Of course there were dangers in that course of action. Every suburb and exurb had its quota of female alcoholics, lonely wives who searched for companionship in the bottom of bottles. Cheshire Point could boast of half a dozen women in that leaky canoe, and Elly didn’t want to wind up sharing their boat without a paddle.
But all this was ridiculous. She was only visiting a friend and drinking a cup of Irish coffee — or did you call it Scotch coffee when you used Scotch instead of Irish whisky? Well, whatever you called it, that was all she was doing. And for her to worry about alcoholism was about as nutty as you could get. She had better things to worry about, things like that encyclopedia-peddling college boy, things like Rudy Gerber, things like all the men who came to her door and wound up in her bed.
That sort of thing.
“What we both need,” Maggie was saying, “is a shopping trip. We could take a late train into New York, right after you get Pam on her way to school and spend the day on Fifth Avenue. We’d be back in time for you to pick up your darling daughter and get home to cook dinner.”
“Or Pam could go over to a friend’s house after school. That would save an hour or two.”
“It’s what we both need,” Maggie said. “How long has it been since you went into the city to shop?”
“Too long. I usually shop at Alexander’s, the upper Westchester branch. It’s convenient.”
“Very convenient.”
“Very convenient. But somehow Alexander’s isn’t the same as Fifth Avenue, Ell.”
“Cheshire Point isn’t the same as Manhattan.”
Maggie smiled. “You just said a mouthful. I miss New York, Ell. The air is better and the country is healthy as hell, and a house is more fun than an apartment, but I miss New York.”
“I do, too. I was born there.”
“Let’s go, then. On Monday. We’ll spend our husbands into the poorhouse and have lunch at the top of the Tishman Building and have an all-around ball. Is it a date?”
“It’s a date,” Elly said.
“More coffee? Your cup’s empty.”
“It must have a hole in it. Easy on the Scotch, huh?”
“Sure.”
They were midway through their second cups of coffee when Maggie raised her arms over her head and stretched, her breasts jutting out against the thin white cloth of her blouse. “I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I think it’s hot as hell in here.”
“It is a little warm.”
“I’d turn on the air-conditioner, except there isn’t one. If I were alone I’d take my blouse off.”
“Well, go ahead.”
Maggie grinned. “Sure you don’t mind? After all, it’s just us girls here. But I don’t want to behave like an exhibitionist.”
“Go ahead,” Elly said. “I don’t mind.”
She tried not to look at Maggie as the redhaired girl unbuttoned her white blouse and drew it back over her shoulders. But something forced her to watch. She was vaguely uncomfortable without knowing quite why. Maggie took off the blouse and set it beside her on the long low couch. Her bra was black and lacy, and she looked down at it and giggled softly.
“My one gross affectation,” she said. “I have a weakness for sexy underwear. I’m wearing a pair of peekaboo panties, believe it or not. Sexy as hell.”
Elly wanted to look away. She couldn’t. Maggie, she noticed, had perfect breasts, much larger than her own but firm with no tendency to sag or droop. And the black lacy bra was sexy; there was no question about it. But, as Maggie had said, it was just us girls here. Why should she react to Maggie’s near-nudity?
“That’s more like it, Ell. I’d take the bra off too, but this isn’t a strip show, is it? God, it’s nice to get air on my skin. Why don’t you pull that sweater over your head and relax?”
“Well—”
“Go on. It’s ten degrees cooler, woman. Try it.”
Why not, she thought. She pulled her yellow sweater up over her head and put it beside her on the chair. Only then did she remember that she had not taken the trouble to wear a bra. She blushed a deep red.
“Well,” Maggie said. “I guess this is a strip show.”
“I’m... I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing to be sorry about, sweetie.”
“I just forget to bother with a bra some of the time.”
“I can see why. You don’t need one. You’ve got a knockout figure, Elly.”
“Thank you.” Why did the compliment make her feel funny? She was being silly today. Maybe it was the Scotch in the coffee; she wasn’t used to drinking in the afternoon.
“If you can wave your breasts around,” Maggie went on, “I won’t bother with false modesty. I’ll take my bra off and relax.”
She slipped her hand around her back, struggled with the catch on the brassiere. “Damn,” she said. “Give me a hand, will you, sweetie? I’m all thumbs today.”
A little shaky, she went to Maggie and opened her bra for her. Her hands were moist with perspiration, and she shivered slightly when her fingers brushed the silky skin of Maggie’s back. But Maggie didn’t appear to notice. She thanked her, took off the bra, and set it aside.
“Now,” she said, “we are a pair of nudists. Fun?”
“Fun,” Ellie agreed. And her eyes went automatically to Maggie’s breasts. They were beautiful, simply beautiful. Very large, very creamy, with ruby tips for nipples. But why on earth should she want to look at another girl’s breasts? She had breasts of her own, even if they weren’t as large as Maggie’s. She could just look in the mirror if she wanted.
“You’re lovely,” Maggie said. “Ted’s a lucky guy.”
Sure, she thought. Lucky he’s got a cheating wife.
“You’re not bad yourself,” she answered. “Dave’s fairly fortunate himself.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Of course.”
Maggie smiled gently. “You’re sweet, Ell. You’re sweet.”
Elly left in time to pick up Pam at school. She felt moderately light-headed from the Scotch, but hardly under the influence. And, back under her own roof, she felt faintly disturbed about her own reactions to Maggie’s bare breasts. God, she didn’t have the hots for Maggie now, did she? That would be just a little too much. It was bad enough to lay for every man in the area without making passes at women, for the love of God. She might be a nymphomaniac, but she sure as shooting was not a lesbian to boot.
She laughed at herself. She was being silly now. Maggie was a friend, a very good friend, and she certainly had no sexual designs on the poor girl. Monday they would go into New York on a shopping spree, and they would have a good time, and their friendship would grow.
She looked forward to Monday.
11
As Howard Haskell had once remarked to Nan, the best thing about Cheshire Point was that you only spent a limited amount of time there during the day. He was thinking from the male point of view, of course, and he was discounting the weekends. On Saturday and Sunday, the ad men and PR men and television men of Cheshire Point let the 8:03 cannonball into Grand Central without them. They had the weekend to spend with families and friends at leisure.
It was hell.
There is no point in examining this particular weekend in Cheshire Point under a microscope, or even through a pair of high-powered binoculars. It was a very normal everyweek weekend at the Point, which is to say that it was slightly less than bearable for all concerned. The natives of the Point, free from their New York jobs and the commuting rat-race for two days, were hell-bent upon proving to themselves that living in the country was relaxed and happy and, above all, fun.