Somewhere a dog barked.
“I’m sure I’d feel the same way in your position,” she continued.
“What position is that?”
She flushed. “You know, the ex-wife.”
“Yes, and I’m sure you feel as though first I take over your husband and now your property… I respect your space, Lilly.”
My space? Gag me with a spoon. Her blunder was so spilling over with implication, past transgressions and flat out balls, my snappy comebacks tumbled over themselves on the race from my brain to my tongue. High road, high road. …
Catalana Gallordi, Madison Avenue’s femme fantastique, … glanced at me as if I were a skeptical prospective client in need of convincing. “I want to be a good guest… As for the bungalow, I put everything back in place on Sundays. You can understand why we—why I bring my own towels and linens.”
More easily than I could understand why she wanted my husband. … redneck tantrum still rang in my ears. Lordy, I was tempted to give her a first-hand experience with one. …I resisted. “Sugar, Brad and I fit together no better than a hobbled harness in need of grease. It’s his place too.”
“Well, thank you, Lilly.” She …looked through the tree house window. “…a real getaway out here. The Hamptons can be as much of a pressure cooker as the city. This is a chance for us to unwind.”
Maybe. For now she was still stiff as line dried January overalls.
Lilly Covington, The Chick Palace
A lakeside romp fueled by friendship, family,
and one old flame not averse to once again testing the waters.