When they had lived together she had taken a bath every night. Coming to
bed she had smelled so good it had nearly driven him mad. Like the
breath of a newborn, there was absolutely nothing imperfect about it.
And she had played dumb for a while until he lay exhausted on top of her
and she would smile a decidedly wicked little smile and stroke him and
he would ruminate for several minutes on how it was so crystal-clear to
him that women ruled the world.
He found his baser instincts creeping firmly ahead as she leaned her
head against his shoulder. But her exhausted manner, her total apathy,
swiftly quelled his secular inclinations and left him feeling more than
a little guilty.
“I’m not sure I’m going to be very good company.”
Had she sensed what he was feeling? How could she? Her mind,
everything about her, must be a million miles away from this spot.
“Being entertained was not part of the deal. I can look after myself,
Kate.”
“I really appreciate your doing this.”
“I can’t think of anything more important.”
She squeezed his hand. As she rose to go the flap on her robe came
undone exposing more than just her long, slender legs and he was glad
she would be in another room that night. His ruminations until the
early-morning hours ran the gamut from visions of white knights with
large dark spots disfiguring their pristine armor to idealistic lawyers
who slept miserably alone.
On the third night he had settled in again on the couch.
And, as before, she came out of her bedroom; the slight squeak made him
lay down the magazine he was reading.
But this time she did not go to the couch. He finally craned his neck
around and found her watching him. She did not look apathetic tonight.
And tonight she was not wearing the robe. She turned and went back
inside her bedroom. The door stayed open.
For a moment he did nothing. Then he rose, went to the door and peered
in. Through the darkness he could make out her form on the bed. The
sheet was at the foot of the bed.
The contours of her body, once as familiar to him as his own, confronted
him. She looked at him. He could just make out the ovals of her eyes as
they focused on him. She did not put out her hand for him; he recalled
that she had never done that.
“Are you sure about this?” He felt compelled to ask it. He wanted no
hurt feelings in the morning, no crushed, confused emotions.
For an answer she rose and pulled him to the bed. The mattress was firm,
and warm where she had been. In another moment he was as naked as she.
He instinctively traced the half-moon, moved his hand around the crooked
mouth, which now touched his. Her eyes were open and this time, and it
had been a long time, there were no tears, no swelling, just the look he
had grown so used to, expected to have around forever. He slowly put his
arms around her.
THE HOME OF WALTER SULLIVAN HAD SEEN VISITING DIGNItaries OF incredibly
high rank. But tonight was special even compared to past events.
Alan Richmond raised his glass of wine and gave a brief -but eloquent
toast to his host as the four other carefully selected couples clinked
their glasses, The First Lady, radiant in a simple, black dress, ash
blonde hair framing a sculpted face that had worn remarkably well over
the years and made for delightful photo ops, smiled at the billionaire.
Accustomed as she was to being surrounded by wealth and brains and
refinement, she, like most people, was still in awe of Walter Sullivan
and men like him, if only for their rarity on the planet.
Technically still in mourning, Sullivan was in a particularly gregarious
mood. Over imported coffee in the spacious library the conversation
ventured from global business opportunities, the latest maneuvering of
the Federal Reserve Board, the ‘Skins’ chances against the Forty-niners
that Sunday, to the election the following year. There were none in
attendance who thought Alan Richmond would have a different occupation