The Black Marble Read Online Free Page A

than his. She paid him for his share in the home and furnishings bought as community property. No alimony. She didn’t need or want his money. Her mother was hale and hearty then. Madeline didn’t make a fuss and Mason said he appreciated it. He said she was a perfect lady.
    Now there was the new Mrs. Mason Whitfield living in San Marino. He hadn’t the decency to give up his Annandale Country Club membership. So how does one address invitations? Mrs. Madeline Dills Whitfield? The return of her names was … awkward. As awkward as having single ladies at dinner parties. How does one seat them? And the clubs where single ladies were never meant to be? It wasn’t awkward, it was horrible.
    Thank God for Marian Milford’s homosexual brother, Lance. He danced beautifully, had impeccable manners, and for ten years had eased dinner problems in Old Pasadena society by escorting half the widows and divorcées in town to social and charitable gatherings. Old Pasadena and San Marino had an exceedingly low divorce rate thanks to the continuity and tradition of society. And thanks to disapproving parents who structured wills and trusts which pauperized many a misbehaving daughter who opted to take the bit in her teeth like less constant, free-spirited sisters over the hill, on the west side.

    The Dalmanes and Chivas were interacting. Madeline was about to drift asleep when Victoria sat up.
    â€œOh, no, Vickie!” Madeline groaned. “Not now. I’m dead!”
    But Vickie yawned and stretched languorously and got out of bed. Madeline moaned, got up reeling, and stood naked in the moonlight, reviving when she threw open the French doors to the cold January air.
    Suddenly she hoped that someone, anyone—man or woman—would see her through the rain and white oak trees and Canary Island pines. Perhaps someone higher up San Rafael, in a hillside mansion, a gardener, a maid, anyone. She was dizzy, yet she stood defiantly naked under a leering moon, convinced that if someone could see her through the wall of camellias that someone would be aroused by her naked body.
    Then she looked down into the valley and saw that the rain had cleared the smog from the Rose Bowl. It would be an ugly carnival on Sunday when Super Bowl XI hit Pasadena, but she and Vickie would be across town winning the Beverly Hills Winter Show. She and Vickie would be basking in attention, glory, celebrity.
    Vickie looked at Madeline for a moment, then turned and trotted over to an American Beauty. She squatted beside a puddle of fallen rose petals and emptied her bladder. Then she shook herself, scampered across the lawn, in through the French doors, and leaped up onto the bed.
    The Dalmanes and Chivas turned Madeline’s legs gelatinous. She closed the doors and threw herself into bed, hardly noticing the crumbs of mud and garden mulch on the pearly sheets.
    â€œYou’re impossible, Vickie,” she scolded. “Impossible!” Then she stroked Vickie’s neck once, twice, and her hand fell limp.
    Madeline had a wonderful dream that night. Vickie won best in show, easily earning the last of fifteen major points she needed to become a champion. And then she went on to Madison Square Garden to win. She became the unquestioned grand champion—the finest miniature schnauzer in America.
    Vickie grunted uncomfortably for a moment. She growled and squirmed until she managed a puffy fart. Then another. Now she sighed happily and licked Madeline’s face. Then she snuggled, and snored, and slept as deeply as her drugged mistress.

3
    The Terrier King
    The natural mascara around the eyes of the Dandie Dinmont was the blackest he had ever seen.
    â€œLook at those saucers,” he said, admiring their roundness. Then he turned to the girl, looked at her breasts and grinned. “Your saucers are beautiful too.”
    The girl feigned naïveté and said, “Not as pretty as the Dandie’s, Mr.