Right of Thirst Read Online Free

this because she told me so, as I stood with a glass of wine in the corner. She had been circling the room, and spotted me.
    â€œI’m Mary Spruance,” she said, advancing with her hand outstretched. “And you are…?”
    â€œChuck Anderson,” I replied.
    â€œDr. Anderson?”
    â€œI just started my internship.”
    â€œCongratulations,” she said, with enthusiasm. “What are you going to specialize in?”
    â€œCardiology, I hope.”
    â€œA cardiologist! Well, good for you. Where are you from?”
    I said that I was from Atlanta, Georgia.
    â€œAtlanta!” she said, as if the city evoked wonderful things in her mind. “I’ve never been there. Of course now I’m too old to travel. It tires me out.”
    I said that she didn’t look too old to me. I thanked her for the party, and I told her that her house was beautiful.
    â€œSo,” she said, looking me over with approval, taking a sip of wine. “Dr. Anderson, did you bring a date?”
    I said that I hadn’t.
    â€œWhy not?”
    I reddened. I said something about being new in town and not knowing anyone.
    She thought for a moment, studying me carefully.
    â€œThen why don’t you come with me,” she said, taking my arm. “This is why I really give these parties, you know,” she added, in a conspiratorial whisper. “I like young people. I’m tired of all these rich old farts. Even though I’m an old fart myself, I can remember when I wasn’t. That was much more fun, believe me.”
    When we reached the middle of the room, she stopped.
    â€œYou wait here,” she said. “Don’t move a muscle.”
    She laughed, and though it was early in the evening I realized that she was a little drunk.
    Â 
    Rachel had gray eyes and short black hair, tapered at the back, and brushed forward across her forehead toward her cheek. She seemed both dismayed and amused as she allowed herself to be led over to me, but she looked exactly as she must have intended nonetheless, a figure from the twenties, tall and languorous in her long blue dress, with a slender neck, and a glass of wine in her hand.
    â€œChuck, this is Rachel Adams, my art teacher,” Mrs. Spruance said firmly. “Rachel is a classically trained artist. She paints the most wonderful portraits. Rachel, this is Dr. Charles Anderson, the cardiologist.”
    She gave me a wink.
    â€œRachel, that’s a lovely dress,” she continued. “Where did you get it?”
    There were tiny black beads woven into the fabric. The beads caught the light, and the effect was shimmery—at first, the dress looked like ordinary blue cloth.
    â€œAt a thrift store.”
    â€œI had one exactly like it years ago. How much did you pay for it?”
    â€œTwenty dollars, I think.”
    â€œHa!” Mrs. Spruance said. “Good for you.”
    Then she patted me on the arm.
    â€œExcuse me,” she said. “I have to go cheer up that poor man over there.” She pointed to a severe elderly figure standing alone with his drink, staring moodily out through the windows toward the water.
    â€œHe’s so rich I have to invite him. He always comes, and he always does exactly what he’s doing now. Doesn’t he look absolutely miserable?”
    She laughed, then turned to face us.
    â€œYou two get to know each other,” she said. “It’s a lovely night, don’t you think?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I began, when she was gone. “She just grabbed me. You can go back to your friends if you want.”
    â€œWe have to talk a little,” Rachel replied. “Otherwise she’ll be offended.”
    She made a show of waving at a group of old ladies across the room who were studying us keenly. They laughed, and wavedback, but then one of the group said something to the others, and they all elaborately looked away.
    â€œThey’re my students,”