Mourning Glory (26 page)

"As I was?"

"I didn't mean to compare. I'm just telling you how I
felt about it. I'm a woman, which makes me different from you."

"Do you think men and women are that different? I mean
in the way they perceive things, the way they think and feel?"

"Totally. I can only judge by me. To tell you the
truth, I don't think I understand men, men in general." She chuckled and brushed
her hand against his cheek. "I've never been very successful in knowing
men. My experience hasn't exactly been wide-ranging."

"Do you think you can understand me?"

"I'll try. But you do represent a hefty
challenge."

"Why hefty?"

She seemed to hesitate. Then she reached out and gently
grasped his erection.

"By your own admission, you put a lot of stock in this
guy's happiness."

He laughed. "You've got a point."

"No, you have."

Now they both laughed. Her sense of humor had emerged and
he loved it, loved this play between them.

"It's a measure of my manliness."

"I'd say..." She used her fingers as a yardstick.
"A foot long."

"Thanks for the compliment."

"I'm only estimating what it seems like to me."

"Then let's leave it at that."

"Why leave it at all?"

She bent down and kissed it. Again, he eased her up and
kissed her on the lips. Then she nestled her head in the crook of his arm.

"Do you think I'm exaggerating its importance?"

"I don't know. I'm learning. I've never met a man like
you. As I told you, my experience of men is limited."

"Were you a virgin when you married?"

"No. We did it before we were married. It was the
first time for me."

"Was it ... was it satisfactory?"

"It was okay, I guess. I can't say it wasn't
enjoyable. I suppose I loved him. And I felt good about letting him be the
first."

"Did you have any relationships after you
separated?"

"I see you're getting personal, Sam."

"Sexy talk turns me on."

She reached down and caressed him there.

"See," he said.

"It never seems to rest."

"Not with you, it doesn't. If it did, I'd stoke myself
with Viagra."

"You're not a candidate."

"Not yet."

She was silent for a long time. He hoped she wasn't
thinking about their age difference.

"So tell me about these others, after you
separated."

She sighed and patted his stomach.

"There was Alfred. He was four years younger than me.
Very pretty. Very stupid. Very boring. It lasted a week. He left me. End of
story."

She told him about her brief experience with her dentist.

"He had a strange definition of fillings," she
said, giggling, obviously enjoying the byplay. He, too, seemed to enjoy the
humor.

"That's it?"

"I told you. My experience is limited."

"You could have fooled me."

"With you, I guess I'm doing what comes naturally. I
can't believe this is me. I'm finding I can't get enough of you."

He moved parallel to her and she inserted his penis.

"Yes," Sam said, "A perfect fit. Made to
order."

He saw her in the half-light, beside him, her head back,
her hair flowing beside her, her eyes glistening. She was smiling, a happy,
contented smile.

"All I'll require," he whispered "is doing
this daily; that means, according to my calculations, five thousand times a
year."

"How did you come up with that figure?"

"I'm sixty-four. I'm looking for fifteen active years,
give or take ... if I'm lucky."

"If today is any indication, you're moving ahead of
the curve," she said.

"I'm making allowance for bad days," he said.
"If all goes well, it will average out."

They were silent for awhile. He felt her muscles pulsating
around his erection.

"It's never been like this, Grace," he whispered.
"Never."

"Never?" she asked. "Not even with those
others?"

"Never. Not with them. Or anyone. And you?" he
asked. "Has it ever..."

"Been this good?"

"That is the question. Yes."

"Would you believe me?"

"Absolutely," he said. "Always."

"Never, never, never," she said, moving her
pelvis in a circular motion, as if to emphasize the point. "Am I going too
fast?"

"Yes," he said. She stopped her movements.

"Is it me, Sam? I mean, are you imagining I'm Anne,
that you're doing this to Anne?"

"No. I'm not imagining doing this with Anne. I'm doing
this with Grace."

"What are you doing to Grace, Sam?" she asked,
her breath coming faster. He knew she was climbing her way to a charged orgasm.
She was definitely not Anne.

"Making love to Grace," Sam whispered. She
started to move her pelvis again.

"Say it dirty, Sam."

"Fucking you, Grace."

"Fuck me, Sam." Her words seemed to signal that
he join her movements, which he did.

"It's going to happen, Sam," she purred.

"Then let it happen."

"Is it happening for you, too?"

"Yes. For me, too."

He felt her letting go, moaning with pleasure. Then he felt
his own come, the joyful spasms. She seemed to rear up, pummeled by some inner
waves. After awhile they both started to cool, remaining locked together. She
seemed to doze.

He closed his eyes, but he did not sleep. He was wondering
how and why this had happened. Where was this energy coming from? How did it
begin? Was it really the clothes, her wearing Anne's clothes that had triggered
this response in both of them? How wonderful and exciting it was when she
walked across the room modeling them for him.

And then, when she had taken off the ermine coat ... My
God. What an explosion of sexual energy. It was as if she knew exactly what he
needed, the rush, the explosive effect, the pleasure. But the thing that made
it special was what she herself was obviously feeling, the honesty of her own
pleasure, their mutuality. All the money in the world couldn't buy that
feedback. And no actress could invent her reactions, the way she came, shivery,
abandoned, appreciative, like some great earth mother opening joyously to
receive him.

He began to feel drowsy and slept. When he opened his eyes
again the sun had fallen in the sky. It had become dusk, an orange dusk. She
was sleeping quietly beside him. He leaned over and kissed her deeply again on
the lips.

She awakened, smiled and returned his kiss.

"Do you feel good, Sam?"

"Yes, darling, very good."

"Who am I, Sam?" she asked.

"Grace," he replied.

He reached for her hand. Their fingers locked. It was a day
never to be forgotten and he hoped that he would not let a single detail of it
fade from his memory.

It was beyond anything she could have imagined. Sam Goodwin
had become the dominant force in her life, an all-encompassing, overwhelming
presence. She moved through time and space giddy with erotic energy, carried
along in a whirlpool of excitement that defied either definition or analysis.
She dared not believe that her goal was in sight, but events were taking on a
life of their own and heading in the right direction.

Her life with Sam, after an upsetting incident with Carmen,
grew into a comfortable daily pattern of easy companionship spiced with a
continuing menu of sexual excitement.

Carmen had, a few days after their first memorable
experience together, discovered them in bed in, as the lawyers say,
flagrante
delecto.
They were too involved in themselves to notice her observing them
until she had fully absorbed the situation and had left the room and slammed
the door behind her.

Disturbed by her action, Sam had put on his robe and
hurried downstairs to talk with her. Grace put on one of Anne's silk robes and
listened in the upstairs corridor. She heard every word of the unpleasant
encounter.

"This is none of your business, Carmen," Sam told
her.

"She a devil, this woman. She make you crazy."

"I don't appreciate that comment, Carmen. This has
nothing at all to do with you."

"You men stupid and blind. She after your money, mister."

"You're pushing it, lady."

"I no care. I loved Madame. She still warm in her
grave, and look what you do. Have you no shame, no feeling in your heart for
Madame?"

"This has nothing to do with Madame."

"I feel her anger in myself. Mister, I think sometimes
this house will burn in hell because of what you do to her."

"I've done nothing to her. You know I loved her."

"You men, you think only with your
cojones.
You
love only your
cojones.
She love only your money."

"How can I ignore what you've just said, Carmen? How
long have you worked here ... fifteen years? Why are you doing this?"

"I not do nothing. I see with my eyes. This whore in
your bed bring you nothing but pain."

Grace felt the rage rise in her gut. Disgusted and
insulted, she was tempted to go down and join the confrontation, say her piece.
Above all she resented Carmen putting this idea into his head.

"I'm sorry for your attitude, Carmen," Sam said.
She caught the sadness and resignation in his voice. "But you leave me no
choice. You have two hours to leave here. I'll write a check for six months'
pay. I'm really sorry about this, but you've overstepped the line."

"I no need two hours," Carmen cried. Sometime
later she heard the front door slam.

When Sam came back to the bedroom his face was ashen. He
looked at Grace and shook his head.

"I'm sure you heard that, Grace."

Grace nodded.

"Yes, I did. I was furious. I'm better now."

"I hope you don't take it to heart," Sam
muttered.

"She was very devoted to Anne," Grace said,
watching his face, wondering if any permanent damage had been done. "From
her vantage I guess that's the way she sees me, a whore with an eye on your
money."

He seemed to reflect on her words for a moment but did not
pursue it.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that."

He moved toward her and they embraced. After awhile they
disengaged and moved out to the patio, where they stood by the railing and
watched the sun spangle on the water while both of them contemplated the
situation.

The logic of Carmen's words were underlined in Grace's mind.
Perhaps at heart she was the whore of Carmen's representation. She could not
deny, not to herself, that she had come for exactly that purpose, to benefit
from Sam's money. There was no escaping the truth of Carmen's assertion. The
fact that she had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the effort did not negate
the truth of it. From the very beginning Carmen suspected her motives.

"She was upset," Grace said. "I can
understand that."

"She had to go," Sam murmured.

"Perhaps she felt it was too soon after ... she had a
point."

"It's my life. Our lives. Time doesn't stand still,
especially for a man of my age. Besides, you know how I felt about Anne. I did
not betray her. You mustn't let it worry you. It's not the first time in my
life that I've fired people."

"I've never been at that end of the stick," Grace
sighed. Her candor surprised her. It was not part of her contrived persona.

"Well, I have," he said. "And I did what I
had to do." He averted his eyes. "She crossed the line, insulted you,
made you out to be something you're not."

"Can you be so certain of that, Sam?" Grace said,
wondering why she had said such a thing. She had deliberately endangered her
project. Was this to be another thing in her life that she screwed up? But his
reaction relieved her.

"I pride myself on my judgment about people."

He turned to her, and she felt the piercing intensity of
his gaze. The bright light made the color of his eyes seem a deeper blue.

"Besides, we didn't need her negativity around
us," Sam said. He was silent for a long moment. "Do you think I was
too harsh?"

She hadn't expected the question, which made her confront
her hypocrisy. Of course Carmen had to go. She would have gummed things up for
sure.
Be real, Grace,
she admonished herself.
Keep your eye on the
ball. Remember Mrs. Burns's caveat. Ring around your finger.

Nevertheless it was troubling, a clarion call of things to
come. But then, this was all new territory to her. She must face the cold
facts. If, by some miracle, this relationship continued, she would be known
forever as the woman who seduced Sam Goodwin before his wife's body was cold.
She had her own justification. She, too, was in a race against time. Financial
ruin loomed just over the horizon. She had no income and a daughter who had to
be extracted from an untenable situation. She had narrowed her escape route
down to one path, the one that led to Sam Goodwin.

"Wipe this little incident out of your mind," Sam
said.

"You, too," Grace replied, worried suddenly about
a new terror, debilitating guilt. At this point, she knew, guilt was the enemy;
guilt could trivialize what was happening between them.

"If it's all right with you, Grace, we don't even have
to expose ourselves to the viciousness of others. With Carmen gone I'll hire a
complete stranger. What happens here is nobody's business but our own."

"We can't hide forever, Sam," Grace protested
mildly, but mostly for form's sake. Sam was right. There was no point in
complicating matters by exposure. The more time that passed, the less people
would take notice.

"As far as anyone knows, you come here to dispose of
Anne's wardrobe."

"Among other things," Grace said, winking
deliberately, putting a playful spin on the issue.

"The important thing, Grace, is that, whatever others
might say or think, we know the truth of it, the truth of ourselves."

She nodded agreement, eschewing words. In his mind, truth
was an absolute, a condition of their relationship. It frightened her to
contemplate. That was something else that had to be pushed from her mind.

On balance, she decided, returning to cold calculation, the
idea of staying out of sight favored her ultimate goal. It would isolate them,
keep him away from the competition and reserve him for herself.

She smiled and caressed his cheek. She detected in herself
a sense of growing possessiveness, instantly recognizing the dangers and
pitfalls of such an emotion.

"Anne would understand," he whispered, more to
himself than to her. He looked out of the window, as if he were searching for
Anne's reassurance somewhere out in the horizon, beyond the sea. It allowed her
time to consider her own uncertainty. Was this "arrangement" for him
anything more than a passing erotic episode, a bridge of pleasure across the
waters of mourning and loss, grief-chasing medicine, a temporary intermission
to give him time to pick up the threads of a new life?

After a few moments he shook himself out of his sudden
reverie and kissed her deeply on the lips. Despite her uncertainty, she
returned his ardor and they made love. She felt no hint of grief or guilt in
his performance.