6
Pace couldn’t get Misty Tonga out of his mind. Her bold question regarding her attractiveness had made the intended effect on him and now Pace had to decide if he should make a serious move on her or let it pass. At his age, this took no small effort. He was twenty-four years older than Misty—what could she want, or expect, from him? Was she being merely casually flirtatious or did she genuinely desire Pace to pursue her? He disliked the uncertainty of it, this perilous game. She probably did not care, really, if she ever saw him again. And what was this Crusader Ralph nonsense, anyway? She was from a suburb of Los Angeles, an in-grown community of Pacific Islanders Pace had heard about when he lived in L.A. and worked in the movie business. Misty Tonga—her family was Tongan and she probably had seven or eight gigantic brothers.
The telephone rang.
“Hello?”
“Pace Ripley? This is Misty Tonga. Would you be agreeable to having a White Russian with me this afternoon?”
Pace woke up in a sweat. He had fallen asleep on the couch in the front room of the cottage. The phone call from Misty Tonga was only a dream. Pace was relieved but he felt ridiculous. He had read that dreams represented wishes and this possibility embarrassed him.
After rinsing his face, Pace stepped out his front door and took several deep breaths. The rain had stopped and the air was crisp and turning colder. What if Misty had invited him to join her for a drink? Would he have gone? Pace watched wet leaves being shoved along the ground by a sudden wind. He needed to get back to work on his book. There was no way to know how much time he had left to finish it. Misty Tonga could wait—and if she didn’t, that would be all right, too.