"Rupert . . ." She shrugged, frustrated. "Sometimes I think he doesn't
even see me when he looks at me."
"Do you think you'll have kids, someday?" It just popped out of his
mouth.
"I hope so. We've been trying."
"This could be the weekend," Oliver said hopefully.
"I don't think so," she said. "Rupert's at a stamp collectors'
convention . . . You want to go to a movie Saturday afternoon, maybe
have a drink?" Her eyes opened wide. Now _she_ was surprised at
herself. Oliver blinked.
"Jesus, Jennifer. That sounds a lot like a date."
"Well--yes! Rupert is always telling me I should go out more, get out
of the house."
Oliver liked Jennifer. She was easy to be around. She was earnest in a
way that he understood. He found it hard to say no to her, which is
why, on Saturday night, he found himself on top of her while she kissed
him and pulled at his belt buckle.
He objected weakly, and she said, "I don't care. I don't _care_,
Oliver. I've never done this before. I need you." She clamped her mouth
on his and put the matter out of reach. She was as purposeful in bed as
she was in the office. She took him inside her and urged him on, as
though something might pull him away at any moment. It was fast and
satisfying. He barely registered that she was both softer and stronger
than he thought before she sighed and rolled him to one side. She had
that special full and contented woman's smile.
"That was so good," she said. She put her fingers on his lips. "Shhh.
I've got to go, now." She dressed quickly. "Will you be in on Monday?"
He nodded. She bent over him and put her hand on his chest, as if to
measure his strength while at the same time keeping him in place. She
lingered for a second. "Good night, Handsome."
"Good night." And she was gone.
The next day, Oliver stayed around the house wondering what he was
getting himself into.
On Monday, when he and Jennifer were alone, she blushed and said, "God!
That was wonderful, Oliver. But--it will just have to be a lost
weekend." She lowered and then raised her eyes. "I feel like I took
advantage."
"It was terrible," Oliver said. "There ought to be a law against it."
She threw her arms around his neck and just as quickly stepped back.
She bit her lip.
"I can't get used to you," she whispered.
"I'll be done, Wednesday," Oliver said.
That was that. A month later, he saw her with Rupert at the Maine Mall,
on the other side of the Food Court. She looked normally married and
involved in what they were doing. Oliver went in a different direction,
feeling lonely, remembering how tightly she had held him. He stopped at
Deweys. "I got back on," he informed Mark.
"Nice going. Quick work!"
"It was the linen jacket," Oliver said.
"No shit?" Mark was pleased. "There you go. This one's on me."
A few weeks later, Oliver was waiting for a seat in Becky's, standing
by the door, when Francesca came in with her two girls. Oliver looked
at her and all doubt left him. It was as if they had arranged to meet.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi." She was tanned, wearing a large white "Harbor Fish" T-shirt over
dark brown cotton pants.
"Mommy, I have to go to the bathroom."
"It's right over there, Elena--the first door." Francesca pointed and
put her free hand on the other girl's head. "Stay with me, Maria."
"Takes two hands--motherhood," Oliver said.
"Two aren't enough, really." Her voice was low and easy. An elderly
couple passed them on their way out. Oliver waved at their table which
was being cleared.
"Why don't you take it?"
"It's crowded, today. Thank you," Francesca said. "Why don't we share?"
"Sure," Oliver said. "Is anyone joining you?"
Francesca tipped her head to one side and ran fingers through her hair.
She looked at Oliver and shook her head deliberately. There were no
words, or too many, to explain. "My lucky day," Oliver said. She
smiled--tribute was tribute, even in Becky's at rush hour. Maria tugged
at her hand.
"I'm hungry."
"Let's eat, then," Francesca said, moving toward the table. When she
reached the booth, she said, "Mr. . . . is going to eat with us."
"Oliver."
"Mr. Oliver."
"No. Oliver Prescott is my name. Oliver Muni Prescott. But--Oliver,
please."
"I see." She laughed. "I am Francesca Malloy. This is Maria. And here
is Elena." She held an arm out to Elena who was pleased with her
conquest of the bathroom. "Elena, this is Oliver. We are sharing a
table, today." Elena stared at him.
"I'm almost as big as you," she said.
Maria leaned toward her. "Stupid--you're supposed to say: 'How do you
do.' "
"How do you do, Elena," Oliver said. "You _are_ a big girl. Strong too,
I bet."
"Very," she said.
"You have such pretty girls," Oliver said to Francesca.
"I am from Ecuador," Maria said. "Elena is from Colombia." She gave the
names their Spanish sounds. Oliver wanted to put his arms around her
and keep her from harm forever. "We have two mommies." She
concentrated. "We _each_ have two mommies. We are sisters, now."
"Lucky girls," Oliver said.
"Where's _your_ mommy?"
"Connecticut," Oliver said. "Far away."
"Oh." Maria nodded sympathetically. One corner of Francesca's wide
mouth curved up; the other curved down. Her eyebrows were raised.
"Lucky everybody," Oliver said, including himself. He felt the rings of
calm again, rippling outward from their table.
"Something to drink?" One of the regular waitresses laid down menus.
"Coffee for me," Oliver said.
"Tea. Juice for the girls--orange."
"I want apple," Elena said.
"Please," Francesca said.
"Please."
"One apple, one orange." The waitress swept away.
They talked about how the summer was nearly over. They talked about
learning how to swim and how hard it was to eat a lobster. Oliver
didn't ask about her husband. She didn't ask about his work. They
stayed with what mattered: themselves, lunch, the girls, the moment.
When they said goodbye, there was a lovely quiet between them. They
were together in the act of parting.
Oliver was giddy walking home. He looked at the walnut box and the
bronze heart. "She's the one," he said to Verdi who was staring at him
from the window sill.
6.
If Francesca weren't married, Oliver would have been after her in an
instant. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't think of a way to give
her the box and the valentine without putting her in an awkward
position. He placed them on the mantelpiece in the living room. The
walnut and the bronze gave him a warm feeling; they signalled a future
or at least a connection with her.
He might have hustled a programming project, but the thought of
business meetings sent him across the bridge to Crescent Beach. The air
was fresh and salty, softened by the waxy smell of beach roses.
Children played. Dogs chased Frisbees. Waves curled and crashed along
the sand. In September, in Maine, time has a way of crystallizing and
standing still. Oliver soaked up the sunny shortening days. He was
rested and tan, increasingly coiled for some kind of action.
He received a postcard from Jacky saying that she was living in a motel
but was about to move into a house. Her job was a lot of work but going
well. She missed him. He sent a housewarming card to the new address
and said that he missed her, too. No harm in that. Besides, it was true.
One afternoon in October, when the leaves were beginning to change
color, he came home and heard Jacky's voice on the answering machine.
"Oliver, are you there? No? I'm in town. I'm staying at the Regency.
I'm wondering if you would join me for dinner. I've got a meeting in
ten minutes. Just come to the restaurant in the hotel, if you can, at
six." There was a short pause. "I'll understand if you can't make it. I
know it's short notice. Bye." Her voice softened on the "bye," and she
hung up.
Oliver paced a couple of tight circles and decided to go. He did his
laundry and ironed a white linen shirt. At six, he walked into the
Regency and said to the hostess, "I'm meeting someone . . ." He looked
around for Jacky.
"Are you Oliver?"
"Yes."
"Ms. Chapelle called to say that she would be fifteen minutes late. May
I get you a drink?"
"Glenlivet, please. Rocks."
Twenty minutes later Jacky swept in, apologizing.
"No problem," Oliver said. "You look well." She was tanned and buzzing
with energy.
"Forgive my banker suit," she said. "No time to change. I talked them
into more money."
"Congratulations."
"Dinner's on me. Mmm," she said, opening a menu.
"So, how's Maryland?"
"Crab cakes are great. Weather's warmer. After that--Maine wins." She
told him about her job and the house she was buying. "And you?"
"Pretty much the same . . . I found out what a clave beat is." He
explained and she applauded. "No, like this," he said, clapping out two
bars.
"It's warm in here," she said, taking off her jacket and opening the
top two buttons of her tight blouse.
"Yes." As they talked and drank, Oliver settled in his chair, his eyes
on the opening in her blouse and the lacy rising edge of her bra. A
familiar undertow pulled him down; he wanted to be lower than she was.
She watched, opened her blouse farther, and let it happen. They
finished dinner and drank the rest of the wine. "I'd forgotten . . ."
he started.
"Oliver," she said, "I have something for you. Why don't you come up
for a drink?" He nodded, yes. She stood, signed the check, and led him
to the elevator. "There's wine in the convenience bar," she said,
shutting the door of her room behind them. He poured two glasses and
sat on a plushly upholstered love seat, waiting for her to come out of
the bathroom.
"That's better, isn't it?" she said, sitting beside him and kicking off
her shoes. Another button was undone. She sipped wine slowly, in no
hurry, enjoying herself. Oliver couldn't stop looking at her breasts.
"Do you know what I have for you?" she teased.
"Yes," he said in a small voice. His heart was beating loudly. He put
his glass on the end table and held out his wrists.
"Look at me, Oliver."
He didn't resist. He gave himself to her eyes.
"Sweet," she said. She took the handcuffs from her roll-on bag and
closed them on his wrists. "Stand up." She unbuckled his belt and slid
his pants and shorts down to his ankles. "How sweet." She reached into
the luggage and held up the riding whip.
"You remembered everything," he said helplessly.
"Have you?" She swished the whip, smiling. She didn't have to hit him.
"Please . . ." He sank to his knees, desperate to please her, to be
close to her. She took off her blouse and approached with the whip in
the air.
"Much better," she said, shrugging her shoulders forward and back.
"Don't touch, Oliver. Just look." She leaned over him. "You'd like me
to take off my bra, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," he said. "Mistress." His throat was dry.
"I love how you want me," she said. "Can I trust you to--control
yourself?"
"Yes, Mistress." She removed her bra slowly, watching him with
pleasure. He swallowed.
"You are the sweetest love," she said, laughing. She stripped the rest
of the way and guided him to the bed where he devoted himself to her
until she was wet and happy, incoherent, thankful . . . From a
distance, he heard her say, "Now you."
"Doesn't matter," he mumbled.
She rolled him over and snuggled his head into her lap. "I'm going to
give it to you for a change," she said. "Here." She leaned over and
placed a breast in his mouth. She stroked him. "Jacky's got you. Suck
me, Baby." She pushed her breast deeper into his mouth and brought him
steadily along with her hand. "I've got you. It's all right." He opened
his mouth wide and drew her in. Love came in with her breast--a strange
new feeling that scared him--but she continued, and he accepted and
then couldn't get enough. She brought him to the top and cried out with
him, "Ohhhh! Yes. More. Oh . . ." His head fell back and he reached
for her hip, clutching, clinging to her as if she were a life raft. She
put the palm of her hand on his forehead. "Baby," she said, rocking him
with her body. "It's all right. I've got you. I've got you." He sighed
and pushed deeper against her.
Oliver awoke in the morning with Jacky leaning over him. She was
dressed and glowing. "Hey, there," he said.
"No need to get up," she said. "The room is paid for. Just leave when
you're ready." She kissed him.
"Mmm, toothpaste," Oliver said. "Where you going?"
"Breakfast at Becky's with my friend, Francesca, and then catch a bird
to Baltimore." Oliver sat up straight in the bed. "No, no," she said
and pushed him down. "I left a card in your pants pocket. Call me
tonight."
"Uh . . . O.K."
"Sweet Oliver," she said and left. The door clicked shut, and Oliver
stared at the ceiling. Francesca? Crap! He imagined Jacky describing
their evening in full detail. She wouldn't. But she might well mention
his name. How many short Olivers were there in Portland? He got out of
bed and took a quick shower. Aside from a manageable headache, he felt
loose and relaxed. Jacky had seen to that, for sure. He left the hotel
by a side door and walked home.
"Verdi? There you are. Good old Verdi. I was bad last night. Very bad.
Here you go." He spooned out a whole can of salmon Friskies. "Full
breakfast, this morning. None of those little snackies, no." It was
important to stay on the right side of Verdi.
He considered shaving. To hell with it. He let Verdi out and walked
down to the Victory Deli for a cranberry-blueberry pancake. Jacky. She
knew just which buttons to push. He couldn't help himself. He had been
feeling helpless enough lately without this demonstration of it. She
reveled in his helplessness, rolled in it like Verdi in catnip. I like
it, too, he admitted. I do. I do and I don't. He was so independent
most of the time that it was a relief, a sweet relief, to give in, to
trust her and be controlled by her. But there was also a whiff of
something forbidden about the relationship, something to do with his
mother again. Jacky was a little like her. It was a powerful mix.