A Stiff Critique Read online

  Travis leapt from his seat. “Don’t you talk to Mave that way!” he shouted. “Or I’ll—”

  - Two -

  “Or, you’ll what?” Slade cut in. He rose from his chair, dumbbell in hand and squinted his close-set eyes. “Tell me how politically incorrect my actions are?”

  Travis’s mouth opened and disjointed words came sputtering out. “You—can’t—Mave—”

  Carrie stood then too. She placed her small, round body between the two men and spread her arms like an umpire.

  “You two cut it out right now,” she ordered, her voice low and firm. “Both of you.”

  The order wasn’t up to her usual formal standard of speech, but it did the trick. Both men glared for a moment longer, then lowered their eyes simultaneously and returned to their respective seats.

  Carrie sat back down, muttering to herself and shaking her head. I caught “ye gods and goddesses” and “damn fools,” but none of the other words in between. It was probably just as well, because Mave was talking at the same time.

  “…is all right, Travis,” she was assuring the younger man. She leaned back against the cushions of the sofa and let out a braying laugh. “An old warhorse like me has heard plenty worse, let me tell you. Good golly, seems to me—”

  “Well, this has been oodles and oodles of fun,” Nan interrupted. “But I for one need a break.” She stood and stretched, her fingers laced behind her head as she arched her back. It was quite a sight. Even Travis seemed to forget he was mad at Slade as he turned to stare at her.

  Once Nan had everyone’s attention, she dropped her arms and asked, “Can we eat now?”

  So we ate. Food was potluck and spread out on a long wooden table in the kitchen. There was lots of it and it all looked good. And better yet, most of it was recognizably vegetarian. I helped myself to a pasta salad studded with broccoli and almonds, green salad, French bread, marinated asparagus and Carrie’s homemade carrot muffins, which, on the way over, she had assured me were vegetarian. Then I added a scoop of my own Thai-style noodles. The other dishes might have been free of animal products too, but I was suspicious of the little brown chunks in one and the brown broth in the other, so I left them alone and carried my full plate back to the living room to join the others.

  Travis was shoveling food into his face as fast as he could swallow, looking a little less gorgeous than usual as he did, but not much. In fact, everyone seemed to be packing it in. Well, not everyone. Donna had spilled something on her blouse and was busily shredding a paper napkin on it in an effort to scrub it away. Joyce was prodding bits of food with her fork but had yet to raise that fork to her mouth. And Vicky, whose emaciated body looked like it could use the food more than the rest of our bodies put together, was ignoring her own plate with its small serving of green salad to watch everyone else eat.

  I opened my mouth to ask why she wasn’t eating, then realized it was none of my business. Anyway, I had a better use for my mouth. I was hungry. I broke off a piece of carrot muffin. The tantalizing scent of oranges and cloves wafted up to my nose.

  “Well, Kate,” Mave said just as I was about to stuff the piece in my mouth. “Tell us about yourself.”

  My stomach clenched. I set the untasted piece of muffin back on my plate unhappily.

  “Oh, I own a gag-gift company, Jest Gifts—”

  “Gag gifts?” Her gray eyebrows shot up above the violet rims of her glasses. “Holy gee, do you mean goofy things like whoopee cushions and joy buzzers?”

  “Not exactly,” I said, wriggling uncomfortably in my wooden chair. “I design and sell specialty items for different professionals—”

  “Items such as shark mugs for attorneys,” Carrie put in, her dark freckled face lighting up in a smile.

  “And shark earrings,” I added.

  “Shark earrings?” Carrie demanded. “I wasn’t aware you were making earrings now. You’ve been holding out on me, girl. I will expect a pair of your best sharks at your earliest convenience.” She lowered her voice and winked. “If not sooner.”

  “I’m doing earrings for all the professionals,” I went on, encouraged by her enthusiasm. “Toothbrushes for dentists, shrunken heads for therapists. That kind of thing. And I’m starting a whole new line of computer-nerd gifts—”

  “Do you really make a living this way?” Slade asked. The sneer in his voice matched the one on his face.

  So much for encouragement. I nodded and broke off another piece of muffin, hoping my face hadn’t turned too red.

  “So, do you make good money?” Nan probed. She leaned forward, her blond pageboy swinging gracefully as she moved.

  “Well, not really good,” I admitted. “After I get through paying manufacturing costs and employee salaries, there isn’t a whole lot left. But it’s enough for me to live on.”

  “You’d better stick to selling real estate,” Slade advised Nan with yet another sneer. I wasn’t sure if that sneer was for me or for Nan.

  “Your business must be incredibly fun,” Donna piped up. She had shreds of white napkin all over her purple blouse, but at least she was smiling instead of sneering. “And creative too. I mean, thinking up designs for all those shark earrings and stuff. You must have a real gift.”

  I stared at her for a moment, wondering if she was teasing, then decided she wasn’t.

  “It is fun—”

  “Are you doing social satire?” Travis asked through a mouthful of food. His brown eyes burned into mine for a long moment.

  “Well…” I hesitated. I had certainly never thought of my business that way before.

  “Of course, she’s doing social satire,” Carrie answered for me. “How can you poke fun at attorneys and not be doing social satire?” She laughed, then said more seriously, “Kate’s also a beginning writer.”

  “So, what sorts of things do you write, Kate?” Mave asked.

  I tried to take a deep breath, but my chest felt too tight. I hated to lie, but I wasn’t willing to admit to writing poems right then and there, either.

  “Kate writes short stories,” Carrie lied for me. My chest loosened. Then she added, “And poetry.”

  Poetry? My pulse began to pound in my ears. Why the hell had she said poetry? I’d told her not to—Then I tried to remember. I knew I’d told her to say I wrote short stories, but had I specifically instructed her not to mention poetry?

  “A poet!” Mave exclaimed before I could remember. “Well, bully for you, Kate. Not enough good poets around these days. How long you been writing?”

  “Not long,” I mumbled, looking down at the food on my plate. It didn’t look delicious to me anymore.

  “‘There is a pleasure in poetic pains which only poets know,’“ she quoted. She closed her eyes and sighed, before adding, “William Cowper.”

  “Oh, great,” I said. I pulled my mouth into a smile in lieu of further follow-up. I had no idea what else to say.

  The silence grew longer. And longer. Strangely enough, it was Slade who finally rescued me.

  “Why does everyone bring vegetarian food?” he demanded. “A man needs red meat, red wine and red-blooded women.” He turned to Mave. “Bet you don’t know who said that,” he challenged her.

  She wrinkled her already wrinkled brow a little further for a moment, then gave up.

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Me,” he announced, then hooted with laughter.

  Nan was the only one who laughed with him. Mave chuckled a little, but no one else seemed to think Slade was very funny.

  “What’s this?” he said, once he’d finished hooting. He speared one of the suspicious-looking brown chunks on his fork. “Tofu?”

  “Seitan,” Joyce murmured.

  “What the hell is seitan?” he demanded.

  “A meat substitute made from wheat gluten—” Joyce began.

  Slade put up his hand. “No, don’t tell me. Why you people seem to think there is anything inherently appealing in this garbage is beyond me…”

&
nbsp; He complained about the food for a good ten minutes more, both generally and specifically, with insults for each individual dish. At least his tirade gave me a chance to sample the dishes he was criticizing.

  “Maybe if the food was better,” he finished up, “Vicky might consider eating it.”

  Vicky clutched her plate of green salad so hard that the veins stood out on her thin arms. But she didn’t say anything. I wasn’t too surprised, though. I had yet to hear her utter a word.

  “Speaking of better food,” Nan said. “What’s for dessert?”

  “Coconut-honey-date bars,” said Russell Wu, his mild, soothing voice a welcome change from Slade Skinner’s loud haranguing one.

  The coconut-honey-date bars were good, too. Even Slade didn’t criticize them. Once they were gone, Nan licked the last crumbs from her fingertips and got up from her chair.

  “Past four o’clock, time to toddle on home,” she said, reaching for her purse. “A friend and I are going to that fabulous new Japanese place on Morton for dinner tonight. And I have to get up hideously early tomorrow to sell some red-hot real estate.”

  One by one, everyone began to stand then, shuffling, stretching and reaching for belongings. Travis and Donna turned toward the kitchen.

  “The next group meeting will be at my house on Saturday afternoon,” Carrie told us before anyone could leave the room. “We will be reviewing Slade’s and Donna’s manuscripts. Everyone should have received copies at the last meeting.” She looked around. No one contradicted her. “And if each of you would please prepare to tell Kate a little about your own work at the next meeting, it would be appreciated.”

  I watched people nodding, wondering if I should speak up. I wasn’t at all sure I was actually coming to the next meeting, but I couldn’t think of a polite way to say so. And then it was too late. Everyone was moving and talking again.

  “Mave, I brought you those pamphlets from the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals,” Travis said as he trailed the older woman into the kitchen.

  “Need a ride?” Russell asked Joyce.

  “No, I’ll take the bus,” she answered.

  “You’ll be wanting a copy of my manuscript,” a voice whispered, very close behind me.

  I jumped and turned to see Slade, less than a foot away, smiling down at me. He shoved a sheaf of white paper in my direction. I caught it as it connected with my chest.

  “Cool Fallout” he said with a wink.

  “What?” I said back.

  “Cool Fallout, it’s my newest manuscript. Not many people get to see it in this form, Kate. You’ll enjoy it. See how a real writer works.”

  “Oh, thanks.” I turned to look for Carrie.

  “What are you doing tonight?” he asked.

  “Doing?” I repeated, looking back at him. The smile was still on his weasely face. The man wasn’t asking me out, was he?

  “Know a great place for a late dinner,” he said. God, he was asking me out. I wouldn’t have thought short, dark and A-line would be his type. “California cuisine—”

  “I have to work tonight,” I cut in.

  “But you’re your own boss—”

  “We’re the worse kind,” I assured him, looking around for Carrie in earnest now.

  She came striding over from the direction of the kitchen, Tupperware in hand. And I was glad to see her. But before we could leave, Slade asked her out to dinner. Right in front of me. And he kept on talking after Carrie had politely refused his offer.

  “I had a little talk with my agent about your sci-fi novel,” he told her. “She might be interested in shopping it around. I thought we could talk about it over dinner.”

  I waited for Carrie to tell him off. But she didn’t.

  “Perhaps, since everyone else is gone, Kate and I could stay a little longer. Then you and I could discuss the idea,” she suggested quietly.

  The hair on the back of my neck prickled. Why was she so compliant? This wasn’t Carrie.

  “Sorry,” Slade told her, not looking sorry at all. “You can’t stay. I’ve got a secret meeting at five. It’s with someone in the group. Wouldn’t you like to know who?”

  “It wouldn’t be a secret then, would it?” Carrie replied sharply.

  Finally, the smile left Slade’s face.

  “But I do appreciate the trouble you have taken to speak to your agent on my behalf,” Carrie backpedaled quickly. I could tell by the way her fingers were wiggling what an effort the courteous words were for her. “Perhaps I could visit for a short time after your other meeting is over.”

  “Come back at six-thirty,” Slade ordered. He was smiling again.

  “Ye gods and goddesses, that man is arrogant,” Carrie fumed as she pulled away from the curb into the wide, tree-lined street.

  Slade Skinner was lucky enough to live in Hutton, the most expensive town in Marin County. And that’s saying a lot. Hutton’s streets were not only wide and tree-lined, they were quiet. I couldn’t see another car or person in either direction. Not even a cat or a dog.

  “Sometimes I find it very difficult to treat Slade as a fellow human being,” Carrie went on. “Sometimes I wonder if he is a fellow human being. Do you believe the man actually writes in red ink with a quill-tipped pen? From a crystal ink well, no less?”

  “Then why did you agree to see him?” I demanded as I snapped on my seat belt.

  “His agent is Hildegarde Tucker,” Carrie answered in a whisper.

  “And?”

  “Hildegarde Tucker is one of the best agents in New York. If she agrees to represent me, I’ll probably have a real career in writing. If not…” She took one hand off the steering wheel and waved it dismissively.

  “Can this woman really make such a big difference in your career?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Carrie answered simply.

  She drove a few more scenic blocks in silence, then added, “Hildegarde Tucker only represents the best writers. And the best-selling ones. Kate, it could mean everything.”

  I looked at her round, freckled face. Her brows were puckered into an expression that looked serious now, even desperate. My chest ached as I saw that expression. I wanted to tell her that it didn’t matter who Slade’s agent was. That she shouldn’t kowtow to him. That she would do just fine on her own. But I didn’t really know any of that.

  “Is Slade a good writer?” I asked instead.

  “Yes, he is. Actually he is a very good writer. His thrillers are literally thrilling, real page-turners. Cool Fallout is an extremely well-crafted and engrossing novel. But Slade himself—” She sighed and shrugged in one elegant gesture.

  “If he’s such a big-deal writer,” I demanded, “then why’s he in the critique group?”

  “I believe he’s lonely,” Carrie answered after a moment’s thought. “I would guess that he doesn’t have very many friends, if any. And he is always on the lookout for women.” She rolled her eyes. “Slade Skinner is such a Lothario. Sometimes I think his chief interest in our writers’ group is to seduce its members. He’s already seduced Nan. And he isn’t interested in men. Or anyone over fifty. So that leaves Joyce, Donna, Vicky and myself. And he thinks Vicky is too thin.”

  “Vicky is too thin,” I put in.

  “Well, I’m certainly not too thin,” Carrie said with a smile. “I almost wish that I were. That damn fool man asks me to have dinner with him every time I see him. And each time I say no, he acts completely surprised—completely astounded— that I don’t want that kind of relationship with him.” She waved a hand. “If I were going to be in a relationship, it wouldn’t be with Slade Skinner. And I haven’t been in a relationship for years, anyway. My kids keep telling me to get a life.”

  “How are your kids?” I asked on cue. I was tired of talking about Slade Skinner.

  “They’re doing well.” Her deep voice grew warm and relaxed. Even her hands seemed to relax on the wheel as she pulled onto the highway. “Thank the divine powers that be, Cyril Junior only has two
more years of school. Then I’m free from the supporting role of Bank of Mom.”

  “Congratulations,” I said.

  “Thank you, Ms. Jasper.” She flashed me a smile. Then her face grew serious again. “Kate, do you suppose you could come with me to Slade’s tonight?”

  “Well…” I considered the idea. “It might be a little weird. I already told him I was busy working tonight.”

  “Never mind,” she murmured.

  “Hold on,” I told her. “I’m not saying no. I just have to think of some excuse—”

  “Perhaps you could pretend you left the casserole dish behind that you brought your noodles in?”

  “Damn, I did leave my casserole dish!”

  It took us less than two minutes to come up with a plan. I would drive back to Hutton in time to reach Slade’s at six-forty, looking for my Corning Ware. Carrie assured me she couldn’t get in too much trouble in ten minutes. Then I’d sit in on her discussion with Slade. Afterwards, Carrie and I would go out to dinner. Her treat, she insisted. Once that was settled, she asked after Wayne, a fond smile gentling her face.

  I was pretty sure that fondness was as much for Wayne as it was for myself. Carrie was one of the few people I knew who was able to instantly engage my shy significant other in conversation. Extended conversation. The last time Carrie had visited us, she and Wayne had discussed the relationship of body chemistry, self-determination, virtue, angst, prescription drugs and reincarnation until two in the morning. I had lost the thread somewhere around midnight.

  “Wayne’s fine,” I told her. “He’s visiting with his uncle for a couple of weeks. He wants to work on some of his ‘childhood issues’ before we get married.”

  “But I thought he was eager to marry you,” Carrie objected.

  “Now he thinks he’s unworthy,” I told her. “You know Wayne.” I leaned back in my seat, seeing his kind, homely face in my mind’s eye. And his muscular body. I let out an involuntary sigh, then sat up straight again. “Now that I’ve finally agreed to marry him, he’s going through these fits of self-consciousness and worthlessness.”

  “And you?”

  “I love him more than ever,” I admitted. I could feel my face redden as I said it, much as I told myself that love was nothing to be embarrassed about. But after Nan’s reading—