Bygones (32 page)

He continued his task without looking at her. “You named it earlier. Growth.”

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!”