Two Much! Read Free Page B

in there to begin with, and we’d soon created an atmosphere like that in a rain forest at midnight Nor were matters helped much when Liz, writhing along midway in our progress, kicked over her fresh glass of vodka. Don’t let anybody ever tell you vodka has no smell; in a closed closet it does.
    Still, there was a good side to it all, which eventually climaxed with a lot of rucking and bumping amid the shifts and sneakers. Following which, we readjusted ourselves for public consumption and returned to the quieter side of the party, carefully closing the closet door behind ourselves. It really did look—and smell—as though some sort of debauch had taken place in there. “Poor old closet,” I said. “Things will be dull for it once you sell.”
    â€œI wish I hadn’t spilled that drink,” she said irritably, but she was thinking of herself, not of the closet Downstairs, she left me without so much as a thank you and headed straight for Mike.
    I roamed a while, listened to three under-thirty males discuss the implications for the legal profession of no-fault auto insurance, eavesdropped on girl-talk about dog shows, had another vodka and tonic, and eventually found myself alone in a corner when Betty, the Liz who wasn’t Liz, came over with her polite-hostess smile and said, “This party must be dull for you.”
    â€œDoes it show?”
    The smile became a touch more limpid. “No,” she said, “you’re carrying it off very well.”
    â€œSo are you,” I told her. Regardless of the white dress, regardless of the hostess smile and the tamed-down gestures, this face and body were so completely the same as the face and body I’d just been humping in the upstairs closet that I couldn’t help a sense of familiarity, an easiness of discourse. Also, it was impossible to believe this one was as unlike her sister as she seemed; surely that throat could be made to produce the same low groans as Liz.
    She raised one eyebrow. I’ve never been able to do that, and I’ve always envied people who could. “Don’t you think I’m enjoying myself?”
    â€œYou’ve had better times,” I told her, and reached out to pat a hand holding a glass containing what looked suspiciously like sherry. “And you will again,” I said. Then I noticed Liz frowning in our direction from some distance away, and casually I removed my hand and placed it instead in my pocket.
    But it seemed already to have done its work. The hostess smile was all at once much more honest, much looser. She said, “Do you like good times, Mr. Dodge?”
    â€œCozy times,” I said, but it was all a charade and meaningless. Liz was too self-contained to break in on our chitchat, but she was circling on the far side of the room, her awareness as intrusive as an electric current. You can’t change sisters in mid-scheme. I’ve tried and I know; you lose them both. Blood is also thicker than oil, apparently.
    The sister in purdah was saying something about ski lodges and roaring fires; following on my use of the word cozy , I suppose. “That’s why I’m a winter person,” she said. “I love the ice and snow, and then you come in and get all bundled up and warm.” She hugged herself, and sipped sherry. “Are you like that?”
    â€œDepends who I’m bundling with,” I said.
    She pretended to find me risqué, and took the opportunity to touch my wrist with her own cool fingertips. “Oh, you’re perfect for Liz,” she said. “She just loves fast people.”
    â€œAnd you?”
    â€œOh, I’m just a spectator.” Her little smile was meant to be fatalistic, I suppose, but in truth it was smug.
    â€œIf you see something you like,” I suggested, “just ask for it”
    â€œOh, I think I’ll stay on the sidelines,” she said, with a depressingly flirtatious little smile.