond of golf as Father would like me to be."
"If we could do anything you wanted right now, what would it be?"
"We would have lunch somewhere and just talk."
"I'd love that! Since I absolutely refuse to play golf, he can't be disappointed in you, so let's have lunch and talk instead."
Biting her lip, Paris hesitated; then she made a sudden right turn. "I know just the place. It's a little café and we can eat outside. No one will bother us or rush us."
In Bell Harbor a "café" was a very casual eating place, a first cousin of a diner. Paris's café was a swanky French restaurant with canopies over the entrance, an enclosed patio with a fountain, and valet parking. The valet knew her by name and so did the maître d'.
"We'd like to eat outside, Jean," Paris told him with that genteel smile that Sloan admired now that she realized it was genuine.
"May I bring you something to drink?" he asked when they were seated at a table near the fountain with a view of the shops across the street.
Paris looked at Sloan for a decision, then abruptly made it herself. "I think we should have champagne—some very good champagne—for a special occasion."
"A birthday?" he guessed. Paris shook her head and looked shyly at Sloan. "More of a rebirth."
When he left, an awkward pause followed while they both tried to think of a place to begin getting acquainted. On the sidewalk in front of them, a mother wheeled a baby in a handsome buggy and a teenager swooped around her on a twelve-speed. "I got my first two-wheel bike when I was five," Sloan said to break the silence. "It was too big for me, and I ran into everyone I passed until I finally learned to balance it. The crossing guard said I was a menace."
"Did you always know you wanted to be an interior designer?"
Although Sloan had to conceal a few things about her present life, she was determined to be honest with Paris about everything else. "Actually," she confessed, "my original career goals were to be Superwoman or Batwoman. What about you?"
"As soon as I got my first doll, I started worrying about an appropriate layette for her," Paris admitted. "So I guess I was always interested in fashion."
A waiter arrived with a bottle of champagne in a silver stand, and Sloan waited for him to finishing serving their drinks while a young teenage couple strolled by, holding hands. "They look awfully young to be dating and holding hands, don't they?" she remarked, and when Paris nodded, Sloan seized on that as the next topic of conversation. "How old were you on your first date?"
"Sixteen," Paris said. "His name was David, and he took me to my sophomore dance. I had wanted to go with a boy named Richard, but Father knew David's family and felt he would be a more acceptable escort."
Sloan was instantly intrigued. "How was it?"
"It was awful," Paris confessed with a smile and a shudder. "On the way home from the dance, he started drinking from a flask; then he parked the car and started kissing me. He wouldn't stop until I finally burst into tears. How was your first date?"
"A lot like yours," Sloan said, laughing. "I went with Butch Bellamy, who was a foot taller than I and couldn't dance. He spent most of the night in the locker room, drinking beer with his buddies on the freshman football team. On the way home, he parked the car and started kissing me and grabbing me."
Laughing, Paris guessed the ending of the story: "And you burst into tears, too, so he would take you home?"
"No. I told him if he didn't let me out of the car, I'd tell all his friends on the team that he was gay. Then I took off my first pair of heels and hiked two miles in my first pair of panty hose. They were not a pretty sight when I got home."
Paris laughed, and Sloan lifted her glass in a toast. "To us—for surviving our first dates," she said with smiling solemnity.
Paris clinked her glass against Sloan's. "To us, and to all girls with first dates like ours."
The waiter appeared just then and handed each of them an open menu. Anxious to maintain the spirit of cheerful closeness that had sprung up between them, Sloan peered over the top of her menu. "What's your least favorite food?"
"Brussels sprouts. What's yours?"
"Liver."
"They say that if liver is fixed with—"
Sloan shook her head. "There is no way to fix liver and make it edible. Maybe we aren't genetic sisters, after all. Maybe I was adopted and—Why are you laughing?"
"Because I was only repeating what people say. I hate liver. It makes me gag."
"The gag reflex is the ultimate proof. We're definitely related," Sloan happily decreed, but Paris turned very solemn.
"Not necessarily. This is the ultimate test question, so take your time before you answer: How do you feel about tomato soup?"
Sloan shuddered, and they both burst out laughing.
The waiter had put a basket of fresh bread sticks on the table, and Paris reached for one. "Have you ever been married?" she asked.
"No," Sloan replied. "Have you?"
"Almost. I got engaged when I was twenty-five. Henry was thirty-two, and we met in Santa Barbara at a theater party. Two months later, we got engaged."
Sloan paused in the act of selecting a bread stick for herself. "What happened?"
"The day after we got engaged, Father discovered Henry had an ex-wife and two children living in Paris. I wouldn't have cared if he hadn't lied and told me he'd never been married before."
"I see. You mean 'disappointed' in the way he was disappointed in your tennis game this morning?"
"Yes, only he'll be extremely disappointed in both of us this time. This morning he was disappointed in me alone. He doesn't get over disappointments as quickly or easily as some people do," she explained as if that were her problem, instead of his—a justifiable fact that Sloan should accept and understand in the same way Paris did.
Sloan understood it perfectly: Her father was not physically abusive. He engaged in emotional tyranny instead, a more subtle but equally effective form of brutal domination. "If I absolutely refused, then he can't be disappointed in you, can he?"
"No, I guess not."
"Do you want to play golf?"
She hesitated for so long that Sloan wasn't certain whether Paris didn't want to answer or didn't know what she wanted, period. "No, I really don't. I'm not as fond of golf as Father would like me to be."
"If we could do anything you wanted right now, what would it be?"
"We would have lunch somewhere and just talk."
"I'd love that! Since I absolutely refuse to play golf, he can't be disappointed in you, so let's have lunch and talk instead."
Biting her lip, Paris hesitated; then she made a sudden right turn. "I know just the place. It's a little café and we can eat outside. No one will bother us or rush us."
In Bell Harbor a "café" was a very casual eating place, a first cousin of a diner. Paris's café was a swanky French restaurant with canopies over the entrance, an enclosed patio with a fountain, and valet parking. The valet knew her by name and so did the maître d'.
"We'd like to eat outside, Jean," Paris told him with that genteel smile that Sloan admired now that she realized it was genuine.
"May I bring you something to drink?" he asked when they were seated at a table near the fountain with a view of the shops across the street.
Paris looked at Sloan for a decision, then abruptly made it herself. "I think we should have champagne—some very good champagne—for a special occasion."
"A birthday?" he guessed. Paris shook her head and looked shyly at Sloan. "More of a rebirth."
When he left, an awkward pause followed while they both tried to think of a place to begin getting acquainted. On the sidewalk in front of them, a mother wheeled a baby in a handsome buggy and a teenager swooped around her on a twelve-speed. "I got my first two-wheel bike when I was five," Sloan said to break the silence. "It was too big for me, and I ran into everyone I passed until I finally learned to balance it. The crossing guard said I was a menace."
"Did you always know you wanted to be an interior designer?"
Although Sloan had to conceal a few things about her present life, she was determined to be honest with Paris about everything else. "Actually," she confessed, "my original career goals were to be Superwoman or Batwoman. What about you?"
"As soon as I got my first doll, I started worrying about an appropriate layette for her," Paris admitted. "So I guess I was always interested in fashion."
A waiter arrived with a bottle of champagne in a silver stand, and Sloan waited for him to finishing serving their drinks while a young teenage couple strolled by, holding hands. "They look awfully young to be dating and holding hands, don't they?" she remarked, and when Paris nodded, Sloan seized on that as the next topic of conversation. "How old were you on your first date?"
"Sixteen," Paris said. "His name was David, and he took me to my sophomore dance. I had wanted to go with a boy named Richard, but Father knew David's family and felt he would be a more acceptable escort."
Sloan was instantly intrigued. "How was it?"
"It was awful," Paris confessed with a smile and a shudder. "On the way home from the dance, he started drinking from a flask; then he parked the car and started kissing me. He wouldn't stop until I finally burst into tears. How was your first date?"
"A lot like yours," Sloan said, laughing. "I went with Butch Bellamy, who was a foot taller than I and couldn't dance. He spent most of the night in the locker room, drinking beer with his buddies on the freshman football team. On the way home, he parked the car and started kissing me and grabbing me."
Laughing, Paris guessed the ending of the story: "And you burst into tears, too, so he would take you home?"
"No. I told him if he didn't let me out of the car, I'd tell all his friends on the team that he was gay. Then I took off my first pair of heels and hiked two miles in my first pair of panty hose. They were not a pretty sight when I got home."
Paris laughed, and Sloan lifted her glass in a toast. "To us—for surviving our first dates," she said with smiling solemnity.
Paris clinked her glass against Sloan's. "To us, and to all girls with first dates like ours."
The waiter appeared just then and handed each of them an open menu. Anxious to maintain the spirit of cheerful closeness that had sprung up between them, Sloan peered over the top of her menu. "What's your least favorite food?"
"Brussels sprouts. What's yours?"
"Liver."
"They say that if liver is fixed with—"
Sloan shook her head. "There is no way to fix liver and make it edible. Maybe we aren't genetic sisters, after all. Maybe I was adopted and—Why are you laughing?"
"Because I was only repeating what people say. I hate liver. It makes me gag."
"The gag reflex is the ultimate proof. We're definitely related," Sloan happily decreed, but Paris turned very solemn.
"Not necessarily. This is the ultimate test question, so take your time before you answer: How do you feel about tomato soup?"
Sloan shuddered, and they both burst out laughing.
The waiter had put a basket of fresh bread sticks on the table, and Paris reached for one. "Have you ever been married?" she asked.
"No," Sloan replied. "Have you?"
"Almost. I got engaged when I was twenty-five. Henry was thirty-two, and we met in Santa Barbara at a theater party. Two months later, we got engaged."
Sloan paused in the act of selecting a bread stick for herself. "What happened?"
"The day after we got engaged, Father discovered Henry had an ex-wife and two children living in Paris. I wouldn't have cared if he hadn't lied and told me he'd never been married before."
