CHAPTER 4
Hydroplaning

A novella by Lynn Hamilton

"Thanks a lot, Edwina," said Veronica.

The first wave of admirers drifted over toward Veronica. They were Rangers , about 25 or younger. Edwina saw her friend clamp down on a wince and a rolling of the eyes.

Simultaneously, Margot dropped two more V-tonics on the bar next to the ones they had just started and snapped, "Compliments of the lust-struck. I'm sure they'll make themselves known."

They swivelled around on their stools.

"Well, thank you," said Veronica, who could rise, guardedly, to being a Southern Belle. No point in coming to Margot's and pretending to get drunk if you didn't intend to fully amuse yourself at the expense of your fellow humans.

Edwina eyed these specimens analytically. Their pathetic remnants of hair were both in the extremely fair to light brown range, emphasizing their brevity of life. Their faces were innocent of wrinkles. Both were victims of belated baby fat that promised to make a seamless transition into middle-aged paunch in the near future. The one who had steered them over directed his interest straight at Veronica. He seemed to be the leader. Most teams of courting humans had a leader, she had observed. Veronica was the leader in their sallies, if you could call this whim to be hit upon by impossible men "courtship."

"Are you Veronica Able?" he asked. He was marginally handsomer than his friend, though more poorly dressed, in a paisley shirt untucked into cotton shorts of a different paisley.

"Yes," said Veronica, flushing lightly. "Now, how did you know that?"

"The back cover of your book, Packing For the Trip: The First Volume."

Actually, the title was Packing For the Journey: The First Volume, but Veronica did not correct him. Men did not have to be right in the south.

"Well, imagine your having my book!" Veronica's flush deepened a shade.

Her admirer cleared his throat.

"Military honor approaching, north, northeast," Edwina mumbled out the side of her mouth.

"I had to write a term paper on a Southern writer for one of my English classes," he admitted. "I used a library book."

There had been some uneasy eye contact with Edwina from all four male eyes, but they had decided, with the rapid-fire reflex of youth, that they could ignore her in favor of improved diplomatic relations.

"Is this your mother?" he asked politely, gesturing Edwina's way.

Edwina inhaled sharply and deeply. Holding the air in, she said quietly to Veronica, "I'm just going to step outside for a moment."

Veronica watched her friend with brief alarm as she closed her eyes and exhaled, then with relief as she eased off her stool and strode out into the parking lot.

"That's my business partner," said Veronica, cheerfully informative.

"Is she all right?"

"Oh, yeah; the first drink doesn't always agree with her."

"What business are you in?'

From the parking lot came a blood curdling scream in an authoritative alto. Three of the burliest Rangers set down their beers, rippled their pectorals unconsciously, and ran to the door just as Edwina was reentering.

Veronica had locked eyes with both her admirers and refused their release.

"It's okay," Edwina told the would-be heros. "Just a touch of primal therapy." She resumed her stool and smiled enduringly.

"Would you like to dance?" asked the other fellow, the one who was nominally Edwina's in this mating foursome. She had decided that he was even more fetal- looking than his friend, but agreed to the aerobics.

"How old are you?" she asked, as they danced to Gloria Estephan.

"Nineteen."

He had the good sense not to ask. She felt she had nothing to say to anyone that young. My God! Was this even legal?

Veronica and the fellow in paisley had joined them on the dance floor. Veronica flashed Edwina a smile as she executed the latest dance steps in perfect rhythm. Her partner said, "You dance real well for.

Veronica arched an eyebrow as she kept in exact step. "Real well for what?"

"For a writer," he recovered.

She laughed and threw back her head. He looked pleased with his wit. She got his number before he left with his friend, Jeff, if the name he gave Edwina was his own.

"They have to get up at five tomorrow for some war game or other," Veronica explained, wondering why Edwina had to be so taciturn. She could never make conversation with anyone who didn't sound like a university professor.

"What are you going to do with that?" Edwina asked, pointing at the card on which Addison had written his number. It was someone's else's card-Dwayne Escher's of Escher's Plumbing and Extermination-but on the back of it he had written "Addison" and "555-0111." Veronica was dancing it up and down the bar in her hand.

"Call him," she said briskly. Actually, she had no such intention, but she liked to goose Edwina's self-righteousness.

"Veronica, you're going to get me arrested some day," said Edwina. "That Jeff was only nineteen."

"Oh, don't panic, Edwina; he's 26. Addison told me."

Edwina rolled her eyes. "I saw a fragment of umbilical cord hanging off him."

"Lighten up, Edwina." Why couldn't she have a good time? Veronica wondered.

"I'm all for robbing the cradle," Edwina went on relentlessly, "but this is too much."

The next round of admirers approached as their next set of drinks hit the bar. They looked like Sahara College of Art and Intellectual Methodology students-all clad in some kind of expandable black cotton that clung to well formed, though undernourished torsos.

Up close, though, they bore signs of adulthood.

"Are you, by any chance, the island writers in Champs?" asked one in a genial voice. From this angle, Veronica could see some finely etched lines around their eyes.

"Yes." She turned her smile on full power.

"You don't know me, but the sculptor, Arlo Mayhew, is my father."

The smile froze on her face.

"No points for that," muttered Edwina.

Veronica made a graceful recovery.

"Oh, is this for me?" she asked, pretending just then to discover the drink he had sent. She syphoned two inches off the top, stalling for time and composure.

The eyes of Arlo Mayhew's progeny glanced uneasily from her to Edwina and back.

"Dad told me that he didn't do you justice and that you've never forgiven him."

"Nonsense! It just embarrasses me to have all that fuss made over me like I'm famous or something. We're just struggling artists."

Edwina rolled her eyes and snorted inwardly.

"Dad didn't tell me how little justice he did you."

"What did you say your name was, s-"

Edwina heard Veronica clamping down on the word "son."

"Belmont. Belmont Mayhew. This is my roommate Saul."

"Like to dance, Belmont?"

He smiled and took her hand. While they were dancing, Edwina inspected Saul's ensemble. Soft jeans, elegantly cut, the black tee, and black sneakers.

"Do anything for a living?" she asked.

"Yes. As a matter of fact, I'm an engineer."

Poor guy, she thought. / guess if you're an engineer, you have to dress like that.

"Did you know that you can buy sneakers made from recycled paper diapers?" she asked.

"No, I didn't know that." He looked like he might vomit.

He didn't ask her to dance.

Out on the dance floor, Belmont and Veronica displayed their grace and beauty to one another in the accepted mode. They were both exceptional dancers. She found out that he was a bartender at Doctor's, the oldest bar on the island.

"Are you going to write a poem about me?" he grinned.

Presumptuous, she thought. Out loud, she said, "I'll think about it."

"I hope you think about me."

That's more like it, she thought. More humble.

She met Edwina in the bathroom.

"I like this guy," she said, gently refreshing her blush with fairy strokes of an applicator as Edwina pulled up her trousers. Towering above her five foot eleven frame, her head was fully visible over the stall door.

"How old is he?"

"Must that be your first concern?"

"No, my first concern would be where you met him if I didn't already know. You met him in a dive."

"May I remind you that you and I like dives?"

Having fastened herself, Edwina burst forth from the toilet like a female ox.

"I'm going home. Margot's got the music cranked up too loud. It's hurting my ears."

"Sign of old age when the music sounds too loud." Veronica was blending everything together on her face with a large powder brush, erasing rude transitions. "Are you going to make me feel guilty?" she asked.

"God, no. Cavort with a child."

"He's 29."

"Have you looked at your own birth certificate lately?"

"Forgive me for not feeling old."

"It's entirely your own affair, which I fervently hope it doesn't become."

"Fuck you, Edwina. Go home to your loom."

Chapter 5