Jaine Austen 2 - Last Writes by Laura Levine Read Free Book Online Page A

to cry.”
    “It was definitely the face of a woman scorned. She was pissed to beat the band.”
    “I don’t believe it,” she said, shaking her head, stunned. “V.D. and Audrey?”
    Needless to say, I didn’t tell her about the blinding smiles Quinn had been flashing in my direction. Why make her even more miserable than she was already?
    “That does it,” she said, angrily spearing an egg roll. “I’ve had it with men. From now on I’m going to lead a sexless monastic existence, like Mother Teresa. And you.”
    “Gee, thanks.”
    “Well, you have to admit, you haven’t exactly been burning any mattresses lately.”
    She had a point there. The only men in my boudoir of late had been Mr. Clean and Mr. Bubble.
    “Another round?” she asked.
    “I can’t,” I said. “I’m teaching my class tonight.”
    “Oh, right. It’s Tuesday. I forgot. Guess I’d better get the bill.”
    She signaled the waiter for the check.
    “Gosh,” she said, flustered. “How embarrassing.”
    “What?”
    “When I waved at the waiter, some guy at the bar thought I was waving at him. And now he’s waving back at me.”
    I looked over and saw a tall, sandy-haired guy in tight jeans leaning against the bar, smiling at us.
    “He’s sort of cute, isn’t he?” Kandi whispered.
    Some people never learn.

Chapter Six

    I t turned out that the cute guy in tight jeans was waiting at the bar for his date, another cute guy in tight jeans. Kandi and I paid the check and headed out to the parking lot.
    “Want me to call you later?” I asked.
    “Nah, that’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
    I gave her a hug, and waved as she drove off in her Miata. I wasn’t really worried about her. I knew she’d be okay. Kandi has an amazing ability to rebound from failed relationships. Comes from years of practice, I guess.
    Most of the time I’m glad I’m not Kandi. I’m glad I’m not taking chances and getting hurt. But every once in a while, when I’m lying in bed, watching old Lucy reruns in the middle of the night, with only my cat for company, I wonder if Kandi isn’t the smart one, after all. At least she’s trying.
    I got into my Corolla and headed across town to the Shalom Retirement Home, where once a week I teach a class in memoir writing. Sad to say, I have no budding Mary Karrs or Frank McCourts in my class. Most of my students’ essays tend to be about things like My Granddaughter’s Bat Mitzvah or My Son, the Orthodontist. Every once in a while I’ll get something spicier like My Son Married a Shiksa , but that’s about as compelling as it gets.
    But they’re a lively bunch, and I get a kick out of them. Most of them are in their eighties and many of them have never written before. It’s not easy to write at any age, let alone to start when you’re an octogenarian. In spite of their many infirmities, they’re still giving life a shot. And for that, I admire them.
    I inched across town in heavy traffic, cursing my fellow drivers, especially the ones with cell phones glued to their ears.
    When I finally showed up, ten minutes late for class, I was greeted by a round of applause from the handful of students gathered in the Shalom rec room. Ever since I’d told them about my job on Muffy ’n Me , they’d been treating me like Hollywood royalty.
    “Author, author!” shouted Mrs. Pechter, a sweet woman with bosoms the size of throw pillows.
    “We’re so proud of you, darling,” chimed in tiny, birdlike Mrs. Rubin. “Imagine! Our teacher, a famous TV writer.”
    “Wait a minute,” I said. “I’m not famous yet.”
    “But you will be,” said Mrs. Rubin. “Just like the famous playwright Wendy Wasserman.”
    “It’s not Wasserman,” said Mr. Goldman, the only man in the class. “It’s Wasserstein.”
    “My son’s wife went to school with Wendy Wasserstein,” Mrs. Zahler announced.
    “That’s nothing,” Mr. Goldman countered. “My cousin Mel once dated Neil Simon’s mother-in-law.”
    “Are you sure