IN WHICH MY LITERARY LION, ATTICUS, POUNCES.
Gregory Peck look-alike Atticus — mid-sixties and still smokin’ hot — had held my foot, and my shoe, hostage. We’d both resumed writing — he with one hand — and were in a contest to see who could be more nonchalant. I was starting to wonder if I’d be leaving the library with one high heel, when the bell sounded announcing the library closing. Atticus finally let go of my foot.
As writers around us gathered their things to leave, he leaned across to me with that big shit eating grin of his.
“I won’t give you your shoe back unless you promise to wear it with me tonight. I’m taking you to the gala fundraiser for the New York Public Library.”
“I can’t promise,” I said, without missing a beat, “because that shoe will never do justice to what I’m planning to wear.”
Atticus raised an eyebrow and nodded approvingly. He opened his briefcase and handed me the shoe.
“Knock yourself out,” he said, “the car will call for you at nine.”
I handed him my card, one of my gorgeous wedding invitation-quality embossed cards that was always perfect in just this kind of situation.
I dashed home to shower, then to my fabulous old-school hairdresser, the one who conjures French twists, beehives, big hair, bedheads, and braids, depending on my mood. He French- braided on the sides, ending with a braided chignon at the nape of my neck. Very Grace Kelly.
At nine, I stepped into the Escalade, my Black Glama mink draped over my shoulders. The long, black bias-cut satin dress hugged me as well as any Harlow wore, the plunging back showing off my only jewelry, long strands of pearls worn to the back. The dress was so revealing, I didn’t dare wear underwear.
All that was supporting me, in fact, was my gym membership.
Yours truly,
