“Nature, fresh air, long walks. Get in the car and explore. But if you were there I wouldn’t get much work done.”
“And Roger would never understand.”
“Is it all right if I send you a postcard?”
“Only if you write something really boring on it.”
“Don’t worry. Boring writing is my trade.”
“Your book is going to be wonderful,” Olivia said.
“Thank you. I hope so. Will you read some chapters when I finish them?”
“I’d be flattered.”
They looked at each other across the table. She saw the child again in his face. “Will you have to be all by yourself on Thanksgiving?” she asked.
“I’ll make friends,” he said cheerfully. “Someone will be sorry for me and invite me. They always do.”
“Your family doesn’t get together?”
“Yes, but you know, they’re French, so it’s not really their holiday, even though we always enjoy it.”
“I love Thanksgiving,” Olivia said. She remembered how he had said he didn’t like being alone, how he needed someone so he could wander away and come back, knowing she was there. That person wasn’t herself, so maybe he would find her in the Berkshires. She hoped not.
When it was time for her to leave, Marc kissed her good night in the street in front of the bar. This time his lips were not so tentative. She felt her head reel, and she kissed him back. They stood there kissing for a few moments and then they both pulled away. It was, after all, a public place and this was not a casual goodbye. But before he moved she felt the unmistakable hardness of his attraction to her. She felt giddily happy, irresistible.
I could live for a month on this
, she thought.
“Goodbye,” he whispered. “I’ll call you as soon as I come back.”
“Do.”
She wanted to run after him to kiss him again, but she also wanted to go on to her orderly life, carrying this confidence with her. She began to walk home. She felt a little guilty toward Roger, but it made her feel as if she were at last as in control of their situation as he was. And then, as she walked through the streets that had become so comfortably familiar to her, she remembered her single days, and what she had always dreaded about an affair—it was the waiting, the imagining, the longing. It was, most of all, the obsession. She would have to be careful.
24
T
HAT
T
HANKSGIVING
Olivia gave her annual feast for their friends. Alys, who had passed her first adult year of celibacy and was depressed about it, got drunk as usual, but not disorderly. Her single friend’s adopted baby was a year older and running around. One couple had broken up, so only he came to the party. Another couple, who had broken up but remained friends, each arrived with a different partner, and the four of them acted as if it were perfectly normal to be there chatting happily like a longstanding quartet. It was a year since Olivia had seen the cat scratch on Roger’s thigh and had let him delude her into thinking that it was nothing.
She had received a picture postcard from Marc. It was of scenery, and as he had promised, his inscription was boring . . . but not to her. She put the card on her desk among a pile of papers and mail so it would look unimportant, and once in a while she ran her fingers over it, feeling her lips burn. She already knew it was possible to lust after him more when he wasn’t there than when he was. The feeling was safe but confusing.
She kept asking herself what exactly she wanted from him. He made her feel confident, sensual and desirable again. He made her feel alive and silly. He wanted her, and she withheld what he wanted as if it were a game. She wondered if part of the excitement of their flirtation was that her still lurking anger made it a way of punishing Roger. She knew she liked her guilt because it made her feel strong. It made her love Roger more in a way, and want to protect him. She had always thought she was above such perfidy, but wouldn’t it be ironic if her anger had simply freed her to think of doing what Roger had already done?
Marc came back between Thanksgiving and Christmas and they met for a drink. They sat side by side in a back booth in a small, dark bar and kissed. His hand was on her leg. They talked and kissed and kissed again, like teenagers with no home of their own to go to, and she had difficulty breathing.
“Come to my apartment,” he whispered. “Please.”
“You have no idea how much I wish I could.”
“Then do.”
“I can’t,” Olivia whispered, and sank again into his soft lips.
“Get away from him and have dinner with me,” Marc said. “A whole evening. Think of it. . . .”
Roger’s not a
him
, Olivia thought, defensive and offended for Roger, whom she loved and who had often been so good to her. She shook her head no, and smiled.
“You could tell him you’re helping me with my book,” Marc said. “Giving me research material.”
“Oh, right. I’m such a source of information. He’ll be bound to believe it.”
“But he will. People believe almost anything. And you would be helping me, you could.”
“Help you?”
“Yes. You said you’d read some chapters.”
“I will,” Olivia said. “Alone. Not with you, you’d distract me.”
“I want to distract you.”
“I know.” They smiled, and kissed while smiling. He rubbed his face against hers like a cat, put his head down and she massaged his neck.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he said.
“I have to go home now.” She looked into her compact mirror at the damage he had done to her mouth, and put on lipstick.
“I can’t get up,” Marc said. “I have a hard-on.”
She was flattered. “The semi-permanent affliction of the young,” she said lightly.
“No, because of you.”
“You make me happy,” she said. Their eyes locked. She knew she was glowing.
“I could make you happier.”
She looked away. “I know. I’m leaving now.”
“What am I doing out with a married woman?”
“I have no idea.”
“You could become very dear to me,” he said. She smiled. What a nice way of saying he could fall in love with her without committing or saying that overused and threatening word.
“I’m fond of you, too.”
He held her hand and tapped it gently, pensively on the table. “Will you meet me next week? Then I’m going away skiing for Christmas.”
“Are you!” She was both disappointed and relieved. Again the reprieve, but it seemed too soon. What did she expect? They both had lives of their own. “Where?”
“The French Alps. And the whole family is going to spend Christmas in Paris with my grandmother.”
Safe and far from here, she thought. She wondered if he would be going away if they were having an affair, and thought he would. “All right,” she said. “We’ll have a little pre-Christmas celebration.”
I must never, never fall in love with him, she told herself.
They met for their holiday drink in a different darkened bar. She felt like a spy, covering her trail. She had brought him a silly present: a tiny paper bag on a magnet, with a tinier toy bear inside it, wearing a Santa Claus cap. He gave her a CD of rock stars singing Christmas carols. It might have been something she would have bought for herself. He also gave her a manila envelope.
“The first three chapters of my book,” he said.
“Thank you!”
“You have to call and tell me what you think before I go.”
“Of course I will.”
They drank champagne and looked into each other’s eyes. She wondered if he would be sleeping with a woman, or many women, over the holidays. She didn’t dare ask, because he could then reply that she would be sleeping with Roger. She didn’t want to part on a note like that. This was their own private place, their fantasy. But the question tormented her anyway.
“Why do you have that odd look on your face?” he asked.
“I was wondering if you were taking a date with you.”
He smiled. “No.”
“I guess there are lots of women there to . . .”
“Go to bed with?”
“Yes.”
“Would you care?”
“Of course I would,” Olivia said lightly. “It’s selfish, but I would.”
“Well, there are, but that doesn’t mean I will.”
“I’m glad.”
“An intelligent person would have to be crazy to be wild these days,” Marc said. “I’m very prudent.”
“Good.”
“You would be completely safe with me,” he said. “I can promise you that. Are you tempted yet?”
“I’m always tempted,” she said. “I’ll miss you.”
He inhaled her neck. “I’ll miss the way you smell.”
“My perfume?”
“Your skin. I can tell the difference.”
“What do I smell like?”
“Pure sex,” he said. She laughed.
They fell upon each other’s mouths quite naturally by now—this was what they did. “I’m not going to ask you to come to my apartment,” he said. “I’m going to make you suffer.”
“And ask
you
.”
“Yes.”
“I like that arrangement better.”
“You won’t. You’ll think about me more than you expect when I’m away.”
“I know I will.”
“Do you want another postcard?”
“Yes,” Olivia said. She stroked his silky black hair, his smooth cheek. He had always obviously shaved just before he met her, and this touched her. He wanted to look nice. He didn’t want to leave marks. If he had left a mark it would have been a disaster. Knowing he was leaving soon, she allowed herself to feel very tender. There was something about him that was strangely moving, and she felt a little flutter in her heart, like a leaf falling.
“What are you thinking this minute?” Marc asked.
That this is almost as bad as fucking, she thought guiltily: or worse because it’s so intimate. She was achingly aware that she was betraying Roger. “Nostalgic,” she said, thinking of Roger’s happy, welcoming face.
“Good,” Marc said. Of course he thought she meant she was nostalgic only for him.
They said goodbye in the street, as always. But by now their arms were wrapped around each other, under their open coats. He felt so thin. As always, he had an erection for her, so hard she felt it was an intrusion to be so close to him and do nothing about it.
“You see what you could have?” he said.
“I would be so sad if you didn’t feel that way about me.”
“You’re a terrible woman.”
They kissed again, lingering, and finally she pulled away and left. On the way home she thought he was right; she was a terrible woman. She couldn’t figure out why he put up with her, why he still wanted her, what was in it for him. Maybe he was a masochist who wanted only what he couldn’t have: something wrong with him, a little off. Or maybe it had become a contest he was intent on winning. Or perhaps he was secretly madly in love with her, which would have been such a nice thing to believe.
When she came home, Roger was lying on the couch. She was startled to see him; he was supposed to be at the gym. “Where have you been?” he asked.
“You didn’t work out?”
“No. I felt like I was coming down with a cold this afternoon so I thought it wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry you’re feeling sick.” She went over and felt his forehead.
“No fever,” he said.
“What about if I send out for chicken soup?”
“Where were you, anyway?” He didn’t sound suspicious or angry, just curious.
“I had a drink with Marc Delon,” Olivia said. She could hardly believe this was her own voice coming out so calmly. She held up the manila envelope. “Remember I told you that he was writing a book? Maybe I didn’t tell you. Anyway, this is the first three chapters he wanted me to read.”
“Why you?” Roger asked. He didn’t seem jealous, just surprised. She was hurt by his tone, which clearly implied she was not anyone to be consulted for her literary opinion. Well, maybe she wasn’t, but Marc cared what she thought of him.
“He interviewed me that time when we had coffee in Paris.”
“About what?”
“Stories I read as a child.”
“Oh,” Roger said.
She went into the bedroom to change. She was relieved that he wasn’t jealous of Marc, and at the same time, she was a little annoyed.
25
T
HE HOLIDAYS WERE OVER
, another year gone. Discarded Christmas trees lay on the sidewalk waiting to be collected, shreds of tinsel still clinging to them—what had been so coveted and delighted in was now just garbage. Huge plastic bags lay there too, the green ones loaded with wasted food from celebrations, to be gotten rid of; the transparent ones bulging with glass and plastic bottles and aluminum cans from boozy parties, to be recycled. Snow fell and covered all of it, leaving only large, white, mysterious lumps that quickly turned gray, then icy black. The cousins had returned from their vacations, some from the cold of mountain ski trails, others from the warmth of tropical beaches. Marc would be coming back too, which made Olivia nervous and excited. But she was also filled with a lingering sadness, because it was soon to be the first anniversary of Grady’s death.
Then, unexpectedly, she received a letter from Taylor. Taylor never wrote to anybody in the family, but there it was:
Dear Olivia—I finally scattered Grady’s ashes in Mexico. It was in a pretty place near the Sea of Cortez, where he had wanted me to do it. I hired a bus and driver to get there, and invited all his stuntman friends and their wives. We had a mariachi band on the bus, and lots of food and liquor. We partied for four days. Everybody had a good time, which he would have liked. It cost me a lot of money, but that’s okay. We had a memorial service at sunset when I scattered the ashes, and that night in Mexico, after the memorial, is the night I got pregnant. I consider it a sign.
That was in November, so now I’m two months along and doing pretty good. Please tell the family. Pregnant! Me! Imagine!!
Love,
Taylor
Olivia pictured Taylor and Tim and their celebrating group on the bus, drinking and joking and having fun, making the best of what could have been a sad occasion. She thought of the mariachi band Taylor couldn’t hear but only feel—swaying to the vibrations with their hearing friends, alone again in her deaf world. Their straight friends—Grady had been alone too, all those years.
She was delighted at the good news about the forthcoming baby. It was interesting that Taylor had disposed of Grady’s ashes in what amounted to secrecy, since she had not mentioned it until two months after the fact, but her pregnancy had galvanized her into action and made her write a letter. It was as if Grady belonged to Taylor, but becoming pregnant was an event that had finally catapulted Taylor, the self-proclaimed neglected half-breed, into the family.
Olivia called Aunt Myra, knowing she would be good at spreading the word. “Oh, I knew that,” Aunt Myra said.
“You did?”
“Sure. She wrote to me last week.”
“And you didn’t call?”
“I was going to.”
“And she told you about the ashes.”
“What about the ashes?”
“She scattered them, finally.”
“No,” Aunt Myra said. “She only told me she was expecting.”
“Then she didn’t tell you about the sign.”
“What sign?”
“Never mind. It’s just Taylor.”
“Well, I was going to call you anyway,” Aunt Myra said. She giggled nervously. “I’ve been getting over a big shock.”
“What was that?”
“Uncle David is getting married.”
“Uncle David?”
“Yep.”
“To that woman he’s supposedly been going with forever? But then I thought they broke up.”
“Oh, who knows about her, that was so strange. I think they were just friends. No, no. To a woman he met on the cruise the kids sent him on. Apparently all the widows and divorcees were chasing him on the ship, and he met one he liked.”
“But that wasn’t even three months ago,” Olivia said.
“I know,” Aunt Myra said, sounding half exasperated, half embarrassed at the precipitousness of it. “He says he’s seventy-five and life is short.”
The way he raved about Aunt Hedy at his birthday party I thought he’d never marry again, Olivia thought, but she didn’t say it. “He’s right,” she said.
“I guess he was lonely,” Aunt Myra said. She sighed. “Melissa and Nick went to Florida to meet her. They were surprised, too. She isn’t after his money, anyway. She has a home in Key West and a house in Tuscany. They said she seems like a nice woman. At least she’s not too young. He’s happy.” Aunt Myra, however, did not sound happy at all. In an instant she had lost the company of her brother, who would now be a newlywed.
“He’ll live longer this way,” Olivia said to comfort her.
“Oh, I’m not passing judgment. It’s his business.”
“Did they set a date yet?”
“Next month,” Aunt Myra said. “I told him: ‘What’s your rush?
She’s
not pregnant.’ He said at their age a long engagement is silly. They want to move in together, and travel.”
“You should get married again,” Olivia said. “You’re still fit and youthful.”
“Well, thank you. But I don’t want to get married again. I had a long, wonderful marriage and that was enough. I keep busy.”
“It’s great about Taylor, isn’t it?” Olivia said.
“Yes, sure. You know these old widows, they’ll do anything to get a man. There’s a woman who lives in the penthouse in my building, whose husband died. There was an old man who used to deliver the clothes from the cleaner downstairs. He had heart trouble, he was pale and skinny, he looked half dead. His wife had recently died. So this widow in the penthouse, she invited him up to commiserate, I guess to feed him, and the next thing you know, they got married! Well, you should see him now. Nobody can call him by his first name anymore. We have to pretend we didn’t know him when. He’s got a good belly now, he gets all his suits made in England, he wears a coat with a velvet collar. She’s happy.”
“Who are we talking about here?” Olivia asked. “You or Uncle David’s fiancée or what?”
“Neither one,” Aunt Myra said. “I’m just telling you a story.”
* * *
Olivia wrote to Taylor.
Dear Taylor—I’m thrilled that you’re having a baby. I know what you mean about a sign. The births and the deaths, the giving and the taking—how interesting life is! Please stay in touch.
Love,
Olivia
She wished she had someone to talk to about her feelings for Marc and for Roger. She couldn’t tell her cousins. She wasn’t sure even Jenny would understand. And she didn’t quite trust Alys not to tell anyone. If this situation were happening to someone else, she could easily have dispensed sensible advice, but it was happening to her, and all of her good sense seemed to have vanished.
She met Marc at yet a different dark bar, and they sat in the back. She thought she should write a book of her own someday called
Places to Sneak Around In
. He had a gently healthy glow from his skiing holiday and looked very young and fresh and appealing. He wound his fingers around hers and looked into her eyes. Then he kissed her, and she melted helplessly again.
“Remember the couple who were devouring each other at the Carlyle bar when we were there?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Now that’s us.”
“We’d never be so ostentatious,” Olivia said.
“No, never.” They smiled at each other and he ordered drinks. As soon as the waiter went away Marc kissed her. “Did you get my postcard?” he whispered.
“Yes. It was perfect. It was so boring.”
“Tell me the news. What did you do while I was away?”
“Some Christmas parties. We always have a quiet New Year’s Eve. What did you do?”
“Skiied, saw my family, went to a big New Year’s Eve party. I was faithful to you.”
“The entire time?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” she asked, happy and flattered. “It seems such a waste.”
“Because I knew you’d want to know. And besides . . . it’s very romantic being faithful. Very alluring. It makes me want you more.”
“You’re like a cavalier from another century,” she said. “Or maybe I mean knight. Anyway, it’s lovely.”
“No. I’m just me.”
She glanced around the room to make sure there was no one who could recognize her. The waiter brought their wine and they sipped it and looked at each other with such intensity she was sure anyone who saw them would see everything about them—and more—in an instant. She wished they could have the whole evening. She suddenly hated watching the time, leaving things unfinished, parting with longing. She had forgotten how much she needed the high of his desire for her, but now that he was back again she remembered.
“I had an uncle who had an affair with a married woman for twenty years,” Marc said. “She was the love of his life. He became a friend of the family. People who didn’t know about them wondered why he never married. I always found it interesting.”
“Your family sounds as eccentric as mine,” Olivia said.
“You don’t find the concept appealing?”
“Twenty years? No, if I were the woman, I’d have to choose one or the other.”
“Which one would you pick?”
“It’s too theoretical.”
“I didn’t mean I’d do that myself,” he said. “I’m just teasing you.”
“It must have been awful for that woman’s children,” she said. “Did they have any idea?”
“They were very fond of him.”
“Anyway, we’re not having an affair,” Olivia said. “We’re having a drink.”
“Of course.”
She would not want Roger to have such a drink with anyone.
* * *
The winter wore on. Invitations arrived for the forthcoming spring bar mitzvahs of Jenny’s second son, Max, and Melissa’s oldest, Abe, who had been named Absalom in homage to their dead grandfather, Abe Miller. Olivia accepted for herself and Roger. Uncle David and his fiancée were married in a small ceremony for only their children and grandchildren at her house in Key West; and went on their honeymoon to the South Sea Islands, which they had enjoyed very much on the round-the-world cruise where they had met. This time, however, they took a plane. And Taylor, who was beginning to show, sent Olivia a photograph of herself in front of her house in Topanga Canyon, proudly holding her dress out at the sides to reveal her rounded stomach.
Dear Olivia—Here we are! Isn’t it amazing? I’ve been going to a support group for abused children, to be sure I don’t make the mistakes my mother did. I really want to be a good mother.
Love,
Taylor
Olivia wrote back.
Dear Taylor—Thank you for the early family picture for the album I now intend to start. I know you’ll be a wonderful mother. I remember when you and Grady were little, how protective and sweet you were with him.
Love,
Olivia
She continued to meet Marc once a week, and they tormented each other in private corners of public places while Roger was at the gym. She was constantly aware of the irony of it. Marc gave her two more chapters to read. She was impressed by his writing and flattered that he was showing it to her, but she didn’t mention him or his book to Roger again. She thought about Roger’s lack of jealousy, and realized that it wasn’t that he took her for granted or thought no one else would want her, but that he completely trusted her. This made her feel guilty, of course. But there had been a time when she completely trusted him.
She remembered once discussing marital infidelity with Jenny and Melissa. “My husband would never cheat,” Melissa said. “He can’t live without me.” How comforting, Olivia had thought at the time, to be able to be so confident, so without fear. But so had she been. She wondered now if any of her cousins’ husbands cheated on their spouses, and she decided that if they found out they would never tell, just as she had not. You told only if you broke up over it. They were not sisters; they weren’t that close. You kept humiliation to yourself. They hadn’t even mentioned the possibility that they might cheat on their husbands. It had probably never occurred to them. But there had been a time when it had never occurred to her.
Then one night Roger came home looking distressed and grim. “I have to go to dinner with my brother on Wednesday,” he said. “He doesn’t want to pay his half of our mother’s old-age home anymore. He says he has two adult unemployed children to support, and his wife doesn’t work, so it’s up to me to pay it all because you make a living and we have no children. I can’t believe that guy.”
“Lawyers make a lot of money,” Olivia said. “What’s his problem?”
“He hates me and wants to make my life miserable,” Roger said.
“Oh, Roger,” she said sadly. She put her arms around him. “I’m sorry you two have such a bad relationship.”
“I thought if I never saw him I wouldn’t have to deal with it,” Roger said.
“If you need money, I’ll help.”
“No, sweetheart, you shouldn’t have to. She’s his mother, too. He should pay
some
. It’s his attitude of complete entitlement I resent, not just the money. He’s always been like this. That’s why we never got along.”
“I wish you two would find a way to make up,” Olivia said.
“It’s a good thing Mom doesn’t know he thinks she’s a burden,” Roger said. “She never wanted to be a burden to anybody. Maybe I can get him to contribute a part of it. God, I hate having to negotiate with my own brother. You’re lucky you’re an only child.”
Wednesday. On Wednesday she was meeting Marc for a drink. When he called to confirm and to tell her where, Olivia said casually, “If you want to have dinner too, I can.”