Vigil by Robert Masello Read Free Book Online

black skirt swirling around her fat ankles, and went into the adjoining kitchen. Kimberly could still hear her bustling around in there, and even that annoyed her.
    “I’m so glad you were able to say hello to the mayor last night. He’s such a funny man, when he’s able to just relax with friends. But we’ll have other dinner parties, and you’ll get to know him.”
    Ezra nodded, noncommittally, and sipped his coffee.
    “So,” Kimberly said, looking for a way in, “with everyone here last night, we really didn’t get a chance to visit. What made you decide to come back to New York now?”
    Ezra’s eyes shifted toward the window, and for a few seconds he said nothing at all. “My work was done in Israel.”
    Since Kimberly had no firm idea what that work was, and wasn’t really interested anyway, she let that slide. “Are you planning to stay here—I mean, New York—for good now?
    “I haven’t decided.”
    “You know you’re welcome to stay with us for as long as you want to,” she said. “Your father, I know, is very happy to have you back.”
    Gertrude came in with a lacquered tray on which she’d arranged Kimberly’s breakfast. She placed the tray on the table and turned to go back toward the kitchen, but Kimberly stopped her.
    “Oh, I don’t think we eat off trays in this house,” she said. “Could you just put the things on the table, please?”
    Gertrude turned around again and took the granola bowl, the yogurt, and the coffee off the tray and set them down on the table. Looking past Kimberly and at Ezra, the old woman said, “I’m going to do some marketing later. Do you still like those Little Schoolboy cookies? I can get some.”
    “Sure,” Ezra said. “I haven’t had those in ages.”
    How long, Kimberly wondered, would she have to put up with these little stunts? She’d made over Sam as best she could, but his household was another thing; all these old family servants—Gertrude, the cook Trina, that chauffeur Uncle Maury—it was like living in some village out of one of those old Frankenstein movies. When she went to her friends’ houses—her new friends, that was—they had servants who wore proper uniforms, and knew how to serve, and how to behave. She was not only uncomfortable around this staff, but also, she had to admit, a little bit afraid of them. When they spoke Yiddish, or whatever it was, while she was right there in the room with them, she knew darn well they were talking about her.
    Time, she thought, to cut to the chase. “Ezra,” she said, smoothing her napkin over her taut lap, “have you ever considered working for your dad?” It was her private nightmare. “Would you like me to talk to him about it for you?” She suspected it was Ezra’s worst nightmare, too.
    Ezra looked at her, and she knew he could see right through her. But that didn’t bother her all that much—their cards had pretty much been on the table from the start. Even as the first Mrs. Metzger was going downhill at Sloan-Kettering, Kimberly had been seeing Sam, and Ezra had found out about it. She could explain a lot of it, how she’d tried to get Sam to wait, how she’d never felt right about it, how the whole thing had just sort of happened (well, maybe she did give it a push now and then, like that time she’d pretended that her boss at the ad agency had demanded that Sam himself okay some layouts, which had allowed her to stop by his apartment, on a night when she just happened to be dressed to kill), but what good would that do now? It was ancient history. And frankly, none of it was any of Ezra’s damn business, anyway. It was time he got over it and grew up.
    “I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” Ezra said, and she wondered if he meant working for his dad, or letting her feel out the situation for him. “I’ve never been very interested in real estate.”
    “So, what are you interested in, then? What do you want to do now that you’re back in