Mourning Glory (14 page)

He was speaking to her still standing near the terrace
door. She, too, had stood stock still at the closet's entrance, her feet at
right angles in a kind of a model pose, as if she were exhibiting herself.

"Hey, I'm talking your ear off and keeping you from
your work."

"I don't mind," Grace said.

"Probably good for me. Maybe it will help stop the
brooding."

"I've always been a good listener."

"And I've always been a good talker." He was
surprised at the sudden compulsion to run from the mouth, but he had no wish to
stop himself. "Maybe we should sit down."

There was a grouping of upholstered chairs in one corner of
the room. A couch, an easy chair and a chaise longue.

"Take your pick."

She sat on the easy chair and crossed her legs primly. He
sat on the chaise longue, stretching his slippered feet, which reached over the
longue's edge.

"This was made for her. My legs were always too long
for it."

"Would you prefer this chair?"

"No. It's all right." He shook his head.
"Sometimes, when she was sick ... in those last days ... I carried her
from the bed to this chair to give her a change of scenery." He grew
silent. The shadows were lengthening in the room. "It's an awful thing to
watch someone you love waste away. She was down under a hundred pounds when she
died. You feel so helpless..." He raised his voice. "So damned
helpless."

"I can imagine."

"Can you? I wonder. I don't mean to be insulting, and
forgive me if I am. But this is something you can't know until you know. Do you
understand?"

"I'm not insulted and I understand."

He observed a nerve palpitating in her cheek and hoped he
hadn't upset her.

"It's something you can't escape from. Like being in a
prison cell."

"I'm not looking forward to the experience,"
Grace said. She crossed her long legs and her dress hiked up. He noted that she
pulled it down quickly. Suddenly he realized how she must feel, a strange woman
in what was now a single man's bedroom. He pulled his mind away from such
thoughts.

"It's so nice of you to listen to the ravings of an
old man."

"I don't mind."

"You're being very tolerant. You don't have to be, you
know." He shook his head again and felt his lips curl in a smile. "I
look like hell, don't I?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Are you always so tolerant?"

He was sounding arrogant.

"I'm sorry," he added quickly.

"For what?"

"I sometimes get testy and arrogant. It's a side of me
I don't like."

"These are special circumstances," Grace said.

He wished suddenly that she wouldn't be so understanding.

"Forgive me, I'm a grumpy old fart."

"Would you like me to leave?"

He shook his head.

"Just make allowances."

"I have."

"I'm old and grieving and bereft. Indulge me."

The woman remained silent.

"Do I seem old?" he asked suddenly.

"Do you seem old to yourself?"

"Questions with questions." He lifted his hand
limply and waved it. "Sorry."

He was being obnoxious, he thought. The woman did not
respond.

"Actually, I've had my satchels removed," he
said, pointing to his eyes. "Anne called them that. She was always joking
about something. One-liners. Lots of wisecracks. She kept me laughing." He
looked up at her. "Maybe that's the secret of a long marriage. Humor. A
sense of humor. That's it. I haven't laughed, really laughed, for days. Weeks,
maybe."

"I'm not so hot at jokes."

He looked out of the window again. The sea was taking on
the orange glow of dusk.

"It's getting dark and here I am keeping you from your
work. So tell me, who will most likely be wearing my wife's clothes?"

"You'd be surprised how many women are desperate for
clothing."

"Homeless women?"

"All kinds of women."

"I'll tell you this: They're going to look good in
those clothes. Especially if they have the figure for it. She was ... a six ...
I think. Yes, a six. Funny, I'm not sure. In an odd way size is a very private
thing. Above all, I respected her privacy. What size are you?"

"At the moment, nearly an eight. At times I can fit in
a six. Depends on the cut."

He inspected her figure, noting that she was larger-boned
than Anne, taller and fuller.

"She watched her diet like a hawk. And worked out like
crazy. We have a gym in the basement. I used to work out on the treadmill, but
it's too damned boring. Instead, I take walks along the beach with my dog. He's
been in the kennel since she died. I suppose I should take him out of there. I
don't get aerobic, but who cares? Anne had a trainer come in three times a
week. A lot of good it did her." He sighed. "Life's unfair."

"Yes, it is."

"Has it been unfair to you, Grace?"

He watched her grow thoughtful. The nerve that had
palpitated in her cheek began again. She seemed to be searching for an answer.

"I try not to analyze things so closely."

"Ah, that means you think it's unfair."

"You go on and do the best you can. Period."

"You start at the beginning and go on until the
end." He chuckled, finding the sensation illogically pleasant. "Alice in Wonderland."

Grace smiled.

"An interesting way to think about things."

At that moment there was a knock at the door, then Carmen's
voice.

"Mister, you want supper?"

"Is it that late?" Sam said. "I really have
kept you from what you came here for."

Carmen opened the door and inspected the two of them
sitting in the bedroom. She seemed annoyed.

"I think I'm going to clean up and go
downstairs," Sam said. "I can't stay up here forever. Life goes
on."

"Good attitude, Mr. Goodwin," Grace said.

"Sam."

"Sam."

"Thanks for talking to me, was it Grace?" Sam
said. She nodded. "Although apparently I did most of the talking."

"Probably a good thing for you."

"Probably."

He watched her uncross her legs and stand up. Carmen, too,
watched her. She seemed none too happy.

"Make for Grace," Sam said

"No. I can't stay, Sam. I've got an appointment."

"I seem to have used up your time. Well, the clothes
won't go away. Start when you can."

"What days would be convenient? Actually, it will
probably take me awhile. Give me a time when I won't be intruding."

"Anytime, really. I'm not scheduled for anything. Not
for awhile. Besides, you won't need me around."

"Can I start tomorrow?"

"If that's convenient for you. If I'm not around,
which is unlikely, Carmen knows where everything is."

"I'll make for one," Carmen said, having listened
to the conversation with interest. She shuffled out of the room, shaking her
head. Sam smiled.

"She was very devoted to Ann," Sam said.
"Everybody was very devoted to Anne."

"She was worthy of that devotion, Sam," Grace said.

"Yes."

He came closer and took her hand. It felt cool to his
touch.

"Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow."

She played the conversation over and over in her mind,
trying to see herself as he saw her. From her point of view it was nothing
short of a miracle, surpassing her wildest speculations. Once again, destiny
had spoken.

She had spent the entire week planning for this event,
thinking about it, staging it in her head, agonizing over her strategy,
reacting to imaginary conversations, wondering if she would even be allowed
into the house.

It had been, she supposed, like girding for battle,
treating Sam like an objective, high ground to be captured. She decided that
she needed to engage him in an unthreatening way, appearing low-key, a
dedicated volunteer, sincere and, above all, someone who would look the part,
dress the part, even talk the part and pass as his wife's social equal. That
was essential.

She knew the physical image she needed to emulate. She had
seen plenty of examples at Saks. Expensively attired, pampered women whose
self-esteem was buttressed by their pocketbooks, women who could afford to
maximize their best attributes by emphasizing them with clothes, grooming and
cosmetics. Her job at Saks was part of that system, enhancing the customer's
best features and, more importantly, hiding their flaws.

She was far more confident about presenting the physical,
the external view of herself, than the internal view. It was impossible to
script in advance what she could say to him.

Certainly, she had to be cautious in her words, wary in her
responses. She had to seem intelligent and strike just the right note of
sincere sympathy. In effect, she had to tap all her resources and convey to him
the first faint hint that she was someone worthy of his notice.

It was, she knew, a long shot motivated by desperation. It
was one thing to plan and fantasize, quite another to make something happen
that was far beyond her ability to manipulate and control. In fact, it was, by
the laws of logic and reason, a ridiculous undertaking, a form of madness. What
she needed most in this enterprise was blind luck.

Luck, she supposed, was a matter of timing, fate, Karma,
the fickleness of the gods, being in the right place at the right time, saying
the correct thing, placed in exactly the right atmosphere at the precisely
perfect moment and striking exactly the right chord. If such conditions were
the stuff of luck, she had never been blessed with it. She had never won a
contest, had never come close in a lottery, had never been lucky at any form of
gambling. The few times Jason had taken her to Atlantic City or to the local
jai-alai games, she had always lost. Her horoscopes were never on target. Even
her fortune cookies made only hapless predictions. Lady Luck had never given
her a tumble.

She was a Sagittarius but had few of the vaunted attributes
of that position in the Zodiac. Although she had been a committed Catholic, at
least to the age of twelve, none of her prayers for her future had ever come
true. She had prayed for a loving and prosperous husband and had gotten Jason.
She had prayed for a boy and gotten a girl. She had prayed for good jobs, good
wages, a nice home.
Nada.

None of her wishes, hopes or ambitions had ever panned out.
In truth, although she loved her, she was disappointed in her daughter: her
performance in school, her values, her priorities, her aspirations, her morals,
her choice of friends, especially that Nazi lover of hers. Worse, she blamed
herself.

This was not to say that she felt totally luckless and
devoid of hope and optimism. She was very healthy, almost never sick with colds
or flu, had a good metabolism, white strong teeth, good posture, good skin and
high energy.

The potential of a relationship with Sam Goodwin, although
still in its embryonic phase, had forced her into a brutally honest
self-evaluation. While her mental and emotional state might be considered
shaky, her body, thankfully, was in excellent shape for a woman approaching her
fortieth year.

Her figure, although fuller than when she was twenty years
younger, was still reasonably muscular and youthful. She went sporadically to
aerobics classes and rarely drank or overate. Her stomach hadn't pooched, her
buttocks hadn't fallen, her breasts hadn't yielded to gravity and her gynecologist
had commented that her vagina still held good tone and tightness. She was also
quick to orgasm. Even Jason, at his worst, before he lost interest, could make
her come.

Nevertheless, she believed that destiny required a bit of
outside help to move it along the preordained track, which is why she took the
long drive to North Miami to search out secondhand clothing stores that
recycled designer clothes. It proved to be hard work, but she did find a silk
blouse designed by Versace for fifty bucks, along with a complementary skirt
designed by Donna Karan for another fifty. It took awhile, but she lucked out
with a pair of shoes by Ferragamo, a bit pricey at seventy-five dollars but in
fairly good condition.

With optimistic intent, and not without guilt, she went so
far as to purchase a set of sexy underwear on sale at Victoria's Secret, in
styles not quite Frederick's of Hollywood but close enough. Satiny and
beautiful underwear, as every woman knew, gave one a sense of security in case
of either accident or whatever unpredictable situation came up. Armored in this
costume she felt comfortable, confident and strong enough to make her first
sally into the alien territory of Sam Goodwin.

It was an agonizing decision, probably a wild gamble. She
rationalized her expenditures by considering them an investment in her future.
Besides, it helped keep her optimism in high gear. Her actions, she supposed,
were like gambling, and she allowed herself to believe that perhaps her number,
at last, was coming up in the big roulette wheel in the sky. Thinking about
this made her giddy with enthusiasm and assuaged her guilt, at least for the
moment. Would Jackie understand? She doubted that, although she assured herself
that she was taking these steps for both of them.

What had actually happened in her first encounter with Sam
Goodwin had exceeded her wildest expectations. He had even remembered her name.
Not at first, but by the time she had left. And he asked her to call him Sam.
At the beginning he had been indifferent to her presence. Then he had become a
bit on the rude side, for which he apologized like a true gentleman. Then he
seemed to have warmed up and, she thought, actually paid her some notice. She
had been nervous at first, but then she had calmed down considerably and
believed she had struck just the right note in conversation and demeanor.

She had no preconceived expectations, except to engage his
interest in her as a woman. Beyond that she dared not speculate, except to
wonder if Mrs. Burns would have approved of her technique.

She had certainly tried to display her wares in the best
possible light, and apparently her choice of clothes was a grand success. Not
that she wanted to remind him of the ill-fated Anne, but merely to illustrate
that she came from the same high-class environment.

Sam did look awful, hardly the beautifully groomed,
handsome man who appeared at the lectern to eulogize his dead wife. He needed a
shave and his robe was creased and stained, as if he had slept in it. But she
considered that allowing her to see him in this state had a sense of intimacy
about it. Perhaps it even provided a bonding mechanism. She couldn't be
certain.

She had been conscious of maintaining a certain level of
propriety. Although her skirt was deliberately on the short side, she was
demure in displaying much above the knee. If he had come on to her, despite her
preparation, she had no idea how she would handle it. She dismissed the
thought. Not so soon after his wife had died. She would definitely lose all
respect for him if he had. She chuckled at the thought. Here she was, playing a
role, a true hypocrite. What had respect got to do with it?

After awhile, her nervousness had receded and they had had
a pleasant conversation about matters that were certainly not trivial. She
could tell that the maid was not overjoyed at her presence and would probably
be an obstacle. For that reason she had declined his invitation to dine. Above
all, she didn't want to appear too pushy.

Nevertheless, despite the apparent success of this first
encounter, she was uncomfortable about the lies she had told him. This business
with Jason and the alimony, not to mention the original lie, that Anne had
personally promised the gift of her clothing. One might argue that since the
entire episode was one big lie, what did more lies matter? Call it desperate
measures, the means justifying the ends. But then, her cause, she told herself,
was just.

The visit itself was a charade. She had portrayed herself
as someone she was not. Well not exactly that, she had conceded. But she had
falsified her history. If he became attracted to her and they did form a
relationship, would she ever be able to find the path back to truth? Probably
not. She would have to pile on lie after lie and hope that he would be too
involved emotionally with her to care. Or, if he did find out, she would hope
that it would be too late for him to take any action, whatever that might be.

Anyway, she told herself, she'd cross that bridge when she
came to it. If she ever came to it. Honesty and expedience often conflicted.
Didn't they? She was definitely jumping the gun on possibilities. Go with the
flow, she admonished herself. Ignore all false hopes.

On her way back to her apartment, she decided to work out
some of the finer points of tomorrow's visit. She couldn't possibly wear the
outfit that she had worn today. Nor could she avoid the task of beginning to
remove Anne Goodwin's clothes. Tomorrow, she decided, she would take a chance
on tight jeans and high heels and a blouse open at the throat, showing just
enough décolletage to broadly hint at the reality of her good tits.

She had done some preliminary research on what charities
Anne Goodwin worked for and inquired which of them recycled clothes for the
poor. The Jewish Welfare Society, the Salvation Army and the League for
Homeless Women were three of them. Her objective, considering the sheer volume
of Anne's clothes, was to make a major project out of it, slow things down,
keep it going.

She decided that she would remove the clothes from Anne's
closet in increments, pile them in the backseat of her car and bring them back
to her apartment, which would be the site of the pickup by the various
charities. There was no way of knowing how long it would take to empty the
closet. It was huge, and she hoped it would take many trips and give Sam a
chance to get to know her better and, she hoped, get used to her presence at
the house.

Back at her apartment, she realized how much tension had
built up inside her. To relieve it, she stepped into a hot bath and tried to
calm herself. Her mind spun with scenarios. Above all, she needed to be
brutally frank with herself.

She was, after all, one of many predatory females bent on
Sam Goodwin. At least, she hoped, she might have gotten her oar in first.
Obviously he was having a hard time accepting his wife's demise. She considered
that a good sign. The more grieving the merrier.

She giggled suddenly. Perhaps that, too, was a reaction
from the forced solemnity of the day. She was certain that, at least initially,
if their conversations continued, she would have to hear long and loving
recitations about his life with Anne—Anne the fabulous, Anne the wonderful,
Anne the sainted, dear, beloved departed. She would force herself not to be
resentful or jealous or mean-spirited about Anne. If necessary she would
worship at the same shrine, pay tribute to the icon of recent memory. It would
be one tough competition.

Lying in the bathtub with the warm water doing its work of
relaxing her, her mind drifted into sexual fantasies about Sam. He was
sixty-four, he told her, although there was no way of knowing the power of his
libido or if he even had normal desires in that department. She had always felt
that these desires were an essential factor of her plan. But until they got down
to business, there was no way of knowing.

She pictured him naked, trying to imagine his penis in its
aroused state. It was making her horny, and after awhile she got out of the
tub, dried herself, went back to her bedroom, removed the dildo from the bottom
drawer, then lay down spread-eagled on the bed and pressed the button that
started the vibrating action.

It took her only a few moments to get going. She raised her
hips and manipulated the dildo to bring herself to a long, shivery orgasm. It
took her a while to calm down, and when she did, she got up from the bed and
replaced it under the folded clothes in her bottom drawer.

Masturbation, she suspected, was a secret shared by most
human beings. Long ago she had considered it a sin. Her early Catholic
upbringing had made it out to be an act against God, the devil's work, a ticket
to hell, as well as being unhealthy, crippling and preventing conception. What
disturbed her most was the fact that she was using it as a desperate substitute
for the live article, as if the use of this mechanical toy was evidence of her
inadequacy, her inability to attract a viable living partner.

She also worried that she might be developing a dependency
that might make it impossible for her to climax when and if she did become
involved with a man. Brushing such negative thoughts aside, she allowed to
herself that the use of the dildo was an emergency measure. Besides, it felt
good, it relieved tension and hang the consequences.

She was just getting into her dressing gown when Jackie
came into the apartment.

"That you, dear?" Grace called from the bedroom.

"Yeah."

From her tone, Grace detected her mood, which was not good.
She came into the living room, where she confronted Jackie's pouting, clearly
belligerent expression.