Naked Came the Stranger - By Penelope Ashe Page 0,57

reason in itself. But, hell, who would believe that?

She was at the glass door, coming in, Emily stepping back.

"Hello, Gilly," he said.

"God, don't call me that," she said. "It sounds like some Lake Michigan fish."

"You use it on the radio," Taylor said.

"Well, you don't have to use it," she said. "You pay me pretty well to use a name like that on the radio. I'm on my own time now."

On your own time, Taylor….

"Sit down," he said. "You want some coffee?"

Still standing, Gillian reached into her bag and pulled out a copy of the New York Times. She thrust it at him in much the manner of the Baron with the Ladies Home Journal.

"Have you read this?" she said.

"Sure," Taylor said. "Sure I've read it. What part?"

"This part," she said. "This part where their smart-assed critic rips me up."

"I didn't get that far," Taylor said.

"Pablum for breakfast," she said. "The worst show on morning radio. Makes you strangle on your coffee it's so bad."

"Hmmmm." Taylor said.

"Hmmmmm hell," Gillian said. "Do you advertise in this paper?"

"Gillian, everyone advertises in this paper."

"No more," she said. "I don't want you to put any more advertising in the Times until that critic loses his job."

"Well, now," Taylor said. "That may not be too easy. No one tells the critics what to write."

"Then, I suppose" – Gillian was still standing – "I'd better go see Baron Morgan directly."

"Well, now," Taylor said. "There's no need to bother him today. My don't you just sit down and have some coffee? Let's us talk about it."

Gillian sat down, crossing her legs, her sand-colored dress riding up, showing Taylor a nice three inches above those good knees.

"I've been meaning to call you," Taylor Hawkes said.

"You should have," Gillian said.

"About tennis … about playing tennis. I couldn't remember whether your husband played."

"No," Gillian said. "No, he's stopped. A bad back… or a bad knee or a bad wrist or a bad something. I forget exactly which. He's stopped almost everything." She looked directly at Taylor. "But I still play."

"Fine," Taylor said. "We'll play."

"Fine," Gillian said.

Her eyes left Taylor. She was looking over his shoulder, through the secretaries' office and toward the front driveway.

"What are they doing?" she asked. "That car, the back…."

Taylor looked out. "Oh, they're rollin' him in. You've never seen the Baron's car?"

Taylor had watched it a hundred times; hell, a thousand times; he'd watched it so many times he wasn't even aware any more that he was watching it. Louie, the Baron's chauffeur, was out there now, the same as always, letting down the back of the custom-built car. It dropped down just like the tailgate of a truck, except that it reached the pavement, making a ramp. The Baron, in his wheelchair, was back about twenty feet, getting ready to roll, getting ready to build up the speed that would take him into the car. And Old Lady Minnie, the Baron's secretary for forty-one years, was out there, same as always, her arms waving like an out-of-control kite, trying to help roll the Baron and he was waving back, same as always, saying, if you were out there so you could hear him, "Get back, Minnie! Get back, Louie!" Nobody rolled Baron Edward Osborne Morgan; he could make it himself.

"My God," Gillian said. "He almost sailed through the front seat."

"Naw," Taylor said. "He can stop it on a dime. That old bastard can really roll. He's just got to get up that speed to make the ramp. That's his special big-wheeled, high-speed chair."

"God," Gillian said.

"He's got about five wheelchairs," Taylor said. "Got a black one over at the estate. And a silver one for parties. And a couple around here. Got a little business wheelchair… comes down here in it…. I swear to God that's the fastest little wheelchair I ever saw in my whole life."

Gillian tapped a cigarette on her long left thumbnail and Taylor stood up. As he extended a match, she cupped her hand on his, letting her hand linger, he thought, after he had blown out the flame. He looked out into the big room and saw that three of the girls had turned around and were watching him.

"You're kin to the Baron, aren't you?" Gillian said.

"No," Taylor said. He looked out again at the room.

"No, it's my wife. She's his great-grandniece."

"Oh, yes," Gillian said. "I remember that. I met your wife at the station. I can't remember her name."

"Sarah."

"Oh, yes," Gillian said. "I knew it was something from the Bible. She