Instant Love (18 page)

Christina had to admit it was spectacular at the top. She turned and viewed mountains at every angle while Bill caught his breath, Kong dropping down next to him. The sky was a pristine blue, no clouds in sight. And the same trees she’d been walking next to for the last forty-five minutes, the ones that had huddled together as a team of branches waiting to poke her, had turned a rich, roasted color, and suddenly seemed exotic under the direct sun. She breathed in deeply and took in the sun on her face. Wrinkles be damned, she thought. Skin cancer, too. I just climbed to the top of a mountain.

“It’s glorious, isn’t it?” said Bill. “Come on”—he reached out his hand to hers and she took it—“let me show you around.”

He showed her the stone circle formations surrounding a stubbly pine tree. “I think the feminists made them. Probably some sort of strange ritual,” he laughed. Then he walked her to the land that bordered his property, separated by a fierce-looking fence. “I wouldn’t touch it,” he said. “It’s probably wired.” He pointed out a ghost vineyard, abandoned twenty years previous by a prominent winemaker. The quality of the grapes had just not been worth his time. He sold the land, and it had since been sold thrice over. The vines were unruly and sagging, and the rich green color, so prominent in Bill’s vineyard, was absent, sapped by the sun and lack of water.

“And then this, now this is the best part,” said Bill. He led her and Kong back up to the peak and then through some bushes into a grove of manzanitas. The empty space beneath the trees was small—they both had to hunch slightly—but wide, so they could move freely beneath the peeling trees and their outstretched branches. They took a seat at the feet of a huddle of larger trees. Bill hooked Kong’s leash to a branch, then shuffled over closer to Christina. They both leaned back on a trunk, and looked up through the crisscross of branches at the bits of clear blue sky etched between them.

“It’s amazing,” said Christina. “I’m so glad I came. I knew this was the right decision.”

“Was there ever any question?” said Bill.

Christina smiled and looked down at the ground. “A big move is always scary,” she said. “But I’m here now, and I’m not scared at all.” She kissed him, and his lips felt warm and smooth, and then she kissed him again and she felt an urgent burn between her legs. She put one hand around his neck and another on his chest and began to kiss him quickly and furiously. She moved her hand from his chest to his shorts. “Let’s do it right here,” she said.

“Here?” Bill said, and he laughed nervously. “Probably an unwise idea. There’s poison oak everywhere.”

“I don’t see any. Come on, Bill.” She undid his fly, reached her hand inside.

“I can’t right now,” he said. His smiled right through Christina. “I’m tired from the walk.” He pulled her hand gently away from his shorts.

“Well, then do me,” she said. She stood and, back slightly bent, dropped her shorts. “At least make me feel good.” She flattened herself against the trunk of a tree, then lowered herself to the ground. Nearby Kong lay patiently, keeping a watchful eye for mountain lions.

ANOTHER SENATOR
had an affair, surprise, surprise, thought Christina as she watched Bill pack for his trip. Every time one of these guys got busted—this time a Florida senator with interests in the aviation industry, who had audaciously kept an apartment in D.C. for his mistress, a former waitress in a steak house popular with the Republican crowd—the talk shows trudged out Bill as an expert in masculinity and power. Christina slumped on Bill’s bed, chin resting on chest. His schedule had never bothered her in the past, but that was before this summer, before she had been high up on the mountain, in the woods, alone with him and his dog.

Ah yes, the dog. She would be taking care of Kong while Bill was gone. At breakfast she had received typewritten instructions, detailing his food and exercise schedule. She reread it now, stopping at the final line: “Kong is at his happiest guarding something, so let him watch over you!”

Christina read the sentence out loud. “What does that mean exactly?”

“Just that he’ll stick by your side if you let him. It’s quite sweet actually. You could probably just let him sit outside your office. I shouldn’t think he’ll bother you at all. He just likes to keep an eye on things.”

“I don’t want him watching me when I do work. Or yoga.” This seemed an obvious point to Christina. The dog was not to go near her unsupervised any more than necessary. Plus, she was in no mood to be watched all day. Wasn’t it enough that Bill, as he had reported to her last week, could see the back of her head as she worked?

“Aw, just let him, Christina,” said Bill.

Christina folded the piece of paper in half. “He goes in the vineyard for the day. He’ll have plenty of room to run around, and I’ll get my peace and quiet. He’ll be fine.”

“If you feel that strongly about it,” said Bill. His voice registered slightly off-key.

“I do.”

“Fine then.”

Bill folded a white undershirt quietly, laid it on top of two pairs of fresh white boxers, and said calmly, “Can you at least take him to the peak tomorrow? So he gets a little attention.”

Christina cocked her head, squinted at an imaginary point in the ceiling. It is these little moments, these little negotiations, that compose the skeleton of a relationship, she thought. Do I want the spine to be strong or not? She sat up straight.

“I’ll take him tomorrow afternoon,” she said.

AFTER BILL LEFT,
limousine door slammed tight, a sharp sound that cracked the quiet mountain air like a gunshot, Christina realized it was the first time she’d been alone since she’d arrived. They slept together, ate together, hiked together, drove into town together, down the precarious winding road past hidden homes and wide patches of vineyard, Bill whipping around the curves so quickly it made her carsick. Even when she was working in her studio and Bill was working in his office, they were separated only by windows and screen doors and the ripening cherry tree, tiny stems dangling like Christmas-tree decorations.

“I can see you so clearly,” he had told her.

She quietly padded through the front room, passing and then returning to Kong, who rested out near the pool, restrained by the sliding door. She checked the door once more to make sure it was locked. He lifted his head, eyed her, then rested it down again glumly.

Alone at last, she thought. She flashed on herself as a teenager when her parents left her alone for a weekend. I should throw a party, she thought. And then, just as when she was a teenager, she realized she didn’t have anyone to invite. Except for maybe the mountain lions.

Maybe I should look through all of his things, see if I can uncover a cache of stocks and bonds for me to pocket and then flee. Maybe there’s a stash of dirty photos or a stack of love letters, some hidden insight into a dark weakness curdling inside of him.

But she was afraid to touch anything. Everything was so carefully designed and organized in his castle, pristine and tailored, then dusted enthusiastically by the Salvadoran house cleaners he employed weekly to clean his home. Lush suede couches snaked through every room, paired with inviting overstuffed chairs and matching ottomans, the perfect setup for reading and relaxing. The walls were covered sparingly with art, but all of it was original and signed, mostly landscapes, the great outdoors, hills and lakes and ridges, regal sunsets that crowned oceans and mountains.

More prominent were larger photos on his walls of him and his friends—famous ones, some of them—she recognized a few, while the pictures of his daughters when they were little, and a few of them as teens, and some older people—his parents, she presumed—hovered near bathroom doors and light switches. And then there were his glorious bookshelves, a king’s ransom of literature, all separated by type, novels on one, collections of short stories on another, books he’d contributed to, books he’d edited, the classics, the work of his students, and one small creaky shelf weighed down with his remainders, extras sent by his publisher that he’d taken to readings and had never been sold. He had encouraged her to take whatever she liked and read them, fill herself up with words.

She didn’t need to uncover any great secrets about him. Whatever he had done before her, it didn’t matter. And she probably knew it anyway. After all, she had read most of his books.

Christina decided to use the time alone to do her work, consume herself even further with her thesis. Here she was in Alcott’s ideal environment, as she was raised to be by her father and his friends, in the thick of nature. I am here for a reason, thought Christina.

She entered the long hall that led to her studio, determined to fill the day with Emerson and Thoreau and Alcott, last names that needed no firsts, names that shaped her entire world. She stopped herself in front of the Edith Wharton room, the safe haven reserved for one of Bill’s daughters. I could just take a look, she thought. That wouldn’t disturb a thing.

Inside, the room was simultaneously spare and glorious: surrounded by calm gray walls, there was a massive bed, intricate swirling flowers carved into its wooden headboard, covered with a rich display of bedding, serene lavender colors, stripes and flowers, a half dozen pillows arranged neatly as icing, a few with sparkling beads as a fringe; and a magnificent oak desk—an antique, Christina imagined—with thick claw legs, and a busty carriage, so long it almost stretched the length of the room. On a gentle brass nightstand sat a framed photograph of a younger Bill, arms wrapped around his two daughters, the one with a sweet and simple freckled face, sleepy eyes, straight pretty hair curved around her delicate chin, was wearing a graduation robe; the other, rounder, with a dark stare and set, determined lips, had her hand in one end of a mass of long dark curls, as if she were about to twist a handful, as if she were holding on to it for dear life. And then, nothing else in the room, just a spray of gorgeous sunlight through the windows, and a heavy, healthy persimmon tree, its rich green fruits clinging upward, lingering outside the window.

Christina pictured him picking out each piece of furniture, considering the color scheme, how it might match his daughter’s mood or sensibility. He gave her a desk worthy of royalty, thought Christina. It was better than what he had given her, as it should be. She suddenly swelled with a thick feeling in her stomach, a warm and pleasant wave that crashed, then nestled nicely into her.

She closed the door, smiling, flushed with emotion, then turned to the May Sarton room. Inside, the room was much darker, though not grim, just wanting, waiting for the sunset. And then there was the bed, the same beautiful bed, and the bedding, pink this time, but the patterns were the same, the pillows dripping with beads arranged almost identically, the same brass nightstand, this one with a nick on top, perhaps from a careless delivery man, the same picture frame, the same secret smile paired with a serious one, surrounding a deliriously happy and, on further inspection, potentially deluded Bill, and the exact same desk, no heirloom, no antique-store find. She opened a few of the drawers. A receipt from Pottery Barn sat in one. She rubbed her hand on top of it. It felt slick and new. It smelled like fresh paint.

The swell inside of her dissolved like salt in water. One pinch, and then it was gone.

THE PATH
to the peak was marked with strips of yellow tape, reminding Christina of trees turned into tributes for missing soldiers. Kong had taken an early, commanding lead, so they were walking at a brisk pace, but every so often, Christina would spot a yellow flag and think of men in uniform, making stirring speeches before heading into battle. What if this were a forest of soldiers? What if I were crossing enemy lines right now?

Kong quickened his pace, jerking her forward, as if he knew she was daydreaming. He sniffed the earth as he walked, but in a busy and self-important way, so that it appeared as nothing more than a glance at the world around him. As the trail grew steeper, his tongue dropped from his mouth, and he began to pant loudly. He didn’t slow, though, skipping all of his usual stops at the promontories. He wouldn’t rest until he reached the peak.

Christina tumbled after him, calling his name, begging for him to slow down. She tugged on his leash, finally digging her heels in the ground, and he stopped. “Let’s just stand here for a second,” said Christina, and she breathed deeply. “Come on, you bastard. Yes. Just stand still.” She stared at the trunks of the trees, and then lifted her head to gaze at the nest of leaves suspended above her. The woods were silent, except for the sounds of her breath and that of the dog, and general forest noise: tiny bugs buzzing, the wind in the leaves, an occasional chirp of a bird.

And then there was a crunch of leaves, footsteps perhaps, off in the bushes behind her. She heard another rustle, turned, and saw a group of birds taking off quickly in the sky, their delicate wings fluttering in fear. Her heart began to pump even faster. Kong stood, and crossed behind her. He didn’t pull on the leash, but he stood there, alert. He sniffed at the air, and then he inched forward. He looked back at Christina. There was another crash of foot to leaves, and then, slowly, another. Kong let out a bark, and then there was a mad moment, where Christina could have sworn she saw a deer, but it was just for a second. It was definitely an animal, though, off in the trees, and it had heard Kong, and it was scared. Kong pulled on his leash, but the noise drew farther away, until the footsteps became one with the other sounds of the forest, and they knew they were alone again.