Bernstein Potpourri

A Short Story Collection
1. Auflage 2012
ISBN: 978-1-62309-613-7
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 118 Seiten

Potpourri is a collection of fourteen short stories spanning multiple genres from science fiction to mystery to memoir to crime. In A Day in the Life of Mrs. Stanley Sokoloff, a Beverly Hills matron is transported to a place where her erotic fantasies become reality. In The Standard Model, a physicist with a passion for Renaissance art invents a time machine. The Food Police tells the story of an enterprising teenager with a taste for gourmet food who gets into trouble with the law. In The Cane of Invincibility a French divorcee purchases an item with unusual powers at the flea market. A hardworking student finds an unusual way of putting herself through medical school in Moonlighting. A television producer learns more than she ever wanted to know about giant snakes in Eve's Revenge. In Joanna's Tale, a brutal murder and its aftermath is recounted by the victim.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Bernstein, Paula

Leseproben

A Week in the Life of Mrs. Stanley Sokoloff

I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of the alternate universe. According to Brian Greene, who wrote a book on the Multiverse, theoretical physics suggests that ours is not the only one. Multiple theoretical approaches from different aspects of physics theory lead to the same conclusion. Alas, experimental data is lacking and Star Trek not withstanding, will probably never exist. In fact, there are parts of our own universe that will forever be beyond our powers of observation.

None-the-less, I find the idea of an infinite number of universes, at least one of which contains my doppelganger, to be very appealing. Perhaps the alternate me is thin and her hair doesn’t frizz in humidity. Perhaps she became a designer, or a real writer instead of a surgeon. Maybe she married my first boyfriend.

As Mrs. Stanley Sokoloff discovers, when she is accidentally propelled into an alternate space, the grass is not always greener.

Thursday

“Oh god, Marsha,” grunted Ben in the throes of postcoital bliss, “you are fantastic! Why didn’t I meet you twenty years ago?”

“You did, darling,” I reminded him gently. We’d had this conversation before.

With a satisfied sigh, Ben rolled off my body and collapsed onto the sweat-stained sheets of the king-sized bed.

I glanced at my watch. As usual, we had exceeded the limits of my two-hour executive lunch. I wondered if my secretary was beginning to see a pattern.

“Sweetheart,” I said, snuggling close while he tweaked my nipple, “I adore you, but I’ve got to get back to the office.”

“I know,” Ben sighed. “I hate when we have to stop. I think about you all the time; what it would be like to be married to you, to make love to you every night.”

This part of the conversation always made me nervous. After all, I was a happily married woman, Thursday afternoon notwithstanding.

Benjamin Shapiro and I had been lovers for just three months. Ben was a highly successful neurosurgeon, married to Eleanor, who was in my bridge club. Eleanor happened to be a very nice woman. She had a voluptuous figure, considerable domestic talent, and played a mean game of bridge. She also had Ben, two teenage sons, a large black Labrador, and an expensive house in the Valley filled with plastic-covered French Provincial furniture.

I had always liked Eleanor. In fact, we had the same manicurist. At first, I felt a little guilty having a fling with her husband, but I really couldn’t help myself. I was totally in love.

You must understand, however, that being in love with Ben did not necessarily mean that I wanted to divorce Stanley. On the contrary, I was quite fond of my husband. Stanley and I had a history together; twenty years of matrimony, two Mercedes, his and hers charge cards and a neurotic cat. Such ties are not easily broken. True, Stanley had his faults. He was beginning to bald, turning to fat around the middle, and the speed and efficiency of his lovemaking definitely left something to be desired.

Ben, on the other hand, was an absolute dynamo in bed. He was trim, athletic, tan and capable of making love for hours; and he had such style; the expensive lunches at discrete little restaurants, the fifty-dollar bottles of wine, the exquisite little gifts. Stanley was, how shall I put it? Thrifty. He was precisely what one would expect from an accountant. Stanley was neat, orderly, predicable and exceptionally well organized. I have secretly suspected for years that he alphabetizes his underwear. But, truly, I was not complaining.

“Now love,” I said to Ben, fondling his nether end, “there’s no point in rehashing what might have been. Let’s just enjoy what is.”

Ben looked at his watch.

“I guess it is time, “ he said. I have a craniotomy scheduled in half an hour.”

“Enjoy, darling,” I said brightly, fastening my bra. “Same time next week?”

Friday

I was only five minutes late as I pulled into the parking lot at Barney’s and headed for the elevator. Unfortunately I was not on a shopping binge. I was employed there as the executive assistant to Mrs. Roberta Champion, chief buyer for the Beverly Hills store. Loosely translated, that meant Roberta spent her time running around New York and Europe on an eternal buying spree while I made sure nothing fell apart in her absence.

Reluctantly I tore myself away from the spring sale on Manolo Blahnik shoes and deposited myself in my office.

“Good morning, Mrs. Sokoloff,” said Annie, my secretary.

Annie came with the job. Unfortunately, I had to share her with three other people; although the plus side was that I only had to put up with her one-quarter of the time. You can’t imagine how irritating is to have a secretary I couldn’t fire who chewed gum, spoke with a Brooklyn accent, and couldn’t remember anything for more than thirty seconds-even if she could word process at 100 words a minute. When I became boss, the first thing I was planning to do was to replace her.

There was an air of suppressed excitement in the office. Roberta had just returned from Paris with what she described as “the most divine clothes we’ve had in twenty years.” While she was gone, I’d been busy setting up an exclusive little fashion show for our most valued customers. The invitations had gone out yesterday.

“Marsha, how nice to see you.” Roberta breezed into my office wearing an ultra-chic white Parisian suit and a wide-brimmed hat. Hats were in this year.

“Hello Mrs. Champion,” I said. “Have a nice trip?”

“Spectacular. Wait till you see what I bought.”

“I can’t wait,” I said. Despite her noxious personality, Roberta had terrific taste, and I got thirty percent off, a major incentive for remaining in my current job.

“Are we all set for the show on the eighteenth?” she asked.

“You mean the eighth,” I said.

“Of course I don’t mean the eighth, you idiot. Nothing’s arriving till the tenth.”

“Mrs. Champion,” I glowered, “your email distinctly said the eighth. It’s all set. Are you trying to tell me you made a mistake?”

“You moron,” shrieked my boss. “Haven’t you been working here long enough to know that we can’t get clothes from Europe that fast?”

With a furious glare I headed for my desk and emerged triumphant with Roberta’s email.

“Just wait, bitch,” I thought. “In a year from now, I’m going to have your job.”

Saturday

I was delighted when the weekend arrived. I really needed some relaxation after Friday’s fiasco. As usual I spent Saturday morning in the expert hands of George. Now, don’t get the wrong idea. George is my hairdresser, and anyway, he is of the alternate sexual persuasion. Nothing improves a girl’s disposition like getting her roots touched up while confiding in a sympathetic and totally supportive ear. No wonder George is the most popular man in Beverly Hills.

After my makeover was complete, I met Stanley for a little light lunch at the Cheesecake Factory. I had the green salad, naturally. I am always watching my weight.

“Hello, Sweetpea,” said Stanley, kissing the top of my forehead.

“Hi Hon,” I said, sinking gratefully into a chair.

“I have a little surprise for you,” he said. “I just made dinner reservations for your birthday.”

“How nice, sweetie, where?”

“At the Mauna Kea, “ said my husband, whisking two plane tickets out of his jacket pocket. “I decided we both needed a long weekend away.”

“You darling man!” I said. Stanley didn’t often surprise me, but when he did he really came through.

The waitress arrived with my salad and his chocolate cheesecake. I only indulged in two or three tiny little bites of it. As I said, I’m watching my weight. Stanley ordered a second slice.

We decided to spend the afternoon at home soaking up the sun on our patio. Home is actually my favorite place in the world. Our house is my pride and joy. I adore its clean lines, its pale oak floors, and the huge glass windows with their panoramic view. I’ve decorated in white lacquer and chrome, everything very clean and spare. The garden is lush and the pool maintained at a perfect 78 degrees. All in all, a paradise.

Stanley had purchased the latest Michael Connelly mystery novel and consented to let me read it first. I curled up on the chaise lounge, with Muffins, our Siamese, purring on my lap. I was in heaven.

Later we caught a James Bond rerun at the local movie house and had a leisurely dinner out. When we got home, Stanley gave me a backrub and we snuggled in bed for a while. I could tell he was feeling amorous but I fell asleep long before he could do anything about it. Altogether I thought it had been a perfect day.

Sunday

The insanity stared on Sunday. I did my marketing in the morning while Stanley played a few holes of golf at the club. I had just pulled into the garage and was starting to unload my trunk when the earth moved. I don’t mean a little tremor; I mean a major seven-plus quake. The car rocked dangerously on its suspension. Things started falling off the garage shelves. A crack appeared suddenly in the concrete driveway and extended dangerously close to my...