For a while, she and Tony lay in bed, holding each other, saying nothing because nothing needed to be said.
Ten minutes later, at four-thirty in the morning, she said, “I should be getting home.”
“Stay.”
“Are you capable of doing more?”
“God, no! I’m wiped out. I just want to hold you. Sleep here.” he said.
“If I stay, we won’t sleep.”
“Are you capable of doing more?”
“Unfortunately, dear man, I’m not. But I’ve got things to do tomorrow, and so have you. And we’re much too excited and too full of each other to get any rest so long as we’re sharing a bed. We’ll keep touching like this, talking like this, resisting sleep like this.”
“Well,” he said, “we’ve got to learn to spend the night together. I mean, we’re going to be spending a lot of them in the same bed, don’t you think?”
“Many, many,” she said. “The first night’s the worst. We’ll adjust when the novelty wears off. I’ll start wearing curlers and cold cream to bed.”
“And I’ll start smoking cigars and watching Johnny Carson.”
“Such a shame,” she said.
“Of course, it’ll take a bit of time for the freshness to wear off.”
“A bit,” she agreed.
“Like fifty years.”
“Or sixty.”
They delayed her leaving for another fifteen minutes, but finally she got up and dresssed. Tony pulled on a pair of jeans. In the living room, as they walked toward the door, she stopped and stared at one of his paintings and said, “I want to take six of your best pieces to Wyant Stevens in Beverly Hills and see if he’ll handle you.”
“He won’t.”
“I want to try.”
“That’s one of the best galleries.”
“Why start at the bottom?”
He stared at her, but he seemed to be seeing someone else. At last, he said, “Maybe I should jump.”
“Jump?”
He told her about the impassioned advice he had received from Eugene Tucker, the black ex-convict who was now designing dresses.
“Tucker is right,” she said. “And this isn’t even a jump. It’s only a little hop. You’re not quitting your job with the police department or anything. You’re just testing the waters.”
Tony shrugged. “Wyant Stevens will turn me down cold, but I guess I don’t lose anything by giving him the chance to do it.”
“He won’t turn you down,” she said. “Pick out half a dozen paintings you feel are most representative of your work. I’ll try to get us an appointment with Wyant either later today or tomorrow.”
“You pick them out right now,” he said. “Take them with you. When you get a chance to see Stevens, show them to him.”
“But I’m sure he’ll want to meet you.”
“If he likes what he sees, then he’ll want to meet me. And if he does like it, I’ll be happy to go see him.”
“Tony, really–”
“I just don’t want to be there when he tells you it’s good work but only that of a gifted amateur.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Cautious.”
“Such a pessimist.”
“Realist.”
She didn’t have time to look at all of the sixty canvases that were stacked in the living room. She was surprised to learn that he had more than fifty others stored in closets, as well as a hundred pen and ink drawings, nearly as many watercolors, and countless preliminary pencil sketches. She wanted to see all of them, but only when she was well-rested and fully able to enjoy them. She chose six of the twelve pieces that hung on the living room walls. To protect the paintings, they carefully wrapped them in lengths of an old sheet, which Tony tore apart for that purpose.
He put on a shirt and shoes, helped her carry the bundles to her car, where they stashed them in the trunk.
She closed and locked the trunk, and they looked at each other, neither of them wanting to say goodbye.
They were standing at the edge of a pool of light cast by a twenty-foot-high sodium-vapor lamp. He kissed her chastely.
The night was chilly and silent. There were stars.
“It’ll be dawn before long,” he said.
“Want to sing ‘Two Sleepy People’ with me?”