It was Jack, grinning at me. “They’re beauties, your legs. I couldn’t resist.”

“Leave me alone,” I said.

“Just kidding around.” He took off his fedora, and there was a ring of sweat matting his thick hair. “There was a luncheon. At Harry’s Bar. That’s why I’m dressed to the teeth. Do you know Cheever?”

“Who?”

“What the hell are you reading?” He grabbed my paperback. “Agatha Christie? We were talking about the death of American literature this afternoon. You’re a case in point, aren’t you?”

“Just because she’s British?”

“Oh, forget it.” He paced about. “Where’s Linda?”

“She’s out. How did you get in here? The maid’s shopping.”

He was an adult, and a friend of Linda’s, so I felt compelled to do what he asked but I was annoyed and uncomfortable.

He dangled a key, and leaned close to me. I could smell liquor on his breath. “I just had lunch with John Cheever. Simone’s napping, I guess. Or pretending to nap.” He walked over to the old cabinet where Linda kept bottles of whiskey and gin. He opened the door, and took out a bottle of something. “Want to get me some ice, sweetheart?”

I stood up, tugging down my shorts in the back. He was an adult, and a friend of Linda’s, so I felt compelled to do what he asked but I was annoyed and uncomfortable. I went out to the central hall and crossed to the kitchen. The icebox was half the size of the one we had at home. I pulled out the tiny ice tray and emptied the cubes into a ceramic bowl. I carried the bowl back to the salon.

“Thanks, kid.” He took a handful of cubes and plopped them into a highball glass. Then he filled it to the top with bourbon. I carried the bowl back to the kitchen. The door to the salon was open and I could see him settled in a chair, sipping his drink. His hat was on another chair. I hesitated. Simone and I shared a room, and I didn’t want to disturb her. The hairs on my legs pricked. I sat on the steps, half-way up, hugging my knees until Linda returned an hour later.

Jack stayed for dinner. Linda wanted to hear all about the lunch at Harry’s Bar. She was miffed that she hadn’t been invited, though Jack explained that it was a stag affair, that the men had talked about car racing and brands of whiskey and argued about the merits of calling an inky sea creature “squid” or “cuttlefish.” Cheever had told a joke about two Irishmen in a boat lost at sea: They find a bottle with a genie inside, and the genie gives the Irishmen a wish, and the sea turns into Guinness. “But, oh God, now we’ve got to piss in the boat!” one Irishman sobs to the other.

Simone and I both blushed.

“Oh, Jack!” Linda looked stern, but she was laughing, too. “Watch your language, please.” She looked especially beautiful that night with her thick red hair coiled on top of her head. Her silver bangle bracelets gleamed and tinkled. Her arms, faintly freckled, were bare that night. It was getting hot.

Simone sat across from me, silently eating her linguine, and sipping her glass of milk. I was thirsty and finished my water. Jack picked up the straw-covered bottle of Chanti and filled Linda’s wine glass. Then he filled my water glass with wine.

Linda said nothing. She had never poured me a glass of wine herself, and I had never asked for any, though I saw Italian and French girls my age drinking wine with dinner in restaurants. I was torn between my queasiness about Jack and my longing to drink a glass of wine like a grown up.