Enchanted August by Brenda Bowen Page B

food in the fridge and the freezer so you might not even need to get real groceries till I get back.”
    â€œI
am
capable,” Fred had said.
    â€œWatch me go up the stairs!” Ben had shouted.
Stay-ohs.
Should she stay and start him on speech therapy?
    â€œJust give me one more hug.” She’d kissed the top of his head fiercely. “I love you, sweetie Ben. You are a good, good boy.”
    â€œWhere’s my yogurt?”
    â€œDaddy will get yogurt right now, lovie. You’ll get him a YoKids, right? And Bea can have some too if she’ll eat it. I think she’s only eating strawberry banana this week—” She’d paused, her resolve wavering. She could run up and get the yogurt and then—
    â€œYou should go if you’re going.” Fred had not moved to kiss her good-bye. So she kissed him.
    â€œI’m going, I’m going,” she’d said. She headed down the stoop. “Love you guys,” she’d told them all. Then she got into the driver’s seat and pulled out to pick up Lottie.
    Thinking about Brooklyn was not doing her any good. Rose gathered up her bag and the car keys. She went into the kitchen to check the food supplies. She took a quick scan and saw that other than the items in the fridge, there was nothing to eat but popcorn and spaghetti. She made a mental grocery list, wondered where she’d find a coffeemaker for real coffee, checked the ferry schedule, saw that she could make the next one if she hurried, and ran out the door to the dock.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    B everly had brought the coffeemaker up to his room and set it to brew upon his usual waking time, ten thirty, but the blasted sun had risen so early he’d been up for ages and drunk the entire pot before ten.
    He wrapped his cashmere dressing gown around his generous frame, more generous now that Possum had gone. It amused him that the robe—a gift from Gorsch—was made by Abercrombie & Fitch, once such a bastion of heterosexual rectitude, now advertised with gay soft porn. How times had changed. Gorsch and he could be married these days, if Gorsch had lasted. What kind of wedding would we have had? The blue-blazer “let’s pass as real men” style they’d affected for so long? Or a drag queen blowout?
    Beverly thought back to his countless High Teas in the Pines. No blue blazers there, God knows, even twenty years ago. Gorsch worked in the city most weekends but always provided a summer house for Beverly and Possum at the beach. Beverly didn’t think too hard about what Gorsch got up to in the city, and Gorsch in turn drew a veil over what went on in the Pines. The place Gorsch rented was a shack, really, and in those days shacks were truly shacks. Back then, there was still more than enough rough trade on the beach to take the edge off. Beverly was lucky to have gotten away with so much.
    He opened up his Vuitton valise and looked a bit sheepishly at the contents. Framed photos of Possum filled it to the brim. There was Possum as a kitten, Possum in L.A., Possum at the Grammys, Possum old and mean. Gorsch was in the background of almost all of them. Dear, sweet Gorsch.
    Each frame was a testament to its own era: plastic and tacky in the early years; sterling at the end. Beverly picked out the first one, his favorite—he and Possum together on the terrace of the Eighty-third Street place—and put it on the painted wooden dresser on the side wall. It would take till dinner, at least, to arrange them all.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    Rose spotted Lottie upstairs on the ferry when she herself jumped on. She considered not climbing the short ladder stairs to see her, but then she thought better of it. Having Lottie for company at the grocery store would not be so bad.
    â€œI was just going over for the ride,” said Lottie. “But now I can shop with you. There’s a hat party on the twentieth. I said we’d bring