The Slipper Read Free

slowly down her cheek. The man made no attempt at conversation. He drove the powerful car with casual ease, his hands resting lightly on the steering wheel. Carol could smell expensive cloth and lime shaving lotion and the faint, musky scent of male flesh. It wasn’t at all unpleasant. Every girl had to lose her virginity eventually. It might as well be to someone who knew what he was doing.
    Twenty-five minutes later he slowed the car and pulled into the drive of a low, dark building with a discreet blue neon sign glowing over the recessed front door. Carol sat up, smoothing down her skirt. Her companion eased into an empty parking space and cut off the motor. He looked at her for a long moment, then got out and came around to open the door for her. She felt apprehensive now, hesitating as his hand closed over hers. He tugged gently on her hand, pulling her out of the car. The night air was cool. Pale yellow-gold light spilled out of windows, making soft squares in front of the building. Crickets rasped. Carol could smell crushed milkweed.
    â€œWhat—what is this place?” she asked nervously.
    â€œIn my day it used to be called a roadhouse. Discreetly located several miles outside the city, far away from prying eyes. Discreetly run by a staff who keep their eyes lowered and ask no questions. Soft music on the jukebox. A small, intimate dance floor. Secluded booths and tables. Excessively high prices to keep out the riffraff.”
    â€œI—I can’t go in there. My dress is all rumpled and soiled. I’ve lost the heel on one of my shoes.”
    â€œYour dress is fine. You can take off your shoes.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œNo one will say a word,” he assured her.
    Carol hesitated again and then, feeling very bold, pulled off her shoes and tossed them into the car. The man smiled and closed the car door and led her toward the recessed entrance. The neon light cast pale blue shadows over her skirt as they passed beneath it. A maître d’ in dark jacket greeted them and led them toward a booth in back of the large, dim room. “Moonglow” was playing quietly on the jukebox, and a single couple danced on the floor, the woman in clinging red silk jersey, the man in business suit and horn-rimmed glasses. No one paid the least attention to Carol’s wilted white dress and stockinged feet.
    â€œScotch and soda,” her companion told the waiter who came promptly over to their booth, “and—uh—I think a glass of white wine for the lady. We’ll order dinner later.”
    The waiter nodded and departed. The room was all shadowy, candles burning in tiny red glass jars on all the tables and booths, no direct lighting whatsoever. It was quite wicked-looking, Carol thought, like something out of an Ida Lupino movie. She felt quite wicked herself and, yes, excited, too, despite the anguish inside. She looked at the man sitting across from her, his handsome face thoughtful now.
    â€œWhat were you doing at commencement?” she asked. “Are you related to one of the seniors?”
    He shook his head. “You might say I was there in an official capacity. My wife usually takes care of the duties, but she left for Europe early this year, and I was stuck with the job.”
    â€œOfficial capacity? Job? I don’t—”
    â€œI’m Norman Philips, Carol.”
    She could feel the color leaving her cheeks.
    â€œJunior,” he added. “It was my father who established the scholarships for students of his old alma mater. I drove up from Wichita to present the checks to the scholarship winners.”
    Carol didn’t say anything. The waiter brought their drinks. She looked at the glass of white wine. Although she had never had an alcoholic beverage in her life, she took up the glass and downed half of it in one gulp. Norman Philips looked alarmed.
    â€œHey,” he said. “Take it easy. That’s not soda. You’re supposed to