Chapter 6

Chris O'Brien took a glance around her, the plush red velvet draperies, the crystal chandelier casting glimmers of light over the potted palms in the corners of the restaurants... and wondered why she had been so reluctant to give up a night alone in her dumpy apartment for a French meal at Fisherman's Wharf overlooking the San Francisco Bay.

She glanced around the restaurant again. The lights were low, the atmosphere hushed. Waiters moved across the deep carpet as quietly as cats. And Francois, her date for the evening, with his lean, handsome face, his classic features, the touch of gray at his temples that made him look even more distinguished than his accent could attest to. He'd sat opposite of her, choosing the perfect wine to go with the perfect meal he would select. Yes, Chris thought, there was no reason for her being so afraid when he'd come to the door.

She would try to act the lady, conversing fluently in French with this mysteriously good-looking gentleman, and remember her etiquette, squeezing her lemon with the prongs of the fork, dipping the soup spoon away instead of towards you... those tiny, yet consequential vignettes of cuisine that separated the more sophisticated from the lesser. And when the Chateaubriand for two would be served, she would not stuff herself, though it had been two weeks since she'd anything as delectable as a piece of piping hot meat steaming in front of her.

Between sips of her Fuisse Pouissy, Chris and Francois stared out over the blackened night, watching the ships slip by announced only by the low throaty moan of the fog horn. He'd been in merchant marine at one time, he told her through his mellifluously enunciated accent, and since then had made yearly trips back to the old sea port by the bay where he's spent many a memorable evening parading up and down Broadway Street, watching the pimps, the barkers, and the prostitutes.

He asked about her background; the obvious questions a man who's paid for an evening of womanly companionship wants to know. Had she traveled? Had she gone to school? And through it all, he hadn't pried, hadn't insinuated or demanded.

Even when he walked her to her door, he had remained a perfect gentleman, kissing her hand delicately and wishing her a good evening's rest. Chris went to bed that evening of a full stomach and a prayer in her heart for Sandy. Sandy, maybe this once I misjudged you. A free meal and a few drinks, and I'll be out of this mess you got us into. Yes, maybe for once you were right, Sandy.

Stories below, Margaret Sorenson completed her nightly ritual of watching Johnie Carson on television while sipping a small glass of sherry. On the kitchen table sat two place settings; only one of them used. Roger had not shown up for dinner, despite the note of invitation she'd tacked to his door. When she had gone down to investigate at eight o'clock, just as she'd taken the roast out of the oven for the second time, she'd heard the unmistakable grunts and groans of lovemaking.

Roger was cheating on her again, she sniffed, blinking back a tear. Didn't it matter she loved him? Didn't he care after all she'd done for him? And the pain to think she'd let him take advantage of her like that... forcing her to use her mouth on him like some common whore.

Well, let him have his whores, his fast women who had to sell their bodies to stay alive. At least she still had her dignity, she resolved, getting up to switch off the television set and turning off the light, her apple cheeks reddened, partly from the sherry, and partly from the fury of her emotions.

Margaret Sorenson was a proud woman. No landlord could take advantage of her like that and get away with it. She would have her revenge. Time was on her side.