“Better get some beer, too. And that fancy pressé you like, for the wives. Maybe some of those little … what do you call them … cannelloni?”
“Oh, cannoli siciliani? Sure.” Damn it. It would take me all morning to make those tricky little fuckers.
“Great. Thanks, honey.”
He heaved himself off the bed and strolled into the bathroom. I heard him pissing into the toilet bowl and, a moment later, running the faucet to brush his teeth. He flushed the toilet afterwards—that had always irritated me.
I knew from experience that I’d find his uniform tossed onto the floor. I pulled my nightgown out from under the pillow, picked up my dress and notepad, waiting for him to finish.
CHAPTER 3
David was up and out early. Getting that promotion had made the world spin his way, for a while at least. I hoped the good mood would last. He was easier to live with when he wasn’t mad at me all the time.
I wasn’t keen on the idea of a party, but it was something that was expected. I looked forward to these little soirées with the enthusiasm of someone going for root canal.
I cleaned up the kitchen just in case anyone decided to drop in for coffee, then finished off the notes I’d started last night. I wasn’t entirely happy with the necessity of asking Sebastian for his help, but I suspected he’d get a kick out of my idea for an article.
When I’d cornered the laptop and intimidated it into crawling into action, I updated my résumé. It certainly looked a lot better than last time I’d had to do this. Now I had solid experience under my belt, sort of; not as much perhaps as many women my age, but enough—I hoped. I also knew that the fact of my being a military wife garnered enough cachet to get me through the door. Civilians were always intrigued by the idea of a world within a world: nearby, but closed.
I called the phone company and they agreed that I’d be hooked up by Friday; they were usually pretty good at attending to military folk. It made them feel patriotic.
Having ticked off all my chores but one, I was now faced with the tricky prospect of contacting Sebastian without raising his hopes—or getting him into more trouble with his parents. I had no idea how I was going to do that. But, unwittingly, Donna Vorstadt was kind enough to help me out.
The phone rang, loud and demanding.
“Hello?”
“Hi Caroline, it’s Donna. I just thought I’d ask, if you’re not too busy unpacking; some of the girls and I usually get together on a Monday afternoon and have coffee ... chew the fat. I was wondering if you’d like to join us? You’ll know some of them: Penny Bishop, Estelle Hunter, Margarite Schiner.”
“Oh, that’s so kind of you, Donna, but I’m just up to my ears in jobs. I have to call the phone company to get DSL; David is on my case about that. And I have a thousand and one things to do. Did he mention we’re having a few friends over for drinks a week from this Saturday? About 7 pm. Maybe we could catch up then. And coffee another time—for sure.”
She accepted my excuses with good humor and said she was looking forward to Saturday. We hung up on good terms after she gave me Estelle’s number, obviously surprised by my request. Donna was easy company—I was beginning to feel she was a woman I could like.
Estelle, however, was something else altogether.
I started to dial her number and, to my surprise and chagrin, I felt a nervous knot in my stomach. Oh, for crying out loud. You’re a woman of 30! I really didn’t like having to ask her for help.
Irritated, I dialed the number.
“Hunter residence. May I help you?”
Sebastian’s voice was cool and polite. I was so surprised, I couldn’t speak immediately. I’d assumed he’d be at school.
“Hello?” he said again.
“Hi, Sebastian … it’s Caroline,” I stuttered.
Over the phone I heard him take a sudden, sharp breath.
“Caroline, hi! How are you?”
“Good, thanks. I was expecting to reach your mother…”
“I had a free period—and I’m graduating on Thursday anyway,” he reminded me.
“Oh, well, as luck would have it … I wondered if you could help me—with an article I’m writing?”
“Sure, anything!”
I tried to ignore the obvious delight in his voice.
“Well, when we were talking at the barbecue the other day, you mentioned that your friend’s dad surfed—I think you said his name was Ches? Well, I wondered if you could give me his number; I’d like to speak to him.”
There was a short pause.
“You want to speak to Ches?”
He sounded hurt.
“Well, I really wanted to talk to Ches’s dad,” I said hurriedly. “I’m writing an article about Base personnel who go surfing. I thought it would make a great piece for City Beat.”