The Quirk Read Online Free

moved on to Lola.
    “How nice of you to ask me, darling.” Her voice was as he remembered it, light and detached, with a ring of no-nonsense honesty.
    Lola pawed at her vaguely as they embraced and then hitched herself around toward Rod. “You two know each other. Where’s my drink, young man? Nicole will have Dubonnet.”
    Rod bowed briefly, trying to make eye contact again, but Nicole gave him only a friendly but impersonal smile before turning her back on him and seating herself. Rod resumed his bartending. Every detail of her was marked in his mind. She was dressed simply, as she had been the other night, not poorly but without the rich adornment of Germaine or old Lola. She wore her pale hair in an elaborate, rather old-fashioned way, drawn up behind and woven into an intricate knot She wore lipstick on her delicate French mouth, but she needed no makeup on her large wide-set eyes or the well-shaped brows. She was built lightly, delicately, but suggested strength. He was more aware than he had been at the crowded party of how easy it would be to fall for her. An idea Lola had planted in his mind that he wouldn’t allow to take root. He had neither the time nor the money to fall for anybody.
    He handed around drinks and took a fresh one for himself and resumed his seat. He waited for them to get through their first rush of gossip while be observed Nicole covertly, absorbing brief sharp pictures of the tilt of her head, the long graceful line of her neck, the flutter of an exquisite hand as she made a point. He wondered if he would be the only man and suspected that he was. He was beginning to grasp the point of this slightly odd gathering of three generations of females. Lola, the old madam, was displaying her wares–Germaine for an uninhibited but casual roll in the hay, Nicole for more serious stuff. She was the sort a man would want to marry. He knew vaguely that the three were related, but he had the feeling that Nicole had opted out of their world. She didn’t join in the gossip with their zest and flippancy, and at times her smile became withdrawn and faintly disapproving. It put her on his side.
    As he listened to the lightning flow of their French, he was content to be left out of the conversation. His own French was serviceable enough, but he was sure it would sound barbaric here. Lola suddenly switched to English.
    “Enough of this female gabble,” she said readily. She addressed Nicole: “Are you aware that this superbly handsome young man is also a very important painter?”
    “We’re cousins too,” Germaine contributed briskly. “His Aunt Irene–is that right?–yes, your Aunt Irene married the brother of one of my husbands.”
    “An American painter? Are there any? Nicole asked innocently.
    He recoiled from it as if an ally had suddenly gone over to the enemy. Maybe her English wasn’t very good; she had a pronounced and charming accent.
    “Don’t you know American painting?” he asked, giving her the benefit of the doubt.
    “I don’t suppose I do. Where would I see any?”
    “God, you people are provincial about painting,” he retorted with a bluntness he would never have dreamed possible a year ago. He had sworn never to be mealymouthed or apologetic about his vocation. He was glad he had settled on a tie and an expensive dark suit. It made his tone more socially acceptable. “Nothing good is being done here anymore, but you refuse to look anywhere else,” he added impatiently.
    “That’s telling ’em,” Lola crowed like a spectator at a sports event.
    Nicole was really looking at him now, her eyes widening into his with a depth almost as palpable as tears. For a giddy instant she seemed to be completely open to him. Then she shrugged and resumed her studiedly distant manner.
    “You’re probably right,” she said. “We have created so much and for so long that we no longer believe that is will save us. The Americans perhaps take it more seriously.”
    “If art is serious,