The Carlton Club (36 page)

They walked along the beach, the cold wind blowing their hair and putting color in their cheeks. They didn’t try to talk above the wind. Ross realized, as the afternoon wore on, that Janet didn’t need to talk. She was comfortable with silences. She was comfortable to walk beside him, enjoying the beauty, without speaking.

Janet was peaceful. It made him feel peaceful to be with her.

She walked out to his car with him when he left at five. He had already stayed too long. He would have to drive directly to the airport.

“Thank you,” he said. “Happy birthday.”

Janet smiled at him, swaying almost imperceptibly closer to him.

His lips found hers, soft, warm and eager for his. He folded his arms around her and felt her softness press against him. Willing, sensual, passionate. They kissed for a long, soft, warm moment.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he whispered into her ear.

She looked up at him, her eyes glowing, her cheeks pink. She touched his lips lightly with her finger.

He didn’t want to leave, and she didn’t want him to.

But he had to.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he whispered hoarsely as he got into his car. And the next day. And the next, he thought, forgetting for a moment that Stacy was arriving for the week.

Stacy. Everything had changed. Plans were expendable, after all.

Slowly, with painstaking care, James and Lynne fell in love again. Most days, because they were trying so hard, because they wanted it so much, they made some progress; but some days, they seemed to lose all that they had gained, and it seemed hopeless.

They spent the evenings they had together talking quietly, sitting together, holding hands. James called her from work when she was at home during the day, and he called her when she was away, every time she was away, talking for hours long distance.

James called her on Christmas night in her hotel room in Dallas.

“What’s wrong, Lynne?”

Her voice was flat, defeated.

“You know what I thought about all day?”

“No. Tell me,” James urged, knowing that it had to be something painful about Leslie. But knowing, too, that they had to talk about it.

“You quit smoking for
her
, didn’t you?”

“Lynne,” James began. It was something Lynne had tried gently, without nagging and without success, to get him to do. Now he had done it, quit for good, because of Leslie. But he had done it for Lynne, too. For the rest of their lives together.

“Well, I know you did. I’ve spent the whole day thinking about it, hating both of you, torn apart by anger. I can’t get rid of the feeling. In the past nine days, I thought we made progress, but today, tonight, I’m back where I was,” she said. Wanting to leave, she thought. Needing to get away from you.

“I tear myself apart with anger, too, Lynne. But the difference is that I know it will never happen again. I know what it meant. I know how I feel about you. I know that you can trust me, but I can only tell you that. I can’t make you feel it or believe it.”

“I want to believe it.” I am just going to have to decide, she thought. By mid January at the latest. So much depends on it: my life, James’s life, and another life, an innocent life that could be damaged, either way, if I make the wrong decision. Lynne sighed heavily, weighted by the burden of the decision that was hers to make. “James, talk to me about something that has nothing to do with us. I’m wallowing and I’m getting nowhere.”

They spent hours talking about the news, books, politics and the weather. Anything to keep communication open. Something drove them both to try to make it work, but they couldn’t force it. It had to happen. They had to give it every chance.

By the end of the third week, they had begun working together on Lynne’s new Monica book. They spent the evenings talking about the illustrations that Lynne wanted. Sometimes it felt almost normal. Almost good.

James called her at home one afternoon. He had an idea for an illustration. She sounded distracted. She had been writing.

“Hi, am I interrupting something?” he asked as soon as he heard her voice.

“No,” she said. “Yes, you are, James. I’m having an affair with a guy I’ve known since kindergarten.”

They were both silent, shocked for a moment. Then she laughed. And he laughed. And he told her he was on his way home to put an end to it.

They made love that afternoon and that night, for the first time since September eleventh, the night before James took Leslie out for her birthday dinner. The next day Lynne hated him again, remembering what he had done, but the anger only lasted for an hour. It disappeared before she had a chance to tell him about it.

A week later Lynne returned at seven in the evening. She had been gone for two days. She found James sitting in the living room. The curtains were drawn, blocking the view of the South Bay and preventing anyone from seeing in. They usually didn’t need such privacy in the living room.

Lynne’s heartbeat quickened and her entire body tingled with anticipation. When she saw his eyes, she knew.

“Take off your clothes, Lynne,” he said softly, seductively, not moving.

She closed her eyes for a moment. James.

It was her fantasy. One of the sexual fantasies she had trusted him enough to tell him. She had told him all of them. They were similar. They allowed him to control her as she had never allowed any man to control her. She was excited by his sexual power and by his desire for her.

James would interrupt whatever she was doing, quietly taking the pen out of her hand if she was writing, firmly turning off the stove if she was preparing dinner. It didn’t matter what she was doing. That was part of the fantasy: When he wanted her, nothing else mattered. She never said no.

James would tell her to undress, and he would watch, his eyes appreciative, passionate and full of desire for her. Then she would stand in front of him naked, proud of her perfect body, feeling him wanting her, feeling her body respond to his gaze.

Sometimes the pleasure would be only for her. James would kiss her, warm gentle kisses until she lay exhausted and satisfied, and he would still be dressed. Sometimes he would undress, too, and make love to her slowly, forcing her to wait, not allowing her to be impatient. Sometimes they would make love quickly because just the sight of each other from across the room made them ready, desperate to be together.

They did whatever James wanted. It was part of the fantasy—her fantasy. James was in control. Because she trusted him. She never said no.

“Take off your clothes,” he repeated.

“James, no,” she said weakly. She wasn’t ready for this. He was forcing her to prove that she trusted him again and that she would allow him to control her. No, her mind screamed. But her body trembled. Yes, I want this. I want him. I need to be wanted this way again. By him.

But what about? her mind screamed back.

He won’t notice. It’s barely noticeable, her body argued, pulsing with excitement.

“Yes, Lynne,” he said. He commanded.

Lynne watched him as she removed her uniform: the tailored jacket, the checked blouse, the straight skirt. Their eyes locked, eloquently transmitting the feelings and desires of their bodies across the room. She moved closer until she stood almost in front of him. Then she took off the rest of her clothes.

When she was naked, he pulled his eyes away from hers, as he always did, to look at her. To caress her body with his eyes. She felt his eyes on her neck, her breasts, her stomach and between her thighs. She shuddered as waves of desire swept through her.

Then suddenly, he frowned and looked at her.

“Lynne?” he asked, his voice husky, but the mood suddenly, inexplicably shattered.

“What?”
What’s wrong? Don’t do this to me! I am trying to trust you
.

“Come here,” he said tentatively.

“What, James?” He can’t tell, she told herself. Even
I
can’t tell.

He put his hand carefully on the lower part of her abdomen. The bulge was almost imperceptible, but it was there.

“Lynne?” he asked softly, looking up at her face.

Tears streamed out of her sad eyes. She cried silently.

“You’re pregnant?”

Lynne nodded slowly, soberly. It was too soon. She still wasn’t sure. And now it was too late. Now he knew.

James pulled her onto his lap, gently wrapping his arms around her trembling, naked body.

“Really?” he asked softly. She nodded again, looking at him. She had never seen such happiness in his eyes.

“Really,” she said, wiping her tears.

“When?”

“When else? The last time we were together. September eleventh. The baby’s just four months old.”

“And it’s OK?” he asked, the realization sweeping through him in waves of elation.

“So far. It’s where it should be. In the uterus. Growing normally despite the scar tissue from the infections.”

“This is what made you ill?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t have felt so ill—so frustrated at being ill—if I’d had any idea. The G.P. I saw in Denver diagnosed it immediately even though I told him it wasn’t possible. I guess even the whirlies, like I had on the plane, aren’t uncommon.”

James held her face with his hands, looking into her eyes, making her look at him.

“Were you going to tell me?”

“Not if we got divorced. No.”

“I had a right to know,” James said sharply.

“You gave up that right the night after the baby was conceived,” Lynne answered with a sharpness matching his.

Lynne watched the effect of her words register as pain in his eyes. The eyes that had been so happy a few moments before.
Am I ever going to stop punishing him? Or myself?

Lynne curled her arms around his head and kissed his forehead.

“I’m sorry, James. Since I’ve known, all I have thought about was how to give this baby the best possible chance. I want the baby so much. I want it to feel safe and happy. I don’t want it to have the kind of childhood I had.”

“Or I had,” James murmured.

“We’re not likely candidates for parents of the year, are we?”

“Maybe we are, Lynne. At least we know how not to do it. And we both want the baby so much.”

“You do? I didn’t know.”

“Neither did I. I guess we had rationalized it all pretty well since we didn’t think we could have children. But when you told me, I felt something I’ve never felt before. I want our baby, Lynne. Just like I want our baby’s mother.”

James kissed her until she trembled against him and her body moved in a rhythm of love and desire.

“Is it all right to make love?” he asked, lowering her beneath him on the sofa, taking off his clothes.

“Yes, James. Mothers-to-be have their fantasies, too,” she said, knotting her fingers in his black hair, breathlessly anticipating the feel of his naked flesh against hers.

“I love you so much, Lynne,” James whispered. And as they moved together, he said over and over, “So much. So much.”

The next day, James called her from work.

“I want you to stop flying. We don’t need the money. You can write your books and be at home with me. I want you at home. I want both of you at home.”

“All right, James,” Lynne said laughing. “I’ll quit.”

“Really?”

“That easy.”

The next week he arrived home with his black portfolio full of sketches.

“I want to show you something.”

“Maui?” Lynne asked, interested. He had been working so hard on the resort project. Days, nights, weekends. He would make love to her, tuck her into bed and then return to the kitchen table to work into the night.

“No, you’ve seen all the Maui sketches.”

“All the
sensational
Maui sketches.”

“Thanks,” he said. Eric and Charlie raved about the Maui project every time James saw them, but it was nice to hear it from Lynne. “No, this isn’t Maui. It’s Monica Manor.”

“What?”

“It’s a new addition for the house. A room for Monica. A study for you. A study for me. It’s principally for Monica, but I threw in some rooms for us, too.”

“James, we don’t know that the baby is Monica. The baby
could
be James junior.”

“The baby will
never
be James junior, but we both think she’s a she, don’t we?”

“Yes, we think that. But we don’t care, do we?”

“No. Not a bit.”

James called Lynne in the middle of the afternoon on Friday, two days before Valentine’s Day. He knew she had spent the morning supervising the first day of construction of the new addition.

“Hi. How are you?”

“Good. Do you really think these guys are going to pay any attention to all those intricate little lines you drew?”

“I really think they’d better. How’s Monica? And Monica?”

“Monica the cat has gotten herself in an almost insoluble dilemma. I’m having a cup of tea hoping she’ll be better by the time I return. And,” her voice softened a little, choked with emotion, “Monica, the baby, moved.”

“She did? Really? Why didn’t you call me?”

“I called the doctor. It was a funny fluttering feeling. I wanted to be sure everything was OK, but that’s what it feels like, and this is when it’s supposed to start, in the fifth month. I didn’t call you because I didn’t think I should bother you.” She had almost called him. She had been so excited.

“Call me.”

“I will.”

“What do you want to do for Valentine’s Day?”

“You know.”

“So,” Mark said, walking up behind Leslie in the tenth floor nursing station, “this is a pretty miserable way for two off call residents to be spending the evening.”

“Mark! I just thought I’d check a few charts before I left.”

“On your rock-steady patients?” Mark teased. “At eight o’clock on Friday night?”

Leslie smiled at Mark, noticing, as always, how handsome he was. But her heart didn’t pound and she didn’t tremble.

I’ve outgrown whatever it was I felt for him, she thought comfortably. Love?
In
love? Now he is a good friend. A dear, good friend.

“I can understand what a single, unattached woman such as myself is doing hiding in the hospital,” Leslie said. “But I can’t figure out what you’re doing here.”