My Summer With George Read Free

who brought him along to the party. Edgar, a southerner originally, was a tiny man with a sweet face framed by dark curls. He became famous in the sixties, playing the Merman in the counterculture play The Little Merman. He still appears in an occasional Broadway play or cameo film role. He lives near the Altshulers, in a tiny eighteenth-century house. Small as it is, its age gives it—and him—cachet. And in this part of Connecticut, cachet is everything.
    The usual activities were planned for Sunday: sailing, boating, waterskiing, or swimming in the Sound. But most people just lolled in deck chairs making idle conversation, and drank and ate. I had an early-morning swim, then a roll and coffee on the terrace. Afterward, I went back to my room for a few hours to work on my little laptop computer. I like to work every day; it makes me feel I’ve exercised my insides. Besides, I cannot spend an entire day in company—I have to be alone for a few hours. Around two-thirty, when most of the guests had arrived, I put on white linen pants and a beautifully cut black linen top and went downstairs. Taking a gin and tonic and some little cheese things, I began to socialize. Willy eyed me from a corner, but I just smiled and turned to greet some people I knew.
    I was standing near the huge windows facing the water, talking to Elliott Morris, the composer, when I saw a man standing alone, leaning on the railing that surrounded the balcony off the library. He was tall, with thinning blondish hair, and wore a white suit. When he turned my way, I saw he had a beautiful face, sweet and thoughtful in repose, but what struck me most was the dejection of his posture. I thought I had never seen such a disheartened human being, and my heart immediately turned over in sympathy. But then June Morris joined us, and the composer Elizabeth Harris, and I got caught up in the chatter and forgot him.
    Several hours later, Janice grabbed out at me desperately as I passed her on my way to the bar. I was familiar with that particular grasp and the look on her face: she was about to foist someone who didn’t mix well on her old dependable friend. She tried to pull someone forward, but he stood immobile, head sunk almost to his chest. “Hermione darling, I want you to meet Edgar Allen’s dear friend—” Pausing, she turned to see if he was still there, obviously having forgotten his name. His shrinking wasn’t obvious, it wasn’t a physical motion, but it was palpable just the same. He didn’t want to meet anyone, I thought. He was the man I’d seen leaning on the railing.
    “George Johnson,” he mumbled. “How’re you.” Janice fled and he looked around, fixing me with intense penetrating turquoise eyes. “This is a hell of a house,” he announced in what seemed to be an angry tone. He was good-looking enough to be one of my heroes (if a little too old), but too intense. Heroes are never intense, only villains are. Heroes are bemused, a bit distant, given more to laughter than passion, except about the heroine, of course. But neither my heroes nor my villains are ever reluctant. They would not dream of shrinking from an encounter, as George did. They are always at the ready, sure of themselves, in control, oozing charm. Their bellies never hang a little over their belts, nor their ties askew, as George’s was. But precisely the qualities that made George unsuitable as a romance hero made me breathe a little more quickly.
    For if there’s one thing I can’t stand in people, men or women, it’s a posture of control. People who act as if they have themselves and the situation completely in hand tend to take over every situation, take you over as if you were a child. Whenever I’m around someone like that, I tend to drift away—physically if I can, mentally if I can’t. The appearance of total control is appealing only in fairy tales—adventure or military stories or romances, written or cinematic. In the make-believe world, people