consummation, all of which he has seen in countless movies, bodies
bathed in golden light, ecstasy, a fierce intensity of pleasure possible
only in the presence of love. Afterward, he will not have to kill her
because then they will be as one, two hearts beating in harmony, no
reason for killing anyone, transcendent, all needs gloriously satisfied.
The prospect of romance leaves him almost breathless.
“I will make you so happy, Paige,” he promises her picture.
Realizing he hasn’t bathed since Saturday, wanting to be clean for her,
he returns her silken panties to the stack from which he had plucked
them, closes the dresser drawer, and goes into his bathroom to shower.
He strips out of the clothes he took from the motorhome closet of the
white-haired retiree, Jack, in Oklahoma on Sunday, hardly twenty-four
hours ago. After wadding each garment into a tight ball, he stuffs it
into a brass wastebasket.
The shower stall is spacious, and the water is wonderfully hot.
He works up a heavy lather with the bar of soap, and soon the clouds of
steam are laden with an almost intoxicating floral aroma.
After drying off on a yellow towel, he searches bathroom drawers until
he finds his toiletries. He uses a roll-on deodorant and then combs his
wet hair straight back from his forehead to let it dry naturally.
He shaves with an electric razor, splashes on some limescented cologne,
and brushes his teeth.
He feels like a new man.
In his half of the large walk-in closet, he selects a pair of cotton
briefs, blue jeans, a blue-and-black-checkered flannel shirt, athletic
socks, and a pair of Nikes. Everything fits perfectly.
It feels so good to be home.
Paige stood at one of the windows and watched the gray clouds roll in
from the west, driven by a Pacific wind. As they came, the earth below
them darkened, and sun-mantled buildings put on cloaks of shadows.
The inner sanctum of her three-room, sixth-floor office suite had two
large panes of glass that provided an uninspiring view of a freeway, a
shopping center, and the jammed-together roofs of housing tracts that
receded across Orange County apparently to infinity.
She would have enjoyed a panoramic ocean vista or a window on a lushly
planted courtyard, but that would have meant higher rent, which had been
out of the question during the early years of Marty’s writing career
when she’d been their primary breadwinner.
Now, in spite of his growing success and impressive income, obligating
herself to a pricier lease at a new location was still imprudent.
Even a prospering literary career was an uncertain living.
The owner of a fresh-produce store, when ill, had employees who would
continue to sell oranges and apples in his absence, but if Marty became
ill, the entire enterprise screeched to a halt.
And Marty was ill. Perhaps seriously.
No, she wouldn’t think about that. They knew nothing for sure.
It was more like the old Paige, the pre-Marty Paige, to worry about mere
possibilities instead of about only what was already fact.
Appreciate the moment, Marty would tell her. He was a born therapist.
Sometimes she thought she’d learned more from him than from the courses
she had taken to earn her doctorate in psychology.
Appreciate the moment.
In truth the constant bustle of the scene beyond the window was
invigorating. And whereas she had once been so predisposed to gloom
that bad weather could negatively affect her mood, all of these years
with Marty and his usually unshakable good cheer had made it possible
for her to see the somber beauty in an oncoming storm.
She had been born and raised in a loveless house as grim and cold as any
arctic cavern. But those days were far behind her, and the effect of
them had long ago diminished.
Appreciate the moment.
Checking her watch, she pulled the drapes shut because the mood of her
next two clients was not likely to be immune to the influence of gray
weather.
When the windows were covered, the place was as cozy as any parlor in a
private home. Her desk, books, and files were in the third office,
rarely seen by those she counseled. She always met with them in this