Mortal Friends Read Free Page B

drive?”
    “Sure.”
    “Drive around, Maxwell,” he said without elaboration.
    We sped along the parkway next to the darkly glistening Potomac River. As we passed the Jefferson Memorial, glowing like a big iridescent pearl against the midnight sky, Bob took hold of my hand and said, “Beautiful city, Washington.”
    “Yes, indeed. Pierre L’Enfant did a great job.” His hand was warm.
    “So, Reven, you’re one of those people I know but don’t really know…and I’d like to know a lot better,” he added.
    “How many times have you said that to women in the back of this car?”
    He punched his chest and feigned hurt. “Oof! You got me! But you can’t deny we’ve been flirting with each other for years.”
    “You flirt with everyone. It’s part of your mystique.”
    “My mystique? I have a mystique, do I?” he said like he knew full well he did.
    “Yes. You know that.”
    “Not really, no. What is my mystique?”
    “Oh, that you’re flirtatious and you like beautiful women and you’re good company and…”
    “And…?”
    “That you have a dark side.”
    “A dark side,” he said, amused. “That’s good to hear. I sound interesting.”
    “Yes, you do…. So what happened with you and Melody? Why’d you two really break up?”
    “Honest answer? Mel’s a great girl. But there are certain things about me she couldn’t or wouldn’t understand. And I need a woman who will understand those things.”
    “Like what kinds of things?”
    He squeezed my hand. “What say you and I get to know each other a little better? Then I’ll tell you, if you’re still interested.”
    Well, I was definitely interested—which was a really bad sign. If I’m interested in a guy, trust me, he’s a bounder-in-waiting no matter how good he looks at first. My mother always told me I was a “bad picker.” And once I had this shrink who said to me: “Reven, when all your bells go off for a guy, don’t run, gallop in the other direction!” A freaking shrink told me this—that’s what a bad track record I have.
    It was a typical first date, filled with flirtation and falsity. Long ago, I figured out that dating is like campaigning: you don’t revealwho you really are or what you’re really up to until you get elected. But that night I could feel myself being inexorably drawn to Bob Poll. Don’t you love the way that sounds? Being inexorably drawn to someone. God help me, I’m such a romantic. I’m sure that’s what a lot of women say just before some guy bashes their skull in.

Chapter 3
    T he next morning Violet called me at the crack of dawn to dish the party and to find out how things had gone with Bob Poll. I told her nothing much had happened and that he’d dropped me off at my house.
    “He was a perfect gentleman…unfortunately,” I said.
    “Did he ask you out again?”
    “No.”
    “He will. Mark my words.”
    Although Violet had lived like a nun before she met Grant, there was something about being happily married that made her think she knew everything there was to know about relationships. She and Grant had been married for fifteen years. They had one child, a towheaded boy named Grant Bolton III, called “Tee” for the third, so he wouldn’t be confused with his father or his grandfather. When Tee was a baby, Violet constantly showed him off as if he were an accessory: Tee on one arm, designer bag on the other. Sometimes I felt she acted like the boy was the proof of her legitimacy, rather than the other way around. But she was justly proud of her little “nuclear family,” as she referred to it. And like any good friend, she wanted me to settle down and be as happy as she was. She was always trying to fix me up or advise me on my relationships.
    Violet suggested we go for a jog and talk about a “game plan” to get Mr. Poll more interested. We agreed to meet at our usual starting point: the entrance to Montrose Park. I made myself a cup of coffee and checked out the newspaper before