They got into his car, and Collier started up the motor. Nina put her hand on his warm thigh and felt the tightness of it through the corduroy as he started up and guided the car down the road. ‘‘I just had to leave,’’ she said. ‘‘Just for a minute.’’ Her hand stayed on his leg.
‘‘No need to explain.’’ He drove through the neighborhood to Jicarilla, a dead-end street with a turnaround shielded from the nearest houses by the trees. The night was silent, crystalline beyond the windshield.
‘‘Collier,’’ Nina murmured. ‘‘Hold me?’’
He already was holding her. He opened her mouth gently with his mouth. She held onto him.
There was only the breathing and the motor running and the heater sending out its warmth as he moved over on the seat and she moved onto his lap, still mouth to mouth, never losing that connection while they struggled with their clothing.
And finally they were one again, where they belonged, connected at mouth and groin and chest. They began moving in the ancient, primitive, deeply comforting rhythm. For that timeless time she was only a woman. With him it was simple and joyful and good, better than good, much, much better than good.
9
NINA SNEAKED INTO work on Monday morning, ashamed. She was ashamed because she was in love.
In love. Not the exasperated playful love she still felt for Paul, in which so great a part of her remained unaffected. Not the practical kind of love she had felt for her ex-husband, Jack. With Bob so young and her career just starting, her union with Jack had felt like two oxen yoking together to pull the heavy load. Not the nostalgic affection she still felt for Kurt, Bob’s father, whom she had loved so long ago.
She had diagnosed herself. It was crazy fool love, exactly what she had feared and prepared against during the soul-searching months following her divorce.
For two years she had been mother and lawyer, challenges enough. She had bought a house and her own bed where she could sleep diagonally if she chose, rip off the covers if she got hot, snore if she had a cold. She made fruit smoothies for dinner in the summer and soup in the winter, with no stubbly male presence to give it a dubious look and send her back into the kitchen for meat. She put up pictures she liked and spent her spare money on Italian shoes, without having to answer to anyone.
She had made her own plans for the future, timidly at first. And she had enjoyed doing the driving. Her power wasn’t absolute—she lived with a temperamental young prince—but making her own decisions was habit forming. Once she had made the decision not to fall in love anymore, she had experienced a huge relief.
Besides, who would want her, want all of her, a struggling lawyer in her mid-thirties whose idea of a really hot time was reading in bed, glasses on, at two A.M.?
But as the months went by, in spite of herself she had found herself clumsily reaching out. One hand reached out, the other slapped it down.
Why couldn’t she stay in her sere and serene solitary state? She could support herself, Bob was fine, she’d had her child, and she was, as she knew quite well, hard to live with. Not worth it, she reminded herself firmly. Burned there, done that.
And yet, from deep in the brain stem, from the pea-sized pituitary, a stream of hormones furtively flooded her castle, bringing that longing to fall deliriously from the ramparts. She had slept with Paul, that epitome of hyper-masculinity, and had felt herself on the brink of falling in love with him. With all the strength she had left, she had pushed him into leaving her.
And now Collier had come back to Tahoe, slipping quietly into town, no fanfare, the one who could really understand her, the one with eyes she could hardly wait to lose herself in.
Tenderly my love
Returns my caresses . . .
A fallen woman she was, foolish, absurd, an object of pity, no sleep, lust burning through her underwear.
She kicked herself for her weakness and wondered how soon she could see him again.
Taking off the wool beret, she fluffed her hair and opened the door to the office, decorous, briefcase reassuringly heavy in her hand. Clients, crimes, injuries, divorces, all manner of unpleasantries waited therein. She was looking forward to flipping her mind back into its accustomed dry and analytical mode.
Warmth. Bright colors. Music. Brazilian, sensuous. Sandy, in complete dereliction of duty, sat next to the silver-haired Native American from the parking lot. She was holding hands with this fellow, whispering something in his ear. He was smiling. As Nina came in, the hands sprung guiltily apart. Moving faster than Nina had ever seen, Sandy glided to her desk.
Nobody spoke for a minute. Finally, in a tight schoolmarmish voice, Nina heard herself saying, ‘‘Good morning,’’ meaning, It’s Monday morning; there’s work to do; what’s
he
doing here?
He put on his cowboy hat, stood up. He wore jeans with a thick leather belt and a silver buckle. His brown face with its big nose was seamed by the sun. He looked down, nodded at the floor several times, and looked back up at Sandy.
‘‘I was just leaving,’’ he said. ‘‘So long.’’ He took his grizzled leather jacket from the rack.
‘‘So long,’’ Sandy said, barely visible behind a vase full of carnations and snapdragons on her desk.
The door closed.
‘‘I really don’t think it’s the time or place to be necking, Sandy,’’ Nina said. She knew it was herself she was talking to, but she couldn’t seem to control her tongue.
The mood drained away. The office became just an office, plants, Sandy’s desk, comfortable chairs for uncomfortable people, an Indian basket filled with magazines on the coffee table in front of the chairs.
Sandy didn’t answer. She held out the usual sheaf of messages, but only part of the way, forcing Nina to reach past the flowers for them.
Sandy looked very smug and a faint smell of bay rum hung in the air. These things annoyed Nina further. Here she was, trying to lecture herself back to sobriety, and Sandy was undermining her efforts behind her back. At the very least, Sandy should try to look ashamed of herself after this garish display of affection. Affection in a law office! An oxymoron!
‘‘Nice flowers,’’ Nina went on, still in the grip of her inner schoolmarm. ‘‘But not appropriate. I mean, this is a business. I can hardly see you back there.’’ She began looking through the messages, conspicuously dropping the entire sordid matter, but noticing from the corner of her eye that Sandy’s face was turning that florid color again.
‘‘Not as nice as the ones on your desk,’’ Sandy said. Her tone was flat-out malicious.
Their eyes met. Nina looked away first.
‘‘If you want to talk about appropriate . . .’’ Sandy said.
Orchids. Extravagantly beautiful. The card said, ‘‘Run away with me for the weekend.’’ Underneath that, a poem in Collier’s printing:
Do you believe that we have lived before
Passed together through some ancient door
Maybe our spirits can intertwine
Til there’s no more of yours and no more of mine
Nina ran her fingers along the underside of one of the white and pink orchids, which bent along with the movement, preening at her attentions.
The phone buzzed. ‘‘It’s Paul,’’ Sandy said. ‘‘And you’re supposed to be in Zephyr Cove at ten. I got hold of her over the weekend like you said. Don’t forget. Marianne Strong.’’
‘‘Hey,’’ Paul said. ‘‘How’s it going, Boss?’’
‘‘Hey, Paul. How are you? How’s Washington?’’
‘‘Corrupt and scandal-ridden. Oh, you mean Washington? It’s fine. It’s drizzling today. I can see the Washington Monument from my office. It’s a big one. Freud must have laughed his head off.’’
‘‘Uh huh.’’
‘‘Keeping safe? The kid okay?’’
‘‘All’s well, here. Thanks for thinking about us.’’
‘‘Good, good,’’ said Paul. ‘‘Heard you’re having a huge snow month.’’
‘‘That’s right. We’re up to our eyeballs.’’
‘‘What else are you up to?’’
‘‘Oh, not much. The usual.’’
‘‘Interesting,’’ said Paul, and Nina thought, what, has he got e.s.p. now? She was damned if she was going to say anything about Collier. Paul would have too many opinions.
‘‘Well, great to hear from you,’’ she said.
Paul ignored this cue.
‘‘You were wondering how I am,’’ he said. ‘‘After I finished up the big security project, I started guarding this old Senator that everybody likes. We play tennis and I let him win, and then we drink scotch and get even more relaxed.’’
He waited for her to say something. When she didn’t, he said, ‘‘I miss the trouble you always get me into.’’
‘‘Uh huh.’’
‘‘You wouldn’t be in any trouble?’’
‘‘Certainly not,’’ Nina said, momentarily startled out of her daze.
‘‘Now I know you’re not listening,’’ Paul said. ‘‘There’s always something. In fact I heard you took a homicide case. Who’s your investigator?’’
‘‘Tony Ramirez. Jeez, Paul. I really have to do something about Sandy. For some reason, with you she gets a major case of loose lips.’’
‘‘I’m the only one she would tell. Because she knows I’ll be there to take care of it if you need me.’’
Again he waited. She couldn’t take her eyes off the flowers. So many gradations of color. So subtle.
‘‘In spite of the fact that I’m in Washington, I’ve been thinking,’’ Paul was saying. ‘‘You know—’’
She interrupted briskly. ‘‘All’s well in the mountains. I’m glad to hear things are going well for you, too.’’
‘‘Ah, Nina.’’ It sounded like a sigh.
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Nothing. Watch out for yourself. I’ll check in again.’’
‘‘Super. Great to hear from you.’’ She hung up, forgetting about the conversation immediately. Her finger went back to caressing the orchid petal.
Sandy appeared in the doorway. She appeared to be preparing to deliver a lecture.
‘‘Sorry, Sandy. I overreacted,’’ Nina said. ‘‘Some personal issues I was having this morning.’’
‘‘This is America. I thought. Right of free association. I thought. Or maybe that doesn’t apply to us—’’
‘‘Oh, for crying out loud. I said I was sorry. I was acting like a jerk. I’m sorry. Really.’’
‘‘You know which Constitutional Amendment that is?’’
‘‘The First. Now, please, give me a break.’’
‘‘If you tell me who sent the flowers.’’
‘‘Collier.’’
‘‘Ah hah!’’
‘‘Okay,’’ Nina said. ‘‘Since you’ve raised the topic. Let’s discuss ah hahs. That man, for example, the one— sitting with you when I came in. Joseph.’’
Sandy disregarded this. ‘‘You ever find out where Hallowell spent the last year?’’ she said.
‘‘No, we haven’t talked about it.’’
‘‘What happens now?’’
‘‘I have no idea,’’ Nina said with feeling. ‘‘What about you? What’s happening there?’’
Sandy’s lips worked a while. ‘‘It’s bad,’’ she said finally.
‘‘How bad?’’
‘‘Bad enough that he’s moving in next week.’’
Nina said, shocked, ‘‘I thought I was in trouble. When’s the last time you lived with a man?’’
‘‘1986,’’ said Sandy, ‘‘which is when he left me.’’
Another six inches of fresh powdery snow coated the streets. Hot sun burned through the trees, flattening the lake into glass. Nina floated through wonderland in four-wheel drive, past the casinos, around the lake to the Nevada side. She was going to see Marianne Strong.
The community of Zephyr Cove consisted of a pinestudded sandy beach, a barnlike restaurant, cabins and snowmobiles for rent across the highway in the woods, and quite a few discreet expensive homes tucked here and there.
Number 273 Granite Springs Drive was built in the contemporary mountain style, of cedar and glass, high up the hill to catch rays and lake views.
Wiping her boots on the mat, she rang the bell. The intercom next to it came to life. ‘‘Yes?’’
‘‘It’s Nina Reilly.’’
‘‘Come in and wait, okay? I’ll be down in a couple of minutes.’’ The woman’s voice was husky. Nina pushed open the heavy door at the buzzer and found herself in a polished entryway with tiled floors and a chandelier. As she entered the high-ceilinged living room, Nina saw that Marianne and Alex had both taste and money, or at least a taste for money. The walls had that sponged look, with recessed lights and casement windows looking out upon a terrace. Several important-looking bronze sculptures controlled the corners and a Calderlike red and blue mobile hung from the ceiling. All was beige, cool, and minimalist.
She sat down at the glass-topped dining table and looked around, scanning for signs of despair, tragedy, loss, finding nothing. No black-wreathed silver picture frame with Alex’s photo, nothing melancholy at all. No reading material except for a couple of
Paris Match
magazines tossed on the coffee table. A trophy case full of gleaming tokens of Alex and Marianne’s success.
Marianne was taking her time. Not a peep came from upstairs, and Nina couldn’t sit still and behave any longer. Her eye caught a writing desk in the corner with a few papers and she crossed the kilim rug to it. A hasty glance at the staircase showed no shadow, so she bent to the papers and immediately saw a document stapled to a blue backing on the bottom. In California, that usually meant a will. Another quick look at the empty stairs. It was in her hand. She went straight to the third page, where the action usually starts, and scanned it swiftly, then reinserted it at the bottom of the pile of bills.
When the legs appeared at the top of the stairs, Nina was looking at the mobile.
Marianne Strong made her entrance count. She came down a few steps very slowly, smiling, her large lustrous eyes raking the room. Then she seemed to bound the rest of the way.
Nina already knew her. She was the girl who had rushed out of Philip Strong’s office, practically knocking her over. She wore black tights and a long black sweater that showed off a compact gymnast’s body. She was smaller than Nina had expected, in her early twenties, with coffee-colored skin and fashionably cut shoulder-length wavy black hair.
‘‘Isn’t Jim coming?’’ she asked in that scratchy deep voice, coming over to Nina. ‘‘Why did you come without him?’’
The perfume, the voice with its faint accent, the whole effect was European. Nina remembered Jim telling her that Marianne was a Brazilian who had been brought up from early childhood in France.
‘‘No, that wasn’t the idea,’’ Nina said. ‘‘Sorry if there was a misunderstanding.’’
‘‘He’s avoiding me. What did I do? You know, he didn’t say one word to me at the funeral. Has he talked to you about me? The bastard! I’m really getting mad at him now. Tell him I said that, all right?’’ She sat down and lit a Sherman’s cigarette from the box on the side table, letting herself take a long calming drag. ‘‘Well, sit down. I can’t believe it. I spent two hours getting fixed up for this meeting. Bastard!’’
Nina sat down in a chrome and leather chair that she hoped was only a knockoff of Breuer’s famous Wassily number.
Marianne laughed. ‘‘I’m not really mad. Listen. Don’t tell him what I said. You want something to drink? A soda?’’
‘‘No, thanks.’’
Marianne slumped down on the couch, taking quick puffs from her cigarette, thinking about something else. ‘‘I don’t know what my secretary told you—’’ Nina added.