She switched off the lights and went upstairs, half expecting her father to appear and confront her about missing dinner. When he didn’t, she told herself that he must not be very upset at her. If he was, she thought, he would have waited up. It’s not that late.

She glanced at his bedroom door, saw that the narrow slit at the bottom was dark, and moved on to his office. The door was open, and inside the room was still. Moonlight coated the empty chair, and the polished surfaces of the typewriter keys winked like tiny eyes in the darkness.

She hurried past and went to her room. Shutting the door, she sank with relief onto her bed, ignoring its muffled protestations. No, she wasn’t sorry. She didn’t owe her father anything. Besides, it was just one stupid spaghetti dinner. He probably didn’t even care that she hadn’t been there. Why should he start now? she asked herself.

She undressed quickly and, after a quick trip down the hall to the bathroom, climbed into bed. She considered taking a Valium, but a quick count of them decided her against it. There was enough pot, though, for a small joint. She deftly rolled it and took a hit, blowing the smoke toward the open window.

Turning off her light, she sat in the half dark, letting the pot relax her. Maybe Brian would call her, she thought. She would like that. And maybe, next time, he’d try a little harder. She would like that, too. Thinking about it, the dirty dishes downstairs faded from memory, replaced by fantasies about what the summer might hold for her. By the time she’d smoked the joint down to its end, she had forgotten all about them.

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 17

The young woman behind the desk looked up at Hudson and smiled faintly. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Yes,” Hudson said. “You can.” Her attitude annoyed him, and he assumed a tone of sarcastic politeness. Then, realizing that he was merely nervous, he stopped himself. He cleared his throat and began again. “My name is Hudson Jones,” he said. “I have an appointment with Helen Guerneyser.”

“One moment,” the young woman said, picking up the phone and pressing a button. A moment later she said, in a much more lively voice, “A Mr. Jones is here.”

She hung up and was opening her mouth to tell Hudson that he could sit and wait when a woman came striding out from the reaches behind the receptionist’s desk. Perhaps sixty, she wore a red suit that fitted her slim frame flawlessly. A cream-colored blouse beneath the jacket was open at the throat, revealing a neat string of pearls. Her hair, auburn and artfully cut in a flattering short style, complemented her fair skin. Hudson observed all of this during the ten seconds it took for Helen Guerneyser to round the desk and hold out her hand.