A Matter Of Taste, Fred Saberhagen [love story books to read TXT] 📗

notable exception of an upright piano. Living room, with a half bath off the entryway, small dining area, and a glimpse of what must be the kitchen beyond. Two closed doors were visible down a hallway, before it angled out of sight. Those must lead, Angie supposed, to bedrooms. Maybe the bedroom walls were covered with raunchy pictures, but somehow she doubted it. One thing that struck her as something of an oddity was the art. To judge from the modern furnishings, you might have expected to see contemporary art framed on these walls, but instead, along with the spears, hung mostly reproductions of Renaissance masters. My God, they were reproductions, weren’t they? Skillful copies? Or might they be … but that was silly. These paintings, with the piano and all the books, gave the apartment a vaguely old-fashioned air despite the modern furniture.

      In a matter of moments they were all three back out in the corridor, then striding, all arm in arm, toward the elevators again.

      They reached the elevator lobby just as an upward-bound car opened its door to discharge a fortyish lady with an elaborate dark coiffure, smartly gowned for indoors, carrying a bag of groceries in one arm. She smiled and nodded to Uncle Matthew, and he returned the smile with a small gentlemanly bow. I bet, thought Angie, there are days when he has to beat them off with a stick.

      “Neighbor of yours?” John asked, making conversation, once they were in the car and on their way up to the ninety-fifth floor.

      “Yes … devoted to the residents’ association, in which she persists in trying to interest me. Well meaning, I am sure.” Uncle Matthew’s expression conveyed a subtle irritation, which soon disappeared.

      The ninety-fifth floor was occupied by one of the city’s finer restaurants. As far as Angie could tell, no one among the staff recognized Uncle Matthew, but, in some way she could not quite put her finger on, he seemed to convey to them a sense of his status and importance.

      Once they were seated, Uncle Matthew conversed cheerfully and urbanely on a variety of subjects. Skillfully he drew out his guests with questions on their work and on their pastimes.

      Until Angie seized the opportunity offered by a pleasant pause and cleared her throat. “Look, Uncle Matthew—shall I call you that?”

      “You certainly may.”

      “We’d like you to come to our wedding.”

      Their host glanced with faint amusement at John, who was awkwardly trying to find words with which to second the invitation. “Thank you, Angelina. But I fear there may be a problem about the date—?”

      “Twenty-fifth of next month,” John blurted out.

      “Ah, almost a Thanksgiving wedding. Too bad, but I shall be unable to attend. So, the three of us must celebrate this evening—we ought to achieve a memorable celebration of some kind.”

      And soon the two young people were relaxed, eating and drinking heartily. Uncle Matthew, true to John’s prediction, but still to Angie’s concern, ate nothing and drank almost nothing. He pleaded the requirements of a special diet. “But do not concern yourself, my dear. Enjoy yourself, and I shall feast my eyes upon your beauty.”

      John reacted to that with a swallow. Angie, feeling Uncle Matthew’s gaze, found herself wondering how she would have reacted had she not been recently engaged.

* * *

      Somewhat to John’s relief, the waitress who was serving their table soon began to replace Angie as the object of Uncle Matthew’s admiration.

      This waitress was a statuesque and impressive redhead, somewhere in her middle or later thirties, Angie estimated. It was obvious that something about this dark haired, fortyish customer impressed and intrigued her. When he looked at her with interest, the woman was unable to keep her mind entirely on business.

      Fortyish? Squinting at Uncle Matthew now, Angie decided she had better add a few years to the estimate of his age she had formed in his apartment. There was a touch of gray in his hair she really hadn’t noticed before. Very distinguished.

      During the lengthy intervals when the waitress was elsewhere, and Uncle Matthew’s attention more or less fully available, Angie pressed him as subtly as she could for information.

      “John tells me that you saved his life. I mean that time when he was kidnapped.”

      “Ah? And how much did he tell you? It must be a painful subject for him to talk about.”

      “He told me very little, unfortunately. Nothing more than the mere fact. I was hoping that you’d be willing to fill in some of the details.”

      Uncle Matthew was looking at John, who said uncomfortably: “Well, since Angie’s going to be marrying me, well, I thought she ought to know, uh, all about family affairs.”

      “Apart from certain occasions—of which this evening is one of the more pleasant—I really have little connection with such affairs.” Uncle Matthew’s fingers, pale in slender muscularity, long-nailed, and somewhat hairy on the backs, toyed with his glass of almost untasted wine. There was a dinner plate before him too, but it had remained smooth and clean. He had unfolded his napkin, but that was about it.

      John was stubborn. “I thought she ought to know,” he repeated.

      “That opinion certainly poses an interesting problem. She is not marrying me, John.”

      “You thought I ought to know what?” Angie demanded bluntly. Infuriatingly, the two men continued to ignore her for the moment. John was still hesitating. “Well…”

      Uncle Matthew produced a winning smile, which he could do better than almost anyone Angie had ever met before. He reached across the table and took a hand of each of his young guests. “Come, come, we must not allow such questions to interfere with our evening. My affairs can surely have no crucial bearing on your marriage.”

      John heaved a sigh, as if a weight had been removed. “I guess you’re right.”

      ‘‘Of course I am. Depend upon it.” Uncle Matthew patted both hands and released them.

      “It’s not that I want to push into your affairs, sir, believe me. Far from it. But well, dammit, you saved my life. And I’m not going to forget