The Polka Dot Nude by Joan Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

talk of a Rosalie Hart movie festival as well. The magazines will do something, and we’d like to cash in on the free publicity. Belton is going to put out one of their trashy quickies, an unauthorized biography. In fact, Mason is at work on it already. Hume Mason, the king of quickies, began one last month, as soon as Belton heard we were doing Rosalie.”
    My insides clenched up like a fist at this news. Panic warred with pride. I guess it was pride that said, “I wanted to make this really good, a meaningful book.”
    “Of course, Audrey, but do it fast too.” Eileen was obviously ruled by panic. “Send me in what you’ve got. I’ll edit as you go along, to save time. How many chapters are done?”
    “Two, but they’re only in rough. They have to be polished and retyped.”
    “Two chapters?” she howled. “What have you been doing all this time?”
    “I’ve got about fifty pounds of research to digest.”
    “I know. Guard it with your life. The estate will want it back in good order. Keep yourself informed on the funeral too. It might make a good closing chapter. Wraps it all up nice and tidy. I’ll let you get back to work now. Work hard! Bye.”
    I muttered to myself as I banged down the receiver. “Work hard. What do you think I’ve been doing, playing the violin?”
    I went at it harder than before, only stopping at noon to grab an apple and a slice of rye bread. I could do with some reducing after Brad’s gluttonous feasts. I wondered if he’d make me dinner again, after I’d refused to go along with his fun and games last night. I hadn’t lowered myself to buying meals and company at the price of my body, if that was all he was after. I wasn’t ready for another devastating jilting either, and that was the likeliest conclusion to an affair with Brad. First I had to staunch the bleeding from losing Garth.
    By four, the ache between my shoulders told me I’d overdone it. My head throbbed, and my sentences were all turning compound. It came as a surprise when I looked out the window and remembered where I was. Tall pines hewn to grotesque shapes by the wind replaced the more familiar skyscrapers. Instead of solid concrete, sun-dappled grass waved underfoot. Through the rear window the river was visible, rippled by wind and sparkling. Brad’s car was home. I changed into shorts and a halter and went to the rocky shore to test the water with my toes. It was perishingly cold. The dock between my cottage and Brad’s was a good place for sunbathing. A derelict striped canvas chair coaxed me into its sagging nest. It felt exactly like the famous Barcelona chair—very uncomfortable. Simcoe’s boat was at his dock, so Brad wasn’t out fishing. Maybe he’d started another essay on poetry.
    After angling the chair to gather the maximum rays from the sun, I half closed my eyes and gazed dreamily across the water. That was Canada over there, so close you could swim to it, if the currents allowed. The St. Lawrence was a mile wide here, Simcoe had told me. Two enormous ships crossed in the seaway, with a haunting hoot from their horns. It was a sound often heard at night in bed, eerie and unsettling, like a distant train whistle, carrying a hint of excitement and far-off places. All so peaceful and different from New York. A nice place to visit, but how could anyone bear to live there? Didn’t the constant racket of the crickets drive them around the bend?
    Brad must be tired of working by now. I’d go and ask him if he wanted a beer. In fact, I wanted one myself. I went to my cottage, planning to take two over to his place, to sniff the air for dinner. When I opened the door, I got the fright of my life. There was a man there, at my desk, his head bent over my box of research, which he was riffling through. The soft pad of my bare feet hid my approach from him. With my eyes dazzled from the sun, I didn’t recognize Brad for a minute.
    My voice was rough with shock. “What are you doing?” I