Mourning Glory (21 page)

"Two for lunch, Carmen."

He turned toward Grace. "How about omelets? Carmen
makes great omelets."

Carmen scowled. Grace nodded, and she shuffled back to the
kitchen.

"You can shower and change in Anne's bathroom,"
he said.

"Thank you. I know the way."

Sam went upstairs, took a shower and was quickly dressed.
When he came down again, Grace was still upstairs. Carmen had set the table on
the back patio, overlooking the beach and the ocean.

"How lovely," Grace said, coming out to the patio
wearing white slacks and a pink blouse. Through the material he could see the
outlines of her breasts and her nipples. She must have seen his glance and
quickly crossed her arms over her chest.

"I'll be right back," Sam said as he went into
the house, got a bottle of Dom Perignon from the refrigerator and two fluted
glasses and brought them back to the patio.

"Remember, Sam," Grace said, "I still have
work to do."

He wondered if she thought it inappropriate for him to be
drinking champagne with a strange woman just weeks after his wife had died.

"Anne only drank Dom Perignon, Grace."

"Good. Then we'll drink to her."

He uncorked the bottle with a pop and carefully poured the
two glasses. He noted that his fingers shook and realized he was uncommonly
nervous. When he had finished pouring he lifted his glass and tapped hers.

"To Anne," Grace said.

"To Anne," Sam said. He felt a sudden sob rise in
his chest. "The best of the best."

They drank. The champagne felt cool and tart on the tongue.
He studied Grace as she drank.

"Lovely, isn't it, Grace?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Why afraid?" Sam asked.

"I feel ... well ... a little guilty. Sitting here in
her place."

"Actually, we rarely ate out here," Sam said.

"Drinking her favorite drink."

"I'd like to feel that maybe she would approve,"
Sam said. He took a deep sip of the champagne. "We were very sensitive to
each other's comfort levels. We were careful to provide each other with the
things that made us happy. I think that Anne would be happy to see that I was
not alone and brooding."

"With a strange woman," Grace said.

"Anne was not a jealous person."

They drank in silence for a few moments. Sam was attentive
to his guest's glass and poured her another.

Carmen came out with the omelets. One of them was of lesser
quality than the other. She placed that one in front of Grace.

"No, Carmen. Give this one to Mrs. Sorentino,"
Sam said.

None too happy, Carmen switched plates.

"I think she resents me being here," Grace said
after the woman had gone back to the kitchen.

"Perfectly understandable," Sam said.
"She'll get over it."

"Are your children taking it well?" Grace asked.

"Yes. Very well. But then, they live far from here.
It's been years since we all lived under one roof. Oh, I'm sure they all miss
the telephone calls, the family holidays, although even those had petered out.
Grown children have a different agenda." He thought of those agendas.
"It's money now. The estate. This is not to say they didn't love Anne. I
suppose they think they did, in their way. They might even think they love me,
a sort of obligatory love, an expected love. Nothing really compelling. Rooted
in nostalgia. But then, what would they be expected to do?"

He sensed that he had said too much, but looking at her
interest in it, he felt comfortable.

"I'm sure you love your daughter, Grace. Do you think
she loves you as much?"

Grace sipped her champagne and seemed to be contemplating
the question.

"As you say, perhaps obligatory love."

"It's an odd thing how money becomes paramount. They
want to be sure that my arrangements maximize their personal inheritances. They
seem to be worried that I'll make some stupid moves and fritter away my
fortune."

"Will you?"

He wanted to tell her what Bruce really thought, that he
would be vulnerable to some bimbo who would find a way to get his money, but he
held back.

"Maybe." He laughed, pouring the remnants of the
champagne into both their glasses.

"But then," he said, "why should I have to
think about that? I'm sixty-four years old. I've made mostly good judgments in
my life. Why should I make bad ones now? It's too ingrained in my psyche. Maybe
they think I'm a doddering, senile idiot. To them, sixty-four might seem
ancient."

"It doesn't seem so from here, Sam," Grace said.

"I appreciate your diplomacy, Grace. I'll bet I've got
thirty years on you," Sam said.

"You're close."

"I'm not afraid of dying," Sam confessed.
"It's the constant noise about the estate that bugs me. My son Bruce, the
lawyer, that's all he seems to care about. As for Carol, that's a hopeless
case."

He upended his glass.

"Look at me," he said. "I'm whining about my
problems with my children. When Anne was alive, she was the one who bore the
brunt of it. She was supposed to be the survivor and deal with this. Now I'm
stuck with the job and I hate it."

"Don't dwell on it, Sam," Grace said.

"You're right, Grace. Little children, little
problems. Big children, big problems."

They finished their omelets and Carmen, still scowling,
took the plates away.

"Here I am," Sam said, "monopolizing your
time."

"Well, I should get on with the clothes."

"The clothes. Yes."

He watched as she rose from the table and brushed bread
crumbs from her slacks. He liked her looks and, despite himself, admitted the
beginnings of sexual stirrings. Yet he did not want her to think that was his
motive for extending the hand of friendship. It had nothing to do with that, he
assured himself. Nothing.

"I'll be upstairs, Sam," Grace said.

Sam watched her rise on the stairway. It felt good to watch
the sway of her hips, the graceful movement of her legs. She had good legs, a
wonderfully proportioned rump. But when she was out of sight, he turned
suddenly and saw Carmen watching him as if he were committing some great crime.

"I'm still alive, Carmen," he muttered.

He went into his study and made a series of phone calls to
his various money managers. The acquisition of more wealth seemed a pointless
endeavor, and, considering the pressure he was getting from his children, a
needless burden. Nevertheless he continued his routine by rote.

Up until Anne became ill, he had traveled throughout the
world, liquidating those businesses that required his personal attention.
Earlier, he had deliberately set up various businesses in other parts of the
country and in Europe and Asia, not only considering profit potential but also
to ply his secret life, his carnal game. He had even lost interest in that.

He came out of his study and moved upstairs to his bedroom.
The doors to Anne's closet were open and the bed was already piled high with
Anne's clothes. He heard Grace rustling about in the closet's interior. She
appeared with another handful of clothes and piled them on the bed.

"It seems endless," Grace said. "It's the
sorting that takes the time. I want to be sure the various charities get their
fair share."

"With your good efforts, I'm sure they will,
Grace."

"What they'll probably do with the gowns and more
expensive clothes is sell them." She paused and looked at him. "Do
you mind?"

"Not at all," Sam said. "I wouldn't even
mind if you took some for yourself."

"For me?" Grace said. "That would be
unthinkable."

"It wouldn't matter," Sam said. "In fact, I
wouldn't even mind if you tried some on. I'd like to see how you look in
them."

"In your wife's clothes?"

"Does it sound ghoulish?"

"No. Just surprising. Wouldn't it depress you?"

"You've got a point. Maybe it would."

He looked at some of the clothes she had put on the bed.
There was a beige dress on the pile. He picked it up and handed it to her.

"This might be nice. Hold it up."

She lifted the hanger with the garment on it, got the dress
in position and pressed it against herself.

"It could be too small," she said, looking into
the mirror. "I'm larger, almost a seven."

"Looks perfect to me," Sam said.

She held the dress at arm's length and inspected it, noting
the label. Geoffrey Beane.

"It is lovely." She shook her head. "But I
wouldn't feel comfortable wearing it, knowing that it was Anne's."

"Why? It's an inanimate object," Sam said,
surprised at his own remark, remembering that the reason this woman was here
was to take the sting out of the process of disposing of Anne's clothes.

"No, it's not, Sam," Grace said. "It's a
reflection of Anne. A lot went into such a purchase, not just money. A wardrobe
like this was not just about clothing. It was a way of life."

"I know that," Sam said. "Still, when you
think about it, clothes are made to be worn. Really, Grace, try it on. I'd like
to see it on you."

"To remind you of her?"

"Maybe. Go on. Try it on."

She hesitated, studying the dress.

"It's lovely, but it doesn't feel right somehow."

"Your call, Grace. Am I being awful to ask?"

"This is embarrassing, Sam," Grace said, scanning
the room. "Is it that important to you?"

"Maybe it was a crazy idea," he said. "If it
makes you uncomfortable, just forget about it. I might be out of line."

"You did suggest it," Grace said. "That's one
clue to its importance." She paused for a moment. "Why not, Sam?
What's the harm?"

"You think I'm being weird?"

Grace shrugged. She held the dress in front of her.

"I suppose you can change in Anne's dressing
room," Sam said, pointing to a door that led to her dressing room and
bathroom. "I'm sure you'll find everything you need there."

"Are you sure about this, Sam?"

"I'm not sure about anything, Grace," he said.
"It might stir up memories that I don't want to deal with. Your
call."

"If it doesn't fit, I won't show it to you."

"Fair enough."

She seemed to be studying him; then she shrugged and went
off into the dressing room carrying the beige dress.

Sam was surprised at the course this was taking. It was as
if, for the first time in months, perhaps years, his body was awakening from a
long slumber. He felt a quickening in his crotch and discovered he had a
steel-hard erection. It was an odd sensation, since he had rarely had any
sexual stirring in this room.

Although he enjoyed being with his wife here, enjoyed being
with her everywhere, for that matter, he had discovered early on that she had
little interest in sex. It was an anomaly, since Anne had a sexy look. Others
had commented on this, telling him how lucky he was to have such a sexy and
attractive wife.

It was the one missing link in his marriage, perhaps the
primary factor that propelled him into his secret life. Early on, he had given
up any idea that she might change.

When they were young, in the first few months of their
marriage, Sam had noted Anne's sexual unresponsiveness. She performed dutifully
but without passion or interest. Before their marriage, while they did not, in
the mores of the day, "go all the way," they masturbated each other
to mutual orgasm. But when they married, it seemed that desire had simply
disappeared from Anne's life.

Sam found it a difficult subject to think about, and he and
Anne had rarely discussed it. Even his most oblique references to her sexuality
always brought the same smiling answer.

"I intend to be a good and dutiful wife always,"
she would tell him. "Always available."

"But you don't seem to get a kick out of doing
it."

"I love you being close to me."

"But it's the feedback..."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sam. You always seem to enjoy it
immensely."

"I do, but..."

"No buts. It shouldn't be so important to our
happiness."

He loved her and there seemed no point in making either of
them uncomfortable. Nevertheless, he tried to be both patient and imaginative
in his lovemaking, but except for some minor variations of the missionary
position, sex between them became boring and routine. He acknowledged that
perhaps it was his fault, something inside him that froze her desire, or some
fault in his technique that could not overcome her natural reluctance.

Sexual activity between them dwindled. It became the
accepted condition of their marriage. He did not let it become a bone of
contention between them.

He would often grapple with the question and wonder why he
had not pursued the matter further. He did consider the possibility of therapy
for both of them, had agonized over it, then rejected it, deciding that he did
not wish to bring to her attention what she might consider a serious flaw in
herself, a flaw she neither understood nor recognized. Or perhaps he lacked the
courage to risk discovering some missing link in himself, some mysterious
biological inability to arouse her, despite the usual patient textbook
ministrations.

He knew, of course, that this issue flew in the face of
marital intimacy and the common idea that total communication, body and soul,
was necessary for a strong marriage. Weighing the pros and cons of keeping this
subject dormant between them, he chose evasion and conscious repression and,
from the evidence of their life together, the strategy had been reasonably
successful.

But it became apparent to Sam that he could never have a
totally rounded relationship with his wife. They had sex less and less as time
went on, and apparently both of them got used to the idea of less sex, which
eventually became no sex. Neither questioned the other about this phenomenon.
They both enjoyed each other's company and they had many things in common.
Except sex.