The Polka Dot Nude by Joan Smith

wedding presents that people had sent. I told her the book was going fine, and no, I wasn’t lonesome. There was a terrific guy next door. His name was Simcoe, I said. Eddie Simcoe. He was chasing after me so hard I couldn’t get any work done.
    “Jerome called,” she said, as a crumb. Jerome Hespeler, literally the boy next door. A dear, sweet man, with less sex appeal in his entire body than Brad had in his little finger. He must have noticed my green complexion at the wedding. I’d give Jerome a call when I got back to New York. Safe, sexless men were beginning to seem a good idea.
     

CHAPTER 6
     
    June 21, the first day of summer, and the longest day of the year. Why did I have to make iteven longer by waking up at seven o’clock sharp? It was the crows yammering in the pine trees that caused it. Crickets chirping all night and crows all day—how was a person supposed to get any sleep? There was no background noise to mitigate the animal sounds either, no comfortable roar of traffic, no calming wail of a police or ambulance siren. I was definitely unbalanced to have come to this godforsaken spot. Still groggy, I padded into the kitchen to make coffee and let it perk while I showered and sorted out my day. Rosalie’s funeral was this afternoon at three; that’d be six eastern time. It should be on the late news.
    By seven-thirty I was at my typewriter, not knowing whether I was writing a high-class biography with a theme, or a poor imitation of Hume Mason quickie. Whatever else it was, it had to be fast, so I banged away, mindless of the nuances of style, mood, and tone; just getting down the facts, ma’am.
    At eight there was a tap at the door. Probably Simcoe coming to tell me I was typing too loud, disturbing the wife’s vigil at the window. A scowl deepened to a glower when I pull the door open on Brad O’Malley. He was resplendent in a blue-and-white striped seersucker suit, all freshly shaved and combed, and smelling of whatever expensive scent he used.
    “Whatever you want, the answer is no,” I said baldly, and slammed the door. Or tried to.
    He got the toe of his Gucci in it and pulled it open again before the lock caught. “You better wait to hear what I’ve got to say. It’s not a request. I’m leaving.”
    “Good! If I’d had one wish, that would be it.” My exclamation was loud and clear, and totally insincere. I felt as though the bottom was falling out of my stomach.
    “Don’t hire a band yet. I’ll be back,” he said grimly.
    My stomach began rising again. “You can’t win ‘em all.”
    “I tried to figure out what you were talking about, after you left yesterday. You think I’m Hume Mason, right?”
    “I know you’re Hume Mason, Mr. Mason. Maybe you’re Brad O’Malley too. I know if I wrote that kind of crap, I’d use an alias.”
    “Pen name is the word you’re looking for. Pseudonym would do. Alias has a whiff of criminality to it.”
    “Thanks for the lecture, Professor. I’ll stick to alias.”
    “Don’t you want to hear why I’m leaving?”
    “I never look a gift horse in the mouth.”
    “The reason I’m here is that I had a call from my wife last night. My son’s in the hospital. Fell out of a tree, broke his leg rather badly. I have to go and see him.” He examined me for traces of softening, and found instead a new rigidity.
    “You neglected to mention there’s a Mrs. Mason.”
    “We’ve been divorced for years,” he said, dismissing wife, child, and marriage with a wave of his hand.
    “I can believe that. The mystery is how you ever talked anyone into marrying you in the first place.” This speech was accompanied by a wrestling match, during which I succeeded in shoving him physically out the door.
    Once he was out, I went to the window to make sure he really left. He only took one of his Vuitton bags with him. With a quick glance at his Rolex, he hopped into his car and burned rubber.
    A wife yet! A son—details too trivial to mention. He