Once More With Feeling (42 page)

Now he wanted time for himself.

She didn't give it to him. She moved closer,
pressing her breasts, her hips against him. He was already erect.
He was easily aroused, and that hadn't diminished with age. His
response to Elisabeth had always made her feel supremely powerful.
In their early years she had played with that power, discovering
exactly what turned him on. She had learned to brush her hand
casually against his hip or thigh, to unbutton her skirts and let
them sink like tropical blossoms to the floor at her feet, to lift
her hair off her neck and lower her eyelashes like a nineteenth
century Charleston courtesan.

She had learned exactly how to sway against
him when they danced at the country club, how to moisten her lips
with the flick of her tongue while she was gazing at his. And she
had learned how to press her hips against him just this way when
she wanted to arouse him quickly and tumble into bed for instant
passionate sex.

"You smell like her." His voice sounded
strained, like a man trying not to break in two.

She wasn't wearing perfume. Gypsy's vast
collection had seemed too bold; Elisabeth's favorites had seemed
too sedate. But she always used the cosmetics, the moisturizers and
creams she had bought at Fresh. And she realized now that the
subtle scents would be familiar to him.

"I'm not her," she said. It was true. She
wasn't Elisabeth anymore. She would never be the same woman who had
sped toward Stony Brook on that fateful afternoon.

"I want you to be."

"I know." She felt him relax against her.
His hands slid to her bottom and he pressed her closer. This time
he kissed her, a deep, draining kiss that took desire to a new
level. He was kissing Gypsy, but he wanted Elisabeth. That
knowledge was so heady, so poignantly perfect, that she was
boneless in his arms.

She slid her hands down his back to his belt
and grasped his shirt. With practiced ease he found the zipper that
snaked along her spine. She lowered her arms and the dress swirled
in a scarlet circle on the floor. She brushed her hands across his
chest and slipped buttons through buttonholes. His shirt joined her
dress at their feet.

She could undress this man with her eyes
closed, so well did she know every inch of him. But she took her
time unfastening his belt. Each moment seemed precious, one last
chance to show him what he had meant to her--as she hadn't on her
final night as Elisabeth. One last chance to say good-bye. She
lingered over the clasp of his pants, the elastic of his boxers.
His skin was cool and smooth beneath her hands and his erection
strained against her palms when she touched him at last.

He groaned, a man beset by forces he would
never vocalize. He stripped off her stockings and panties, which
were Gypsy-flamboyant and brief. Her bra was such a simple affair
that it took just the twist of his hand for it to join the growing
pile of clothes beneath them. He clasped her hard against him, as
if he could absorb all of her into his body, into his bloodstream
and, possibly, his soul. She had reached the limit of her
endurance. She stood on tiptoe and eased herself over him, letting
him slowly fill her until there was nothing separating them except
memories he didn't know they shared.

He groaned again, and she didn't know if it
was with pleasure or shame. In this new incarnation she was tall
enough to make love to him this way, to lift to her toes and lower
herself again and again. The shattering pleasure of it erased
everything else from her mind. She felt him clasp her tighter and
begin to move with her. It was a dance, an erotic, explosive dance
that could only lead to one thing, and quickly.

He lifted her high and she wrapped her legs
around his hips. Carrying her he moved to the couch, just a few
feet that seemed like miles. She wasn't aware exactly how he
maneuvered them to their sides on the soft leather cushions. She
could only feel the perfect friction of his body against hers, the
warmth of his tongue as it moved in a flawless duet to the rhythm
of their hips. She bore his weight with ease when he moved over
her. She stared into his eyes as he thrust harder. There was pain
there, and pleasure too intense to measure. She wanted to hold him
this way forever, to resist the inevitable burst of ecstasy, to
move into eternity in Owen's arms.

Resistance was impossible. She felt her
response grow and turn inward, her pleasure intensify until there
was nothing else but fulfillment. In that moment, when they were as
close as two human beings could be, she closed her eyes and cried
out. And she heard his cry at the same instant.

He sagged against her. She could feel every
blessed inch and pound of him against her lithe young body. He was
so familiar. His taste, his skin, the long, hard stretch of his
legs along her own.

She could feel his breath against her neck
and shoulder. She stroked his back and kissed his ear, rituals of
past pleasures. At last he moved away, rolling to his side so not
to hurt her, and turning his face so that she couldn't see his
expression.

She had imagined making love to him again,
but not what would come after. He moved to the sofa's edge, sat up
and put his head in his hands.

She had to speak first. The silence was too
ominous. "Owen?"

He didn't answer.

She knew his satisfaction had been as
complete as hers. His orgasm had been as powerful, as prolonged as
her own. She turned to her side and rubbed his back in silence.

"I wish you would go," he said at last.

Her hand stilled, then began its stroking
again. "I'll go in a minute. Talk to me first."

"About what?" His voice was harsh.

"Owen, it's all right. We didn't hurt her."
She could say that with conviction.

"You don't know what you're saying."

She felt the first prick of anger. "Don't
I?"

"Elisabeth is the most ethical woman I've
ever known. She'd be devastated if she thought I'd been
unfaithful."

"Oh, really?" Anger was more than a prick
now. It was a jolt. The tender rush of feelings, the aching
sweetness of unspoken farewells were fast dispersing.

"You can't know. You couldn't."

"I know that you're putting me on." She sat
up beside him, careful not to touch him. There was a telephone on
the end table, and she dialed Billy's cell phone number and told
him to come for her. Then she stood and crossed the few feet to her
clothing, angrily sorting hers from his and tossing her discards at
his feet.

"What exactly do you mean?" He lifted his
head and watched her dress.

"Come on, Owen. I'm not blind. I've seen the
way your protégé looks at you, and the way you look right back. I
saw it in Elisabeth's hospital room, and I saw it tonight. I'm
surprised the sparks haven't ignited a fair piece of Long Island.
Don't tell me you haven't slept with that Anna person."

"I haven't."

"Right." Her tone made it clear she didn't
believe him.

"Is the attraction that obvious?"

"As plain as the nose on your face. I'll bet
your wife had already discussed it with her attorney."

He stood and took her arm. "You don't know
what you're talking about."

"We both know what I'm talking about!"

"I've never slept with Anna Jacquard." He
spaced the words for emphasis. At the end, he dropped her arm.
"There was a time when I wanted to. Once I came much too close. But
I never have."

She stood, the top of her dress in her
hands, one arm poking through a sleeve. "What's the point of lying?
Do you think I'm in any position to judge?"

"There is no point. That's the point." He
looked past her, as if even the desire to have sex with another
woman was something he should still be ashamed of, despite the fact
that he was standing naked beside a woman he'd just filled with his
sperm.

"You came close?"

"We'd both had too much to drink. We were
celebrating a professional success. Anna's a tempting woman. I was
growing old and Elisabeth had been growing more and more distant. I
couldn't seem to breach the gap between us, so I was staying away
from home as much as possible because I didn't know what else to
do. Anna was just getting over another relationship, and she was
vulnerable and available. She also had a bad case of hero worship,
and I knew it. I almost took advantage of it. We got a room, went
up the elevator together. . ." He looked back at Gypsy. "And then
we talked about why sleeping together was a bad, bad idea. In the
end I went home to spend the night."

There was no reason to lie. This was the
moment when lesser men hauled out tales of their sexual exploits as
extended proof of their manhood. His story had come out in a rush.
It was a confession. "You never . . ."

He shook his head. "My wife is dying, and
I'm here having sex with you on a sofa she chose for me."

She couldn't think about his revelation. She
couldn't think about everything it meant. She tried desperately to
push it aside. "Tonight was a lot more than that."

He looked up at her. His voice was choked.
"It can't be."

"No, it can be. It is and was." She touched
his hand. "This was about her. About Elisabeth."

"I don't know what you mean!"

"There were things she didn't know how to
say to you. I know there were." She held up her hand when he tried
to interrupt, to tell her she was crazy. "Don't ask me how I know.
Just believe me. She adored you. You were everything to her. No
matter what happens now, that part will always be true."

"You'd better go."

"Don't torture yourself over this,
Owen."

"Please go. And don't come back."

She wouldn't come back. She knew that now.
There was no way she could re-create what she'd lost, and there was
no way he could survive the guilt of another encounter like this
one.

She zipped her dress and slipped on her
shoes. "If Elisabeth was half the woman you believe her to be, she
wouldn't expect you to worship at an empty altar. You can't grieve
forever. Find a way to make yourself happy. That's what she would
want."

"You shared an accident and an ambulance
with her. You never shared her heart!"

"For a few moments we shared eternity." She
leaned over and kissed his cheek. Gently. Tenderly. "She wanted me
to say good-bye to you. And now, I have."

She choked on the final word. He turned away
from her, confused, distressed, and completely unaccepting of
everything she had said. This hadn't been a farewell for him, but a
test he had failed.

She let herself out the front door, but she
couldn't wait for Billy on the front porch. She didn't care if half
the hit men in New York were waiting in the shrubbery. She started
down the drive on foot, putting distance between herself and the
man she would never make love to again.

He would not destroy himself over one moral
lapse. Gypsy knew Owen well enough to understand that. He was a
sophisticated man whose expectations of himself were tempered by
reality. But he would feel that he had deserted Elisabeth
emotionally when she most needed him. He would retreat further into
his pain.

Owen had not been unfaithful with Anna. He
had not been unfaithful last night with Gypsy, either, though he
could never know that. Despite their mutual alienation, despite the
enduring silence that had characterized the final months of his
marriage to Elisabeth, Owen Whitfield had remained faithful to his
wife. Not because he was a saint. Not even because his ethical
standards were higher than those of most men. But because he had
loved her, and he had hoped, at the most primal level, that they
could find their way back to each other before it was too late.

Gypsy watched the sky lighten over Central
Park. She hadn't slept after the return trip from Long Island. She
had tried desperately to sort out her feelings, to find a solution
to this cosmic riddle which was now her life. There was no answer.
When the intercom sounded and Marguerite was announced, she was
almost grateful for the relief and the excuse to brew a new pot of
coffee.

Marguerite was wearing overalls covered by a
cashmere pullover of burnt orange. Her hair hung over one shoulder
in an untidy braid and cotton gardening gloves hung from her hip
pocket. She looked like a farmworker Seamus had commissioned to
help him plant gardenias and camellias where lilacs and forsythia
were meant to grow.

"A woman needs eight hours of uninterrupted
sleep. Elisabeth's mother would not have approved," Marguerite said
from the doorway, looking Gypsy over carefully.

"Elisabeth's mother would assume that women
like me come out at night just to sink our blood-red nails into
anything that can grow a beard."

"Is that what you did last night?"

Gypsy motioned for Marguerite to follow her
into the kitchen where the coffee was finishing its final drip. She
kept her voice light. "Did you stop by for a blow by blow
description of my close encounters?"

"No." Marguerite stepped from one side to
the other as Gypsy reached around her for cups and saucers.

"Just to chat?" Gypsy glanced up at the
clock. "It's not even seven."

"I know you leave for the studio early, and
besides, I didn't sleep last night, either. Seamus dragged me to a
party and I heard something there that I've been mulling over ever
since."

"Oh?"

"It's about Richard and Missy."

"Oh. . . ?" Gypsy poured the coffee and set
it on a tray. She went to the refrigerator for cream, one of
Marguerite's vices. "Something to prove your theory that he's not
the preppy do-gooder that Elisabeth believed him to be?"

"Just why did Elisabeth stop dating Richard?
Do you happen to remember?"

"Because it was clear that he wanted a wife
who looked good on his arm at political rallies, and he thought he
and Elisabeth made a stunning matched set."