Reinhart's Women Read Free Page B

now emerged from her absolute fixity, but only so far as slow motion would take her. It seemed as though she might actually curtsy, but if so she changed her mind. Instead she glared at Reinhart and then abruptly seized the drink from him, almost spilling some in the swirl.
    “Here,” she said, in a kind of screech as unprecedented as Winona’s baritone, and she thrust the whiskey at Reinhart’s daughter.
    This was the most remarkable display of something or other that he had ever witnessed, and he was so unsettled by it that he took a largish draft of the bourbon and water, a drink that he would ordinarily have put at the bottom of his list, owing to the cloying, almost confectionary effect it produced on his palate. However, though he winced at the earliest taste, the warm aftereffect now was comforting. He realized that he found Winona’s performance to be lacking in graciousness: this was not like her at all.
    Alas, it was obvious that she and Grace made a poor mix. He would of course stop seeing Grace, but meanwhile she was his guest and he would feed her.
    “Winona,” he said with a certain asperity, “I have to go now and work on the meal. Please be hospitable. Oh, Grace, if you don’t want the Beam, there’s Johnnie Walker Red. I’ve, also got your favorite Minnehaha mineral water.”
    But Grace seemed not to hear him. As for his daughter, she said obediently, sweetly, returning to the old Winona, “Oh, I sure will, Dad. Grace, won’t you sit down, please.”
    “Where?” asked Grace. She seemed bewildered.
    Whatever the state of the world outside, everything made sense when Reinhart was with his pots and pans. With his big chef’s knife he minced an onion and then a clove of garlic, and put them in a deep skillet with the blanched bits of bacon: all of these were sautéed together until they turned golden. At that point the half-cup of chicken stock was introduced, and two cups of red wine (a vintage Cabernet Sauvignon from California—not dirt-cheap, but the resulting liquid would become the sauce and must be edible), then salt, pepper, and sugar to taste (lest the reduced wine be too acid), and finally a bouquet garni: bay leaf, thyme, parsley, and two cloves, bundled in cheesecloth. He put this concoction on to simmer, and he trimmed the crusts from three square slices of a firm white bread, divided each slice in two, and sautéed the six little rectangles in butter.
    Ten minutes had been consumed by these labors. The fragrant, simmering liquid would profit by ten more. He now had a moment in which to check on his guest.
    The women were silent when he came into the living room, and they sat as far from each other as the arrangement of furniture would permit.
    Grace held a glass full of ice cubes and colorless fluid.
    “Um,” Reinhart asked of her, “vodka or gin?”
    She hastily, even guiltily, took a sip, then elevated the glass in a kind of triumph. “Diet Seven-Up!” she cried. “Delicious!”
    “Good God,” said Reinhart. “Is that your work, Winona? Here, Grace, let me get you something to drink. Winona, how could you?” He went across the room with outstretched hand.
    But Grace fended him off, and from his left Winona wailed, “That’s what she wanted, Daddy! You just ask her.”
    Grace shouted desperately, “I love it!”
    Reinhart decided to give up his mission, whatever the truth of her averment: emotions, even if politely hypocritical, should be discouraged before any kind of meal (with the possible exception of high glee at a ball game, followed by a mustard-drenched hot dog and a paper-cupful of warm beer).
    “As long as you’re happy,” he said, halting. “Winona has a professional reason for her diet, but even so I often don’t approve of it. I can’t get her to accept the fact that she first began to lose weight on my cuisine, but in a sensible way, and with no loss of nourishment or flavor.”
    “Please, Carl, say no more on that subject,” Grace said. It was