A Cry In the Night Read Free Page B

not to laugh. “Did you ever take the Dale Carnegie course?”
    â€œNo, I didn’t. Why?”
    â€œThat’s the kind of question they teach you to ask on a first meeting. Be interested in the other fellow. I want to know about you.”
    â€œBut it happens that I do want to know about you.”
    The drinks came and they sipped as she told him: “I am the head of what the modern world calls ‘the single parent family.’ I have two little girls. Beth is three and Tina just turned two. We live in an apartment in a brownstone on East Thirty-seventh Street. A grand piano, if I had one, would just about take up the whole place. I’ve worked for Mr. Hartley for four years.”
    â€œHow could you work for him four years with such young children?”
    â€œI took a couple of weeks off when they were born.”
    â€œWhy was it necessary to go back to work so quickly?”
    Jenny shrugged. “I met Kevin MacPartland the summer after I finished college. I’d been a fine arts major at Fordham University in Lincoln Center. Kev had a small part in an off-Broadway show. Nana told me I was making a mistake but naturally I didn’t listen.”
    â€œNana?”
    â€œMy grandmother. She raised me since I was a year old. Anyhow Nana was right. Kev’s a nice enough guy but he’s a— lightweight. Two children in two years ofmarriage wasn’t on his schedule. Right after Tina was born he moved out. We’re divorced now.”
    â€œDoes he support the children?”
    â€œThe average income for an actor is three thousand dollars a year. Actually Kev is quite good and with a break or two might make it. But at the moment the answer to the question is no.”
    â€œSurely you haven’t had those children in a day-care center from the time they were born?”
    Jenny felt the lump start to form in her throat. In a minute her eyes would be filling with tears. She said hurriedly, “My grandmother took care of them while I worked. She died three months ago. I really don’t want to talk about her now.”
    She felt his hand close over hers. “Jenny, I’m sorry. Forgive me. I’m not usually so dense.”
    She managed a smile. “My turn. Do tell me all about you.”
    She nibbled on the sandwich while he talked. “You probably read the bio on the brochure—I’m an only child. My mother died in an accident on the farm when I was ten . . . on my tenth birthday to be exact. My father died two years ago. The farm manager really runs the place. I spend most of my time in my studio.”
    â€œIt would be a waste if you didn’t,” Jenny said. “You’ve been painting since you were fifteen years old, haven’t you? Didn’t you realize how good you were?”
    Erich twirled the wine in his glass, hesitated, then shrugged. “I could give the usual answer, that I painted strictly as an avocation, but it wouldn’t be the whole truth. My mother was an artist. I’m afraid she wasn’t very good but her father was reasonably well known. His name was Everett Bonardi.”
    â€œOf course I know of him,” Jenny exclaimed. “But why didn’t you include that in your bio?”
    â€œIf my work is good, it will speak for itself. I hope I’ve inherited something of his talent. Mother simply sketched and enjoyed doing it, but my father was terribly jealous of her art. I suppose he’d felt like a bull in a china shop when he met her family in San Francisco. I gather they treated him like a Midwest hunky with hayseed in his shoes. He reciprocated by telling mother to use her skill to do useful things like making quilts. Even so he idolized her. But I always knew he would have hated to find me ‘wasting my time painting,’ so I kept it from him.”
    The noonday sun had broken through the overcast sky and a few stray beams, colored by the stained-glass window, danced on