“You insidious little cuddle puppy. I think I have four more. Plus one by a married lady who may have been kidding me. Three I supported until they were on their own; the fourth—and that possible fifth—I couldn’t even offer to. But they were never in want.”
“How was it handled, dear? Three maiden ladies who moved elsewhere and became overnight widows?”
“Uh. . . only in one case. I offered to marry her—I was a grass widower then—but she elected not to, and did marry later and her husband adopted the child and I made a cash settlement. The other similar case I was married but the settlement was just as amicable. The other two were married. Some grief about one—she was a compulsive confesser, from which the good Lord deliver me!—and her husband had to be soothed with mucho dinero. The last—well, her husband was sterile—mumps—and together they picked a father. Me. Startled the hell out of me. But he offered to put it in writing and did. I tore it up and settled it with a handshake.” (This is all news to me, Joan. But I couldn’t believe that such a virile and charming man had left no by-blows. Keep him talking.)
Jake grinned and caressed her sweet body. “That is the only one I’m certain about, as I have never insisted on blood tests if a lady accused me and I could have been the man. But in that case I am certain, as we took a holiday together, by sailboat, with her husband as nominal chaperonage. So that time it was I, at the right time and place. Then—” He paused. “Joan Eunice, I don’t know whether Johann would have approved of the sequel, or not but I don’t want to shock the sweet girl you are now.” (Honey, don’t let him stop there!)
“Johann can’t be shocked, Jake. If it’s rough, I won’t tell Eunice. But don’t let me crowd you.”
“Well . . . it wasn’t rough, it was sweet. They didn’t use me and drop me. I was welcome in their home thereafter and in their bed.”
“Three in a bed?”
“Uh. . . don’t be, nosy! Sometimes.”
“But no more babies?”
“They were licensed for four and had them. But I think they picked a different father for each. I simply know that, in the several times I stayed in their home over about ten years, I never slept alone. I still get Christmas cards from them, each with a photograph of the family—and my daughter looks like her mother, not like me, thanks be to God. Joan, they were and are a respectable married couple, devout, and devoted to each other and to their children, and old-fashioned . . . except that, when they were faced with the need for a donor, they elected to pick donors themselves, then use the old-fashioned way rather than syringes and a clinical atmosphere.”
“Uh.. . was she sweet in bed?”
“Quite. But unsophisticated. Not a patch on Eunice, if you were thinking about her.”
“I was.” (1 was!)
“Eunice—Eunice was the most glorious thing that could happen to a man. Sweet as an angel, and as skilled—and as uninhibited!—as the most famous courtesan in history.” (I’m purring!)
“Jake. I prefer the old-fashioned way, too.”
“Yes?”
“You were sweet to all those ladies and you got two unmarried ones pregnant and I’m rich enough to get away with it and right now you are feeling young—I know you are! Will you pick me up and carry me over there? Or shall I walk?”
“Eunice.”
“Let’s both walk. But hurry.”
“Yes. Yes, darling.”
She jumped up, took his hand…as the house intercom sounded with: “Mr. Salomon! Rockford here. Your car is waiting.”
Joan said, “Oh, my God!” and started to cry.
Jake put his arm around her and petted her. “I’m sorry, darling.”
“Jake. Tell them to go get dinner. Tell them to be back in, uh, two hours.”
“No, dear.”
She stomped her bare foot. “Jake, I won’t, I won’t! This is unbearable.”
He said quietly, “You promised. Look, darling, I’m not nineteen years old and able to perform in back seats of cars or on back, porches with a party going on in the house. I have to have quiet and peace.” (Don’t believe him, dear! Though he might be scared off for a first time.) Joan bawled and shook her head. He spoke loudly: