Killing Me Softly (#Wattys2016)

EIGHT

EIGHT

"I wondered how long you would hibernate in Gotham before you called me."

"I've been busy."

"I thought perhaps you got lost on the way back from your globe-trotting adventures. Your sense of direction is absurd."

"Ha, ha."

"Precisely."

"Glad to see that after all these years, your biting wit is still intact."

"So, will I be thanked in your next acceptance speech? I think it should become a tradition."

"Maybe. If you're nice to me."

"Wasn't I always?"

"Most of the time."

It was Saturday night and unable to face being alone in her apartment with depressing memories of Tracy tugging at her brain, Sondra had called her ex-husband, Gary and asked him to take her to dinner. The pot had been sweetened when she said they could go to Sardi's, his favorite, helped in no small part by his longtime friendship with the owner. After a hearty dinner of a Cobb salad for Sondra and the sirloin for Gary, they were now lingering over her coffee and his single malt Scotch.

"Feeling better, love?"

Sondra pushed the empty sugar packets around on the linen tablecloth, the small white crystals creeping out to leave a grainy trail.

"Yes. Thank you."

"I must say, you could have fooled me. You still seem rather morose."

Sondra laughed. "Gary, you're the only person I know who drops 'morose' into casual conversation."

"I refuse to capitulate to the incessant butchering of the English language to which our present society is so prone. I do have a reputation to maintain."

Sondra chuckled. "Wow. 'Capitulate'."

Sophisticated, witty, urbane, Sondra always thought Gary was Frasier Crane's long-lost black twin. His designer suits were impeccable and he kept his handsome, unlined toffee-toned face free of facial hair, moving through life with a charming, somewhat pretentious swagger. Their affair and subsequent marriage had been passionate, volatile and electrifying. At first, those vodka-soaked days and nights had held an irresistible allure; hobnobbing with his intellectual circle, holding court from his table at the Plaza or Le Cirque, summering at his house in the Hamptons, her astonishment at his ability to finish the Saturday Times crossword-in ink-every Saturday. It was surreal.

Until one day Sondra woke up and realized she wanted more, wanted to get her documentaries made. She needed to figure out who Sondra Ellis was, because Sondra Tate spent way too much time bobbing at the bottom of a Scotch bottle.

The inevitable split came and they put the marriage out of its misery. They remained close, justifying their break-up by saying they were better halves apart than together. However, in her quieter moments, Sondra missed Gary more than she could say. She'd dated a little, though none of her subsequent relationships came close to what she'd had with her ex-husband. She always shrugged off questions about whether or not she'd marry again by saying she was too busy globetrotting for work. The truth was she knew her heart and soul belonged to him. If Gary ever stopped boozing, Sondra had no doubt she would be knocking at his door suggesting they give it another try. That didn't seem likely, so Sondra was content to remain friends.

"So, will I get a private screening?"

Sondra snapped back to the present. "About what?"

Gary adjusted the collar of his navy blazer. "The film."

"Oh, yeah, sure. I'll even spring for the popcorn."

"Try again."

"All right, a bottle of Courvoisier."

"So good you are to me, love."

Sondra leaned back against the booth. "Oh, but I try."

"Love," Gary said as he leaned toward her. "I know you were lying before when you said you were feeling better. Yes, what happened to your sister was a cold and cruel tragedy. But truly it would be best for you-and for her-if you just let her rest in peace."

Sondra winced, knowing that Gary was right. Tracy was gone and she wasn't coming back.

"I hate it when you're right."

Gary gave her a smug smile as he lifted his glass to his lips. "Always am."