Boys & Girls Together by William Goldman Read Free Book Online

prospects as blazing as the air on his wedding day— the social event of a typically inhuman pre-air-conditioning St. Louis summer—so no one thought once to whisper that Emily’s money was a factor in the love match. And it was not a factor. P.T. was aware of her wealth, of course, and its existence caused him no pain, but he was correctly confident that in not too many years she would be the poorer member of the family. If he had a motive in addition to what he hopefully assumed was his undying devotion (and he did) (and who doesn’t?) it was simply the cliché of social position. Her father was a Harding, her grandfather a Stahr, while his father was an organ grinder (yes, with a monkey) and his grandfather a nameless Union soldier who stopped off in St. Louis one night on his way north after the Civil War.
    They met on a spring afternoon at the St. Louis Country Club, the year before P.T. became a member. He was playing golf with Joe Manchester, who was shortly to become his partner for a while, and even though he had lost, P.T. was in fine humor; he never minded losing at golf because it was such a stupid game. Who the hell cared about putting the ball onto the green into the cup? Distance off the tee was what interested him, and though his score was much higher, he had outdriven Manchester on every hole. After they finished the eighteenth, they started back to the men’s locker room and on the way they passed a woman dressed in white. Manchester stopped to talk; P.T. waited, watching.
    She was a small woman—no, she wasn’t, when you looked at her carefully; she just seemed small. Thin, but the legs looked strong. P.T. liked that—good strong legs. He could never understand the lure of the bosom or the butt. Her face was not a pretty face, but it didn’t miss by much. Probably the nose was the spoiler—it was too small—because the eyes were good and blue and he found no complaint with the wide mouth.
    “Miss Harding, Mr. Kirkaby.”
    “Miss Harding.” He smiled at her.
    “How do you do, Mr. Kirkaby.” She looked up at him.
    P.T. knew that look, so he broadened his smile. He was handsome, and he knew that, too. They stared at each other until she had to break it, almost jerking her head toward Manchester. Manchester must have suspected something, because he coughed unnecessarily—nobody has to clear his throat that many times—and took a step away toward the locker room. P.T. continued staring at her, sadistically, though he did not know the word, fully aware that the one place in the world she could not look was back at him. He was tempted to ask her for dinner that evening but he resisted; they didn’t do that kind of thing, the rich, and he was almost one of them now. Manchester said goodbye and she echoed it. P.T. nodded and moved a step ahead of Manchester, walking toward the locker room. Abruptly P.T. turned, calling out to the retreating white figure.
    “Miss Harding.”
    She turned, shading her eyes from the sun, waiting. P.T. crossed to her, tempted to stop halfway, tempted to make her cross to him, because he knew she would, and quickly, but he decided not to. Although he usually struck at the throat there were times when he enjoyed subduing more slowly, and this seemed like one of those times. When he reached her he took an extra half step so that he was right on top of her, and it pleased him vaguely that she held her ground.
    “Dinner tonight, Miss Harding?”
    “I’m sorry. I’m busy this evening.”
    “Some other time then.” He started to turn away, but her hand touched his arm.
    P.T. waited.
    She fidgeted.
    “What?”
    “I had to say that.”
    “Come again?”
    “That I was busy. I had to say it.”
    “Why?”
    “It wasn’t proper of you. To ask me like that. I had to put you in your place.”
    P.T. laughed. “O.K. I’m in my place. Now what about dinner tonight?”
    “You really should give me more time to—”
    “Going once. Going twice.”
    “Yes. Please. I would