Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

curious.”
She was worried about Theresa again; he liked that.
“Go shower,” she said.
He went to the bedroom and shed his shoes and shorts and jockstrap. As he sat on the edge of the bed, collecting his thoughts, Mary Ann came to the door. It was almost as if she had heard him thinking.
He looked up at her. “You didn’t tell me Simon was going.”
“Where … oh, the Mount Davidson thing?”
He nodded.
She went to her vanity and began rearranging cosmetics. “Well, it was kind of a last-minute thing, more or less. The poor guy obviously didn’t have any place to go for Easter, so … I thought it would be nice for him.”
He didn’t respond to that.
She turned around. “Don’t do this, Brian.”
“Do what?”
“Work yourself up again. I thought we’d put that behind us.”
“Did I say anything? I just wondered why you hadn’t mentioned it to me … that’s all.”
She shrugged. “It didn’t occur to me. It’s no big deal. It’s just an assignment.”
“At five o’clock in the morning.”
She uttered a derisive little snort. “And we all know what a lustful creature I am at that time of day.”
She got the smile she wanted. “O.K.,” he said, “O.K.”
Sitting next to him, she leaned down and licked a drop of sweat off his breastbone. “You big, smelly jerk. Just relax, O.K.?” She pulled back and looked at him. “How did you hear Simon was going?”
“Mrs. Madrigal mentioned it.” He felt stupid about it already. “Let’s drop it, O.K.?”
“Gladly.” She nuzzled his armpit. “Whew! That is potent. Don’t let Dragon Lady catch a whiff of that.” She kissed his neck and rose. “I vacuumed the car this morning.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“It’s up on Union next to the Bel-Air. I think there’s enough gas.”
He got up. “Look, I’m sorry if …”
“Hey,” she interrupted. “No apologies. Everything is fine.”
A long, hot shower did wonders for his spirits. Afterwards, he put on his bathrobe and returned to the bedroom. Mary Ann was still sitting on the bed. When he approached the mirror on the closet door, he found the “Tot Finder” taped there. He turned around and looked at her.
She was waiting with a cautious smile. “I thought we should put it up, at least. Until we decide on where to put the nursery.” Her face was full of gentleness and resolution. He knelt next to her, resting his head on her lap. She smoothed the hair above his ear. “I want one too,” she murmured.
It was almost three o’clock when he arrived at Theresa Cross’s rambling ranch house in Hillsborough. There was plenty of room to park in the rock widow’s oversized driveway, so he slipped the Le Car between a Rolls and a Mercedes, shamed by his embarrassment. Here, of all places, such things shouldn’t matter. Bix Cross was the very man who had taught him to be suspicious of materialism.
After asking directions from a uniformed Latin American maid, he made his way through the pearl-gray living room until he came to a knot of people drinking furiously by the pool. They had all the single-mindedness of an ant colony trying to move something large and dead across a room.
Someone fell out of the circle of chatter, as if thrown by centrifugal force. He was somewhere in his early forties, and his face was bland but tanned. “Hello there,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Arch Gidde, Theresa’s realtor-slant-escort.”
“Hi. I’m Brian Hawkins.”
“You’re looking for her, I suppose.”
“Well … eventually. This is the party, I guess.” A dumb thing to say, but he felt so unannounced.
Arch Gidde smirked. “This is it.” He cast a sideways glance al a lavish buffet, largely uneaten. “I hate to think how many salmon have died in vain.”
“Uh … she was expecting more?”
Another smirk. “Do you see Grace Slick? Do you see Boz Scaggs? Do you see Ann Getty, for that matter?”
How the hell did you answer that one? “Is there … uh … a specific reason or something?”
“Oh, God. You haven’t heard, have you? And I’ll bet you’re one of Theresa’s rock-and-roll buddies. Quelle bummer. You missed the big one.” He sighed histrionically. “We all missed the big one.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice to a furtive mutter. “Yoko Ono is throwing a little do in her suite at the Clift.”
“Uh … now, you mean?”
The realtor nodded grimly. “As we speak.”
“No shit.” It was all he conili muster.
“And madame is pissed. Madame is extremely pissed.