romanticize certain things. Anyone who could
possibly want to live in New Jersey is obviously lacking in
sensibility. My question, Brad, is: does this broker of yours have
some sort of hold on you?”
“A hold on me?” Brad snorted. “Of
course not.”
“She hasn’t clouded your sense of
reason with her beauty, has she?”
“No, Dad.” Brad almost added that
Daphne Stoltz wasn’t beautiful, but he refrained. He felt oddly
protective toward her, as if he had to defend her against his
father’s irrational disapproval. “She’s competent, she’s
knowledgeable, and she’s very successful at what she
does.”
Robert wavered. Success was
something he held in high esteem. But, much as he might admire
Daphne’s success, he clearly didn’t want it to extend to his own
son. He sipped from his wine goblet, then sighed again. “Well, if
she’s all that competent, I suppose she can’t be too beautiful,” he
concluded. “I have yet to encounter a woman who boasts both beauty
and competence.”
Brad suppressed a shudder. Now was
hardly an appropriate time to battle his father over the old man’s
sexist view of the world—especially since Brad had been trying and
failing for years to convert his father to a less bigoted view of
the world. Nor did Brad feel like explaining that, the older he
got, the more he recognized that competence in a woman was more
valuable than beauty.
That was why Daphne Stoltz looked
so good these days, he acknowledged with a jolt of amazement—not
because she’d lost the “freshman twenty,” not because she’d styled
her hair more attractively and wore chic eyeglasses, but because
she was competent, successful, ambitious, because she was no longer
a mousy student with no discernible concept of herself. Quite the
contrary, she was a disciplined, self-directed woman who knew what
she was doing and where she was going.
If in college she’d been as well
put together as she was now, Brad would never have taken advantage
of her in her intoxicated state and brought her to his room. He
probably would have been her friend, a genuine friend, and if she’d
come to him drunk and vulnerable, he would have walked her back
through the wintry night to her dorm and made sure someone there
got her safely into her bed, where she could sleep it off alone. If
Daphne Stoltz had been the woman she was now, Brad would never have
had sex with her.
The peculiarity of that notion
startled him. Now that Daphne had proven herself smart and
interesting, he ought to be more willing, not less, to think of her
in sexual terms. Yet he wasn’t. He wanted her friendship, but not
her body, not her love. She didn’t turn him on.
He cursed beneath his breath. Damn
it, but he’d inherited more than his father’s thick hair and blue
eyes. He’d inherited the man’s close-mindedness. Daphne wasn’t
pretty, and no matter how intriguing Brad found her intellectually,
he couldn’t bring himself to think of her as a potential lover. And
that seemed wrong to him, because her intellect was amazingly
attractive. He really did want her to be his friend.
Over his father’s protests, Brad
skipped dessert. He didn’t want to spend another hour sitting at
the club with the old man, arguing over his decision to buy a home
outside the city limits. Nor did he wish to listen to his father’s
version of the ongoing war between his parents. “It’s late, Dad,”
he excused himself. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got a busy day planned
for tomorrow.”
“Yes,” Robert Torrance said with
obvious disdain. “You have to cross the river to the wilderness to
look at more houses. Suit yourself, Brad. Live in the boondocks if
you must. But if in my dotage I do become incapacitated, I’ll thank
you to put me in a nursing home here in town rather than transport
me to that barren wasteland west of the Hudson.”
Brad allowed himself a weary smile.
He wasn’t going to persuade his father of New Jersey’s virtues
tonight—and, in
possibly want to live in New Jersey is obviously lacking in
sensibility. My question, Brad, is: does this broker of yours have
some sort of hold on you?”
“A hold on me?” Brad snorted. “Of
course not.”
“She hasn’t clouded your sense of
reason with her beauty, has she?”
“No, Dad.” Brad almost added that
Daphne Stoltz wasn’t beautiful, but he refrained. He felt oddly
protective toward her, as if he had to defend her against his
father’s irrational disapproval. “She’s competent, she’s
knowledgeable, and she’s very successful at what she
does.”
Robert wavered. Success was
something he held in high esteem. But, much as he might admire
Daphne’s success, he clearly didn’t want it to extend to his own
son. He sipped from his wine goblet, then sighed again. “Well, if
she’s all that competent, I suppose she can’t be too beautiful,” he
concluded. “I have yet to encounter a woman who boasts both beauty
and competence.”
Brad suppressed a shudder. Now was
hardly an appropriate time to battle his father over the old man’s
sexist view of the world—especially since Brad had been trying and
failing for years to convert his father to a less bigoted view of
the world. Nor did Brad feel like explaining that, the older he
got, the more he recognized that competence in a woman was more
valuable than beauty.
That was why Daphne Stoltz looked
so good these days, he acknowledged with a jolt of amazement—not
because she’d lost the “freshman twenty,” not because she’d styled
her hair more attractively and wore chic eyeglasses, but because
she was competent, successful, ambitious, because she was no longer
a mousy student with no discernible concept of herself. Quite the
contrary, she was a disciplined, self-directed woman who knew what
she was doing and where she was going.
If in college she’d been as well
put together as she was now, Brad would never have taken advantage
of her in her intoxicated state and brought her to his room. He
probably would have been her friend, a genuine friend, and if she’d
come to him drunk and vulnerable, he would have walked her back
through the wintry night to her dorm and made sure someone there
got her safely into her bed, where she could sleep it off alone. If
Daphne Stoltz had been the woman she was now, Brad would never have
had sex with her.
The peculiarity of that notion
startled him. Now that Daphne had proven herself smart and
interesting, he ought to be more willing, not less, to think of her
in sexual terms. Yet he wasn’t. He wanted her friendship, but not
her body, not her love. She didn’t turn him on.
He cursed beneath his breath. Damn
it, but he’d inherited more than his father’s thick hair and blue
eyes. He’d inherited the man’s close-mindedness. Daphne wasn’t
pretty, and no matter how intriguing Brad found her intellectually,
he couldn’t bring himself to think of her as a potential lover. And
that seemed wrong to him, because her intellect was amazingly
attractive. He really did want her to be his friend.
Over his father’s protests, Brad
skipped dessert. He didn’t want to spend another hour sitting at
the club with the old man, arguing over his decision to buy a home
outside the city limits. Nor did he wish to listen to his father’s
version of the ongoing war between his parents. “It’s late, Dad,”
he excused himself. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got a busy day planned
for tomorrow.”
“Yes,” Robert Torrance said with
obvious disdain. “You have to cross the river to the wilderness to
look at more houses. Suit yourself, Brad. Live in the boondocks if
you must. But if in my dotage I do become incapacitated, I’ll thank
you to put me in a nursing home here in town rather than transport
me to that barren wasteland west of the Hudson.”
Brad allowed himself a weary smile.
He wasn’t going to persuade his father of New Jersey’s virtues
tonight—and, in
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