“I’m glad you’re not filthy rich,” she said.
“I’m not glad,” he replied. “I’ve got nothing at all against filthy rich. My father, God rest his soul, would be deeply ashamed of my attitude.”
“Your father the Communist?”
“Father and mother; they met at a Party meeting. They were idealistic; they had both broken with their families in New England and had been through a depression.”
“Your polish must have come from them.”
“Unlike some of their colleagues in the Party, they had abandoned a lifestyle, but not the manners acquired therefrom.”
“Good for them.”
“You would have liked my mother.”
“I love her work. How about your father?”
“He’d have been deeply suspicious of you.”
“Why?”
“He knew class when he saw it, and he wanted to live in a classless society.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
She went to the oven, removed an iron pot, and set it on a small table in the living room that had been carefully set. “Open another bottle of wine, will you? It’s right there on the kitchen counter.”
Stone found a corkscrew, opened the bottle, and took it to the table.
She poured them another glass of wine and raised hers. “Bon appétit.”
“Bon appétit.”
They sat among the ruins of dinner, sipping coffee.
“That was wonderful,” he said.
“Thanks; if you only cook half a dozen things, they have to be wonderful.”
“Tell me about this guy you just broke up with.”
She looked into her wineglass. “I’m embarrassed. Why do you want to know?”
“I just want to know where you are and how you got there. It seems to have become important to me.”
“I’m still embarrassed. He’s younger than I am.”
“How much younger?”
“A couple of years.”
“Not so bad; lots of men date women a lot younger.”
“It’s not the same for a woman.”
“Why not?”