19 Purchase Street (20 page)

The interior of the cottage was altogether amiable. It was six rather small-sized rooms, three down, three up. All the walls and ceilings were paneled in four-inch width tongue-in-groove cedar that was painted so high a gloss it looked to be porcelain. Not painted plain white, as might be expected, but white tinted just enough so those surfaces influenced the entire atmosphere in a subtle way. The living room, for example, enjoyed the congenial benefits of the merest hint of persimmon, the kitchen a pervasive suggestion of leaf green and, appropriately, the bedrooms had the faint cast of incarnadine. Throughout, the floors were of pine, wide boards that Gainer and Norma had stripped clean so they could be stenciled with Japan paints and other penetrating pigments. Not a rug on any floor. Just those huge created bouquets, the pastel to vermilion peonies arranged with pink nicotinia and windings of mauve morning glories. All on a transparent green-washed field bordered by leaves with their veins contrastingly detailed. The floors were by far the most intricate aspect of the cottage, all else in it gave way to them, simply stood aside. The chairs, and tables, the dresser bureaus and beds, all carefully chosen and carefully kept, but not allowed to be ornate. The paintings on the walls were watercolors, all sizes hung here or there without concern for alignment or spatial balance. Each painting had been put up practically anywhere the moment after it entered the cottage. Such impulsiveness suited them, their own spontaneity. There were watercolors to be found in unusual places—unframed and push-pinned up on the inside of a closet door; a very small, unfinished one fixed to a window frame; and, of course, others tucked along the edges of mirrors.

The cottage was inviting, pretty, comforting and comfortable. But above all, it was romantic.

For Gainer, a favorite place.

He set down his bag at the foot of the stairs and went into the kitchen. Everything, he noticed, was in place the way Norma liked, and there were some current touches by Leslie: red geranium petals floating in a shallow crystal dish on the table, a circle of fine old lace beneath the dish, sort of presenting it. A fat, new Boston fern hung in the kitchen. Fresh creamy candles around. Small light blue Tiffany boxes, several such birthday gifts placed where they couldn't possibly miss being discovered by Norma.

Not thoughtful of Leslie, however, was her six carat diamond ring and her Buccelatti ruby and gold chain necklace left in an ordinary saucer on the kitchen counter by the sink. Gainer had often admired the ring. It was difficult not to, the way it flared at him and the way she so casually wore it. Once, by chance, he had seen its pedigree papers from the Gemological Institute of America certifying the diamond was a D color flawless round cut, worth well over three hundred thousand dollars. The ruby necklace was at least a fifty thousand dollar piece. Leslie had received both from her husband Rodger. Perhaps, Gainer thought, that wasn't the reason she'd left them there with the back door wide open and not even the screen door hooked where anyone could just look in, reach in and snap them up. He let the water run from the kitchen tap until it was cooler, drank down a tall glassful without stopping. It crossed his mind that he was miles from crime. Told himself he should, could safely, adjust his outlook. Still, he put the ring and necklace in his pocket and hooked the screen door before he went upstairs.

Leslie was in the front bedroom.

“I was beginning to think you wanted me to come down,” she said.

She was standing on the other side of the bed, her back to the windows that overlooked the beach. The window shades were up and midday brightness was reflected in. It wrapped around her, came through her hair and between her bare legs. Gainer thought of telling her she had an aura.

“Are you honest to God sleepy?” she asked.

“It's warm up here.”

“Not too.”

There was an electric fan on the dresser nearby. Gainer switched it on, and at once it began rotating back and forth sweeping the room, animating the pages of an open book on the nightstand by the bed. The bed was like a fresh envelope with its immaculate sheets precisely folded down. Four pillows were plumped and waiting. The bed seemed very dominant at that moment and Gainer imagined Leslie making it, tucking and smoothing and making it just so for when they would share the pleasure of messing it up.

She crossed the room and was within his reach when she opened his canvas bag. She quickly unpacked the few things he'd brought, hung and placed them beside hers, and it occurred to Gainer that she was getting rid of loneliness. In the bathroom while she placed his personal necessities in the cabinet and on the window sill, Gainer sat on the covered commode and watched her every movement.

“Are you going to shave?” she asked.

“I thought I would.” He hadn't since the morning of the day before.

She ran the palm of her hand over the thick beaver bristles of his shaving brush, asked herself if this wasn't one of those times when she preferred impulsiveness, bypassing ritual and preparation. No bath or shave, no drink or music or applied fragrance. Not even the holding off for such minor interventions as closing the door or drawing the shades. An immediate heated course between them, taking them into one another, burrowing with sensation to where their creature furies lay caged. She had never been capable of that until him. Sex without a lot of hygiene, being aroused by odors that were normally offensive. Any initiative on his part of hers, no matter how abrupt, enough to wet and unfold her. Whether or not that was how it would be this time was up to her.

She placed the brush on the brow of the sink. “I'll shave you.”

It was another of those things she had never done with anyone else. Early in their time together she had gone with him to a regular old barber shop on Fifth Avenue near Twenty-first Street. A place called Frank's. She was supposed to wait and read but she couldn't take her eyes off Gainer. So, while she waited, she watched, and it was evident to her that being shaved was something he greatly enjoyed. The next time she was there with him, she paid closer attention, stood by the chair at Frank's elbow, taking in his professional techniques. Picked a lot of them right up and the first time Gainer let her try she only nicked him once, a tiny but quite bloody wound that she so regretted she couldn't say enough how sorry she was and tried to make up for it by surprising him with six shirts from Andre Oliver.

Gainer was tempted to have her shave him now. His face, especially around the eyes, felt starchy from all those hours of concentrating on the road. However, he reasoned it would be quicker if he shaved himself, told her that.

“No hurry,” she said, archly blasé and then contradicted that by kissing him a very slick, promising one before leaving the bathroom.

She was gone less than five minutes, returned carrying a silver tray.

By then Gainer was all lathered up and making a face in the mirror to help the blade of the straight razor get at an awkward area below his nostrils.

“Need help?” she asked.

“Nope.”

Leslie imitated him with a Quasimodo.

“I'd still love you,” he said.

“Hell you would.” She placed the tray on the toilet seat. It held Beluga caviar, iced in its original half-pound tin, a pair of Baccarat goblets and a chilled bottle of Le Montrachet '78 that according to its label and price was from the chateau of one Marquis de La Quiche.

Leslie poured, handed Gainer his glass. He got lather on it as he took some long sips that went down into him like heated silver wire. His eyes were on the caviar. She fed him a heaping spoonful. Straight, no garnish of any sort. After a second helping for him, Leslie sat on the edge of the tub and helped herself.

A jet plane was heard, miles up but still audible along with the repetitive thumps and fizzes of the Atlantic breaking.

“There's a chance Norma may show up tomorrow,” Gainer said.

“Only a chance?”

“I think I might have talked her out of it.” Now he wasn't so pleased with having done so. He had a notion to take a run over to Chilmark to a pay phone, call Norma and tell her to hell with everything, hurry on back. To keep from doing that he went on shaving and asked, “How's Rodger?”

“Who?” As though the name meant nothing.

“Heard from him?”

“He's in San Francisco. At least Walsh mentioned that he was.”

Walsh was one of her husband's pilots.

Silence told Gainer that for the time being Rodger was not to be a topic. He glanced around at Leslie. “Only one thing wrong with you.”

“Since when?”

“You have rotten teeth.”

She craned up for the mirror, then stood up beside him and gave it the sudden phony model's smile. She saw the black, like cavities.

“From eating too many sweets,” he said.

“You are that,” she said, purposely flat and without looking at him. She took a mouthful straight from the Montrachet bottle, swished it around before swallowing. Then, caviar remnants eliminated, her fullest smile quickly on and off was once again equal to any advertisement.

Gainer was almost through shaving, had only beneath his chin to do. Leslie took over the razor for the finishing touches. Which left his hands free. He undid the drawstring of her blouse and put both hands up in under, skimmed her breasts, barely brushed them, traced duplicate sensations all the way from the ladder of her spine around to her nipples. Cupped her breasts as though extracting from them.

He noticed the first signs of flush apparent on the fair skin of her throat, a pink mottling that he knew from the many times before was evidence of her arousal. She had always considered it a disadvantage, having such an obvious giveaway. But not with Gainer. She liked that he could know how little was needed from him to begin her.

In spite of his hands, she remained apparently intent on shaving him, kept up the same firm sure strokes using a page from a magazine to wipe lather from the blade. She held back warning him that such erotic distraction might very well cause her to nick him—or worse. His hands on her while hers with the blade were on his throat created a disturbing circuit that he was not unaware of, she figured. She prolonged it, spent more time than needed on his Adam's apple.

At the same time Gainer had the urge to pinch her nipples.

He withdrew his hands, took the razor from her, cleaned it and put it into its special leather case.

The mottling on her neck had spread and was deeper pink. She carried the tray in to the bedroom.

He took a very brief shower, did not dry thoroughly, went out to her.

She had undressed, was on the bed. Not posed, just there, faced up in an ingenuous waiting position.

He stood beside the bed.

She stayed still, had to control her legs because they wanted to part.

“I love you,” he said, giving each word equal importance.

They seemed like inscriptions on white silk floating down to her, those words. Her lips were dry but she would wait for him to wet them. She knew she had hands in her eyes. She watched him become hard while just standing there.

“Beautiful cock,” she thought, so caught up by it she did not realize those words had come out. Her hand went to it, led him down to her by it, spread and found herself for it. She tried not to come quickly. At least not as quickly as usual but her mind as well as her body was full with him. He caused flowers to open in her belly and her thighs, and no sooner had they begun to fade, he would blossom them again.

Gainer came.

He stayed inside her after he came, and within a short while she felt him become as hard as before in her and go on.

They loved, one way or the other, for most of that afternoon. Dozed in between times and finally slept. Usually it was difficult for Gainer to sleep with Leslie. She was such a determined snuggler. They would start out compatibly positioned with an equal amount of territory on either side. Before long Gainer would come half awake to find he was on the edge with, for example, a knee cantilevered way out or his hand braced on the floor not to fall, and Leslie pressing to get still closer. Rather than shove her away, he'd get up and sleepwalk around to the other side of the bed for the ample space there. Right away she would begin to close the gap. Gainer complained about it. She was most apologetic. She did not, however, suggest separate beds. Nor did he. It was, he figured, a small enough price to pay.

G
AINER
and Leslie.

They had first laid eyes on one another two Novembers ago. A miserable day, drizzling and cold.

Gainer was at his herb store on Sixty-second Street, minding it while Miss Applegate was out having a chiropractic adjustment. He was seated on a high stool behind the old, long table that served as a counter, going over yesterday's racing form, searching between its rather cryptic lines for a reason why yesterday's unlikely winners had won.

Leslie entered.

Gainer looked up and kept looking.

She was in sable, Barguzin sable. Rain looked as though it enjoyed being on it. Her hair, all but a couple of disciplined wisps left and right near her temples, was contained within a sleek cloche of tiny iridescent black beads. The collar of her coat was pulled up so that it nestled her face, made it appear small, recedent. The tip of her nose was reddened from the cold.

She looked like some exceptionally elegant woman who had somehow stepped over all the years since 1920, Gainer thought. He said his best “may I help you?”

Leslie acknowledged it with an almost indiscernible nod. She surveyed the place while taking off, finger by finger, her black kid gloves and tucking them in her handbag.

A large diamond and a wedding band, Gainer noticed.

“By chance do you have mouse ear?” she asked.

Her voice was British flavored.

“Mouse ear,” she repeated.

“Probably,” Gainer said, glancing up at the rows and rows of jars on the shelves. “What's it used for?”