Happy All the Time by Laurie Colwin Read Free Book Online

town houses, to architects restoring grange halls, to landmark preservation groups, and to sculptors who wanted to put chrome boxes in front of corporate headquarters as well as more traditional artists who cast bronze monumental statuary of local heroes. In addition, money was given to novelists, poets, painters, tapestry weavers, and potters. All of this was under Guido’s care, except for matters of pure money, which were overseen by a board of trustees of which Guido was nominal head. The rest were bankers and investors who knew how to add and subtract. Runnymeade , the Foundation magazine, had begun its life as a glossy booklet for subscribers to the Foundation. Uncle Giancarlo had decided to make it income-producing, but he had failed. Under Guido it flourished. It was sold to students, bookstores, libraries, and museums. It was also sold in the lobbies of fancy hotels and, Guido learned, was favored in the offices of college presidents, expensive dentists, and heart specialists.
    Guido had not only taken over the stewardship of Runnymeade and the Foundation. He had also inherited an English girl of porcelainlike beauty who had been Uncle Giancarlo’s secretary. Her name was Jane Motherwell. How Uncle Giancarlo had put up with her Guido could not imagine. Jane spilled coffee on his letters, had a ten-minute attention span, spent the large amounts of spare time she found for herself filing her nails or out of the office having her hair cut. When she was not out, she was in making innumerable personal telephone calls during which she refused to answer her buzzer. Furthermore, she was surly. Guido took this problem to Uncle Giancarlo, who explained. Jane Motherwell had been hired to replace old Mrs. Trout, who had been Uncle Giancarlo’s right hand for many years. She had retired at sixty-five, and Uncle Giancarlo, who decided he would retire at seventy, had hired Jane. “At my age,” said Uncle Giancarlo, “beauty means far more than mere efficiency.”
    On the day that Vincent turned up full of gloom, Jane had just quit, leaving Guido with a ringing telephone that went unanswered, a stack of unopened letters, and a book filled with correspondence Guido had dictated weeks ago. This was in shorthand, which Guido could not decipher. Guido felt frazzled. He realized that he had gotten used to Jane, in the way you get used to constant shooting pains, and he was puzzled now that relief had set in.
    â€œI’m in big trouble,” said Vincent.
    â€œLook, do you think you can figure out how this dictating machine works?” said Guido. “What happened? Did the Toad find out about you and Winnie and try to do you in with a squash racket?”
    â€œIt’s not Winnie,” said Vincent, tinkering with the machine. “I’m not going to see her anymore. I told her that last night. She didn’t care. Look, Guido, this machine seems to be backward. You press the button that says replay, then start, then record. No, that’s wrong. Now I’ve erased everything on the tape. Sorry. But if you push start first, that makes it rewind to the beginning. Where did you get this from?”
    â€œOh, throw it out. Uncle Giancarlo got it at a discount a million years ago. What’s your problem if it isn’t Winnie?”
    â€œI’ve been behaving oddly,” said Vincent. “Yesterday I kissed a girl.”
    â€œYou do that all the time,” said Guido. “That isn’t odd. Christ, will you look at this notebook of Jane’s? There are three weeks of untyped letters. You don’t read shorthand, do you?”
    â€œI didn’t expect to kiss this particular girl. It was the last thing on my mind,” said Vincent. “Now I feel rotten. I took Winnie to the basketball game last night and the girl I kissed was there with some man and she looked at me as if she hated me. Of course, she often looks like that.”
    â€œWho is this girl?” Guido