She rinsed their cups and handed them to him. He put them in the dishwasher. She wiped off a cabinet top and he ran water into the roaster in which he'd baked the ham.
“Tell you what . . .” He closed the dishwasher door. “Let's lighten up a little bit. Let's go out and take a walk along the lakeshore. What do you say?”
Leaning his hips against the cabinet, he dried his hands on a towel then handed it to her. She wiped hers, too, then folded the towel over the edge of the sink.
“All right,” she said.
Neither of them moved. They stood side-by-side, studying each other, their backsides braced against the edge of the countertop. They were doing a mating dance and both knew it. They might very well suspect the outcome but when it came to stepping close and bringing the dance to its logical conclusion, both backed off. They had loved and lost once before and were terrified of the same thing happening twice; it was as simple as that.
They walked over to the public beach, speaking little. They stared at the path of the moon on the water. He sidearmed a rock into it, distorting the moon's reflection, then watched it reform. They listened to the soft lick of the waves on the shore, and smelled the tang of wet wood from a nearby dock, and felt the sand close in around their shoes and hold them rooted.
They looked at each other, standing a goodly distance apart, uncertain, desirous and fearing. Then back at the lake again, knowing relationships did not come with guarantees.
In time they turned and walked back, entered the lobby and rode the elevator to the second floor in silence. Back in his condo, Michael stopped off at the bathroom while Bess continued to the family room and flopped onto her back on the leather sofa, staring at the ceiling, one leg stretched out, the other foot on the floor.
I can stay or go, risk it or risk nothing. The choice is mine.
The bathroom door opened and he entered the family room, crossed it and stopped several feet from her, his hands in his rear pockets. For moments he remained so, in the pose of deep reflection and indecision, concentrating on her without moving.
Cautiously she sat up and dropped her other foot to the floor in a last-ditch decision for common sense.
Taking his hands from his pockets, he moved toward her smilelessly, as if his decision had been made. “I liked you better lying down,” he said, grasping her shoulders and pressing her against the pliant cream leather as she had been. In one fluid motion he stretched half-beside, half-upon her and kissed her, a soft, lingering question after which he searched her eyes and held her rounded shoulder in the cup of his hand.
“I'm not at all sure this is the right thing to do,” he said, his voice gruff with emotion.
“Neither am I.”
“But I've been thinking about it all night.”
“Only tonight? I've been thinking of it for weeks.”
He kissed her a second time, as if convincing them both it was the right thing to do, taking a long, sweet time while temptation began its work. They let it build slowly, opening their mouths to each other, touching and holding one another tentatively, finally ending the kiss to embrace full-length, the way old friends do, needing time before taking one more step.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“You feel good.”
“Ahh, so do you.”
“Familiar.”
“Yes.” Familiarity had caught him, too, bringing with it a rightness he welcomed. When he kissed her again the friendliness had fled, replaced by a first show of fire and demand. She returned both and they held strong, heart-to-heart, with their legs plaited and urgency beginning. With their caress gone full-length, the kiss became lush and stormy, wholly immodest as the best of kisses are, with arousal at last admitted and moderation denied. They hove together, searching for a dearer fit, tasting coffee and concupiscence upon one another's tongues, reveling in it while past and present welled up and became enmeshed in this embrace—desire, hope, amity, past failures and fear of repeating those failures.
Their breakdown marked the end of a long abstinence for both of them; passion was swift and complete. He found her breast, cupped and caressed it briefly through her clothing before delving beneath. He shinnied down her body, pushed her sweater up and kissed her through her brassiere and pressed his face between her breasts while pinning her hips flat with his chest. She arched, and cradled his head as a murmur of delight slid from her throat.
He shot up, sitting on one heel, and made short work of her clothing, then his own. Down he flung her again, and she was eager to receive his open mouth upon her naked breasts and belly. He uttered a single word while working his way down her body, to her midriff, stomach, and the warm familiar flesh below.
“Remember?”
She remembered—ah, she remembered—the shyness the first time they had done these things, the years it had taken to perfect them, to feel comfortable doing them. She closed her eyes as his mouth touched her intimately. Her nostrils dilated as he nuzzled her, calling back other nights, other times when, with hearts hammering as now, they'd explored these primal forces and allowed themselves to enjoy them. In three years of intimacy with another man she had allowed no such license. But this was Michael, whose bride she'd been, whose children she'd borne, with whom such intimacies had once been learned.
In time she returned the favor while he lay back with his head against the soft leather cushions as she knelt on the floor in the wishbone of his legs.
“Oh, Michael,” she said, “it's so easy with you. It feels so right.”
“Do you remember the first time we did this?”
“We'd been married two years before we dared.”
“And even then I was scared. I thought you'd smack me and go sleep in the spare room.”
“I didn't, though, did I?”
He smiled down at her as she resumed her ardent ministrations. Moments later he reached down to touch her head. “Stop.” He groped for his white trousers, which lay on the floor, drawing a foil packet from his pocket. “Do we need this?” he asked.
Smiling, she stroked him and said, “So you planned on this.”
“Let's just say I was hoping.”
“Yes, we need that. Unless we want to risk having a baby who's younger than our own grandchild.” She watched him put on the condom as she had uncountable times before, hoping for a thousand future times.
“Wouldn't the kids have something to say about that?”
“Lisa would be overjoyed.”
“She'd be overjoyed anyway. This is what she was scheming for all along.” The tone of his voice became sultry. His hair was messed and his grin was teasing as he reached for her. “Come here, Grandma.” He laid her where he wanted her and arranged her limbs to best advantage. “Let's christen this Italian leather properly.”
She lifted her arms in welcome and they ended six—nearly seven—years of separation.
She looked up at his face as he entered her, and touched his temples where the silver hairs gilded the black, and drew him down flush upon her.
He made a sound, “Ahhh . . .” the way some men would after pushing back their plate after a satisfying meal. She'd been expecting it and it brought a smile. They held one another for a while without moving, letting familiarity and relief overtake them.
“It's wonderful,” she said, “doing this with someone you know so well, isn't it?”
He pressed back to see her face and smiled softly. “Yes, it's wonderful.”
“I knew you'd make that sound just now.”
“What sound?”
“Ahh, you said, ‘Ahh,' the way you always did.”
“Did I always?”
“Always. At that moment.”
He grinned as if this was news to him and kissed her lightly on the upper lip. Then her lower one. Then her full mouth while he began moving.
Her eyes closed, the better to enjoy what followed, and her hands rode low upon his hips.
Sometimes they kissed, softly, in keeping with veneration.
Sometimes they smiled for no single reason.
Sometimes he voiced questions, throaty and thick.
Sometimes she whispered a reply, gazing up into his eyes.
And once they laughed, and thought how grand they could do so in the midst of lovemaking.
When they reached their climaxes, Bess called out and Michael groaned, their mingled voices shimmering through the dimly lit rooms she had so newly trimmed for him. Ah, the dazzling disquiet of those few trembling seconds while they lost touch with all but sensation.
In the afterglow they lay on their sides, sealed to each other and the warmed leather. The welcome breath of early night drifted in to cool their skins. Moths beat against the screen. Through the archway the forgotten dinner candles washed the walls with amber light.
Bess's hair trailed over Michael's arm while his free hand idled over her breasts in a soothing, endless rhythm. She heaved a sigh of repletion and let her eyes close for a while. He knew these were the moments she savored best, afterward, when the souls took over where the bodies left off. Always she'd whispered, “Don't leave . . . not yet.” He remained now, studying the faint tracery of creases at the corners of her eyes, the rim of her lips, which were so at rest they revealed a glimpse of teeth inside, the place on her throat where her pulse billowed and ebbed like the wings of a sitting butterfly.
She opened her eyes and found him studying her without the smile she'd expected.
“Just what do we think we're going to do about this?” he asked quietly.
“I don't know.”
“Did you have any ideas before you came here?”
She wagged her head faintly.
“We could just keep having a torrid affair.”
“A torrid affair? Michael, what have you been reading?”
He put his thumb beneath her lower lip and pulled down until her bottom teeth appeared.
“We're awfully darn good together, Bess.”
“Yes, I know but be serious.”
He gave up his preoccupation with her mouth and laid his arm along his hip. “All right, I will. How much do you think we've changed since our divorce?”
“That's a loaded question if I ever heard one.”
“Answer it.”
“I'm scared to.” After a long pause she asked, “Aren't you?”
He studied her eyes for some time before answering, “Yes.”
“Then I think what I'll do is just get up and put my clothes on and go home and pretend this never happened.”
She rolled over and off him.
“Good luck,” he said, watching her pick up her clothing and go. She used the guest bathroom off the gallery and felt reality return with every minute while she donned the brief blue underwear that had certainly done its job. Reality was the two of them, failures the first time around, starting up a carnal relationship again without rationalizing where it might lead. Dressed once more, she returned to the doorway to find him standing at the far end of the family room before the sliding glass door, barefooted, bare-chested, wearing only his white jeans.
“May I borrow a brush?” she asked.
He turned and looked back at her, silent for a stretch.
“In my bathroom.”
Once again she went away, into his private domain, where she had probed once before. This time was worse—opening his vanity drawers and finding an ace bandage, dental floss, some foil packets of Alka-Seltzer and an entire box of condoms.
An entire box!
Looking at them, she found herself blush with anger. All right, so he was single, and single guys probably bought condoms by the dozen. But she didn't like being duped into believing this was an uncommon occurrence in his life!
She slammed that drawer and opened another to find his hairbrush at last. Some of his dark hairs were stuck in the bristles. The sight of them, and the feel of his brush being drawn through her hair, dulled her anger and brought a sense of grave emptiness, a reluctance to return to her lone life, where there was no sharing of brushes or of bathrooms or dinner tables or beds.
She did what she could with her hair, searched out mouthwash and used it, refreshed her lipstick and returned to the family room once more. He was still staring out at the darkness, obviously troubled by the same misgivings as she, now that the easy part was over.
“Well, Michael, I think I'll go.”
He swung to face her.
“Yeah, fine,” he answered.
“Thank you for supper. It was wonderful.”
“Sure.”
A void passed, a great terrifying void that reared up before both of them.
“Listen, Michael, I've been thinking. There are a few more empty walls in here, and you could use some more small items on the mantels and the tables but I think it's best if you find them on your own.”
His expression grew stormy. “Bess, why are you blaming me? You wanted it, too. Don't tell me you didn't, not after those underclothes you were wearing. You were planning on it just as much as I was!”
“Yes, I was. But I'm not blaming you. I just think that we . . . that it's . . .” She ran out of words.
“What? A mistake?”
She remembered the condoms. “I don't know. Maybe.”
He stared at her with a hurt look around his eyes and an angry one around his mouth.
“Should I call you?”
“I don't know, Michael. Maybe it's not such a good idea.”
He dropped his chin to his chest and whispered, “Shit.”
She stood across the room, her heart racing with fear because of what he had almost suggested. It was too terrifying to ponder, too impossible to consider, too risky to let it be put into words. They had changed a lot but what assurance was there? What fool would put his hand in the mill wheel after his finger had been cut off?
She said, “Thanks again, Michael,” and he made no reply as she saw herself out and ran from the idea of starting again.
Chapter 15
WHEN BESS GOT HOME the lights were on all over the house, even in her bedroom. Frowning, she parked in the driveway rather than waste time pulling into the garage, and had barely put foot inside the front door when Randy came charging down two steps at a time from the second story. “Ma, where you been? I thought you'd never get home!”
Terror struck. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing. I got an audition! Grandma's old dude, Gilbert, got me one with this band called The Edge!”
Bess released a breath and let her shoulders slump. “Thank heavens. I thought it was some catastrophe.”
“Turns out old Gilbert used to own the Withrow Ballroom and he knows everybody—bands, agents, club owners. He's been talking to guys about me since Lisa's wedding. Pretty great, huh?”
“That's wonderful, Randy. When's the audition?”
“I don't know yet. The band's playing a gig out in Bismarck, North Dakota, but they're due back tomorrow. I've got to call them sometime in the afternoon. God, where were you, Mom? I've been hangin' around here all night, waiting to tell you.”
“I was with your dad.”
“With Dad?” Randy's ebullience fizzled. “You mean, on business?”
“No, not this time. He cooked dinner for me.”
“Dad cooked dinner?”
“Yes. And a very good one at that. Come on upstairs with me and tell me about this band.” She led the way to her bedroom, where the television was on and she could tell Randy had been lying on her bed. He must have been anxious, to have invaded her room. She snagged a robe and went into her bathroom, calling through the door as she changed into it, “So what kind of music does this band play?”
“Rock, basically. A mix of old and new, Gilbert said.”
They went on talking until Bess came out of the bathroom with her face scrubbed, rubbing lotion on it while a headband held her hair out of the way. Randy was sitting on the bed, Indian-fashion, looking out of place in her boudoir, with its pastel stripes and cabbage roses, bishop sleeve curtains and c
hintz-covered chairs. Bess sat down in one and propped her bare feet on the mattress, crossing her terrycloth robe over her knees.
“Did you know about this?” Randy asked. “I mean, did Grandma tell you?”
“No. It's as much of a surprise to me as it is to you.” From a skirted table Bess took a remote control and lowered the volume of the television, then pulled the band from her hair.
“Old Gilbert . . . can you believe that?” Randy wobbled his head in amazement.
“Yes, I can, the way he dances.”
“And all because I played at that wedding.”
“You see? Just a little courage and look what happens.”
Randy grinned and slapped out a rhythm on his thighs.
“You scared?” his mother asked.
His hands stopped tapping. “Well . . .” He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so, a little.”
“I was scared when I started my store, too. Turned out good, though.”
Randy sat looking at her. “Yeah, I guess it did.” He fell pensive for some time, then seemed to draw himself from his thoughts. “So what's this between you and the old man?”
“Your dad, you mean.”
“Yeah . . . sorry . . . Dad. What's going on between you two?”
Bess got up and walked to the dresser, where she dropped the headband and fiddled with some bottles and tubes before picking one up and uncapping it. “We're just friends.” She squeezed some skin mask on her finger and put her face close to the mirror while touching selected spots.
“You're a lousy liar, you know that, Mom? You've been to bed with him, haven't you?”
“Randy, that's none of your business!” She slammed down the tube.
“I can see in that mirror and you're blushing.”
She glared at his reflection. “It's still none of your business, and I'm appalled at your lack of manners.”
“Okay! Okay!” He threw back his hands and clambered off the bed. “I just don't understand you, that's all. First you divorce him, and then you decorate his place, and now . . .” He gestured lamely as his words died.
She turned to face him. “And now, you will kindly give me the same respect I give you in personal matters. I've never asked about your sex life, and I don't expect you to ask about mine, okay? We're both adults. We both know the risks and rewards of certain choices we might make. Let's leave it at that.”