Guest of a Sinner: A Novel
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The witty sixth novel by the author of Polite Sex follows a group of New Yorkers who, on the verge of middle age, are struggling with the apparent emptiness of their lives. By the author of Sort of Rich. National ad/promo.
what’s with the hat? Don’t you know it isn’t a sin no more to go without a hat?’ Now I ask you, I been going to church all my life, and this man has the gall to instruct me on canon law. All I can say is what I said to myself before I left Perth Amboy. ‘Rita,’ I said, ‘you’re making a big mistake. You know you and Sam are never going to see eye to eye. He’s going to ruin your vacation. Why not be smart and go to the Poconos with Father Reed’s group?’ But no, I got to go to New York.” Pleased
bedroom. Once the cats were evicted, he would be back where he belonged. His father, though, was another matter. He had a perfectly nice apartment in Tallahassee, complete with an adjoining health club. There was no real reason for him to be in New York now. “I need to get away,” was what Kaye had reported his saying over the phone a few days ago. “I need a change from this crummy town.” Though he would have liked to shut himself up in Kaye’s study with a new score he had bought of the K.415
door marked CABALLEROS. “But I do wish you would have come up to my place. The prices here!” “It’s all right. I said I’d pay. And Una,” Wanda ventured, emboldened by the success she was enjoying so far, “you know I couldn’t bring him into your apartment.” “I don’t know why on earth not.” The old woman’s fingers groped toward the top button of her blue cloth coat, a spring coat that seemed suitable enough for this mild December day. “Maybe you’ve noticed, Una, that every time I visit you—”
know he had been sipping vodka after his torte supper. She might think he had a problem with alcohol, which would be ironic, considering all the jibes he had taken from his father over the years. “Drinks like a real lady,” Lamar would comment when Eric would refuse a second beer or glass of wine. Not once in his life had Eric ever gotten loaded. The closest he had come was the first time he had visited Wanda at Beekman Place. Strange, the effect she had on him. “Why did you give me that book?”
“What do you want for lunch?” she asked innocently. “French fries. Make me a nice batch, OK?” “Sorry, we’re having bluefish. It lowers your cholesterol.” Wanda groaned. The pain was killing her; she wanted to die. But Serge would not let up. “Four more!” he barked. “Three, two—and now another ten, my dears. Yes, ten!” How she hated him. He was a liar, a cheat, a sadist. Never again—this would be the last time. When it was finally over, Wanda lay on her back in a stupor. Beside her Russell,