Tell Me the Truth About Love , livre ebook

Rare Bird Books - Erik Tarloff

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187 pages

English

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Description

A novel about sexual love, straight and queer, about love between friends, between exes, between parents and children, between lovers old and new, Erik Tarloff’s Tell Me the Truth About Love tells the story of Toby Lindeman, a divorced man in San Francisco leading what appears to be an enviable bachelor’s life. Suave, attractive, somewhat detached from the emotional needs of those around him, he seems to sail blithely above life’s common difficulties as he goes about his duties as chief fundraiser for the San Francisco Opera.

But then, to his own surprise, he falls passionately in love with the most inappropriate woman possible, the long-time mistress of the powerful man on whom his own future seems to depend. As Toby navigates the risks of this relationship, encountering heartbreak and professional catastrophe along the way, he also finds himself reconnecting on a much deeper level with all the people in his life. Suspenseful, sexy, and often laugh-out-loud funny, Tell Me the Truth About Love is a very contemporary look at the varieties of human connection.

Sujets

Romance contemporaine

Fiction

Romance

Contemporary

Informations

Publié par	Rare Bird Books
Date de parution	11 octobre 2022
Nombre de lectures	1
EAN13	9781644283363
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	4 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0750€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

this is a genuine rare bird book
Rare Bird Books 6044 North Figueroa Street Los Angeles, CA 90042 rarebirdbooks.com
Copyright © 2022 by Erik Tarloff
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, including but not limited to print, audio, and electronic.
For more information, address: Rare Bird Books Subsidiary Rights Department 6044 North Figueroa Street Los Angeles, CA 90042
Set in Minion
epub isbn : 9781644283363 first hardcover edition isbn: 9781644283110
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request

Also by Erik Tarloff
novels
Face-Time
The Man Who Wrote the Book
All Our Yesterdays
The Woman in Black
plays
Something to Hide
Another Weekend in the Country
Cedars

For Treva Silverman
Esteemed colleague, great friend, ideal reader

Will it come like a change in the weather? Will its greeting be courteous or rough? Will it alter my life altogether? O tell me the truth about love.
—W. H. Auden

Contents
Part One
1
2
3
Part Two
1
2
3
4
Part Three
1
2
3
4
5
Part Four
1
2
3
4
Acknowledgments

Part One

1
T he Lyft had almost reached the Four Seasons when Toby’s cell phone rang.
“Toby dear…I’m running late.” It was Magda. No mistaking that dusky contralto. “I’m stuck here. The bastards are making me reedit a segment for eleven o’clock.”
“How bad?” Toby asked.
“Not terrible. I’ll need an extra half-hour.”
A quick calculation. “Listen, I can’t afford to be late tonight. I have to be ready to pounce.”
“Of course. Go in without me. I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
“You’re a stand-up guy, Magda.”
She laughed at that. And then, with an exaggerated, humorous whine, “But why did I say yes to this? It’s going to be ghastly, isn’t it?”
“Of course. But it’s an opportunity to see me abasing myself. That’s a plus, surely.”
“Ah yes, fair point. I do find the spectacle arousing.”
“I’m glad there’s something.”
“That would be it.”
“Plus, there’ll be a herd of gazillionaires in attendance.”
“Not a draw in itself. Although one of them is rather attractive. Bradley Solomon. The guest of honor. He’s quite sexy.”
“You fancy Bradley Solomon?”
“‘Fancy’ may be too strong. He does have a certain something, though.”
“So you know him?”
“I’ve met him.”
“He’s old enough to be your father.”
“Mm, part of his appeal. I always fancied my father. Spent hours on the couch talking about it.”
“You mustn’t crowd him, now. Leave me room. I’m the one doing the hustling tonight.”
“I won’t make my move till you have a promissory note in your pocket.”
“And you won’t humiliate me?”
“Dear boy. Absolutely not. This is a night where you humiliate yourself . All I ask for is an unimpeded view.”
•
Once inside the hotel, Toby took an escalator down to banquet level and approached a table outside the designated banquet room. It was presided over by a couple of elegantly dressed young women, the sort of well-bred volunteers found at such affairs.
“Toby Lindeman,” he announced.
One of the women ran her finger down a list. “Could that be Tobias Lindeman?”
“I imagine so.”
She handed him a name tag, told him the number of his table, and welcomed him to the dinner. Pinning the tag to his lapel, he pushed through double doors into the ballroom. The room was large and tastefully decorated, with lavender-and-gray carpeting and purple drapery on the tables. It was already quite crowded, although nobody was seated yet; things were still at the pointless milling-about stage. Toby snatched a glass of white wine from a passing waiter and scanned the room for Bradley Solomon, the only reason he was here. Solomon hadn’t exactly promised a big contribution, but he’d definitely hinted he was amenable to the idea. It was Toby’s job to seal the deal.
No sign of him, just lots of people considerably older than Toby, all looking eminently respectable, eminently prosperous. In any city besides San Francisco one would assume them to be WASP Republicans. Here most of them were probably Democrats, likely either Jewish or Italian, but in some fundamental way the characterization remained just: They occupied a comparable social stratum and performed a comparable role. They were the people who ran things.
At one side of the room was a head table on a dais, which was ominous, presaging speechifying after the meal. On the wall behind the head table was a banner welcoming guests to the annual dinner of the Save the Redwoods Association. Toby had forgotten the nature of the event till he saw the banner. It was irrelevant to his mission. Still, it was nice to know it was for a reasonable cause.
Since there was no one to talk to, and because he felt conspicuously solitary, he decided to head to his assigned table and wait for Magda. Circling the room, he eventually located his place—which, given its remote position, was obviously a charity banquet Siberia—and as he approached it, stepping carefully among tables to avoid dislodging silverware and crockery, he heard a woman’s voice say, “Looking for the nearest exit?”
Was she addressing him? He stopped and turned. Facing him a few feet away was a woman several years younger than he, probably on the enviable side of forty. He took her in quickly and without being crass about it; thirty years of practice had trained him to camouflage the vulgarity of overt sexual assessment even if the assessment itself was habitual and automatic. She was petite, probably five foot four or so, slightly built, and not exactly pretty, but with a pleasant, attractively open face and a merry, intelligent smile. Her black dress was unpretentious and demure, flattering her trim figure. Chestnut hair—possibly colored—done simply, back and down. Little makeup beyond lipstick.
“Me?” His eyes met hers; hers were big and brown and sparkling, and seemed bottomless. He had to force himself not to look away. They made him feel transparent.
“Uh-huh,” she said. “You have a sort of fish-out-of-water aura, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Despite my tux?” A Hardy Amies shawl-collared number, beyond his budget but, given his profession, a defensible investment.
She waved his question away. “An elegant fish out of water. A tropical fish out of water. So what’s the deal? Are you some sort of tree-hugger? You have a thing for redwoods?”
“Nah. I mean, I don’t have anything against them. I wish them nothing but the best, but I can’t say they occupy a prominent position in my consciousness.”
She smiled. “So you’re not a donor?”
“Bull’s-eye.”
“No? Well, let’s see…no, don’t tell me, I’ll get this. Are you, like, a professional escort? Hired to squire a biddy? With God knows what’s expected of you at the end of the evening?”
“It’s that obvious? Damn.”
For one startled moment, she looked abashed. Her eyes widened, her hand went to her mouth. Then she lowered it, revealing a mischievous frown. “Wait. You’re shitting me, right?”
“Well…yes. But I’m flattered you thought it was possible.”
She smiled. “God, you actually had me going for a sec. I was about to start apologizing. Groveling. While pretending to be blasé.”
“Sorry to have missed that.”
“Although I liked the idea too. You don’t run into many male hustlers at these events. Except metaphorically.” She moved in close to squint myopically at his name tag, taking his silk-lined lapel between her fingers. “Tobias Lindeman. Should I have heard of you?”
“Nope.”
“Are you the donut guy?”
“That’s Entenmann.”
“Oh right.” She released his lapel and extended her hand. “Anyway. My name’s Amy Baldwin. Pleasure to meet you, Tobias.”
He shook her hand. “People call me Toby.” And then, “How come you’re not wearing a name tag?”
“I don’t like poking holes in my dress. Are you here with a date?”
“Yes. Well, that is, I’m meeting someone.”
If she had a reaction to that, she didn’t show it. “Female?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can’t be sure in this day and age.”
“Absolutely.”
“But it isn’t a business transaction? At least as the term is commonly understood?”
“Right.”
“So if you’re not a donor, not a gigolo, and don’t have the baked goods concession—”
“What am I doing here? Is that your question? I’m working. I’m a fundraiser. Not for myself, to be clear. And not for redwoods, either. For a worthy cultural entity, let’s call it. I’m cadging cash. Panning for gold.”
“Any stream in particular?”
“The mighty Mississippi.” She looked puzzled, so he explained, “Tonight’s guest of honor. The Solomon guy.”
There was a brief pause. Then she said, “It’s a worthy cause?”
“Does it matter? The causes are usually worthy. But these pirates…what they do with their money is their business, they can squander it on Milk Duds if they like. But they’re all such assholes, that’s what gets you after a while. I’ve never met one who didn’t make you bleed copiously for whatever you get. And from what I’ve heard, Solomon’s among the worst.”
“Is that what you’ve heard?”
“That’s his rep. I’ll find out first-hand soon enough. But what brings you here? Are huge conifers a passion? Are you a donor yourself? Or maybe someone’s date?”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive. I am a donor, as it happens.”
“That’s impressive.”
“Depends on the size of the donation, doesn’t it?”
“I thought size doesn’t matter.”
“That’s one theory,” she said.
“I’ve been misled?”
“You’re the escort. You tell me.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he suddenly noticed Magda across the room, waving at him. And was surprised to feel disappointed. He wasn’t quite ready to disengage.
“Listen,” he said, “thi