The Glimpsing (17 page)

She had never believed in fatal attractions, but the force drawing her to Jack was so compelling, so insistent that, at times, she felt powerless to stop it.
 
At a party, she’d once caught herself peering at him from across a large and very crowded ballroom.
 
She’d fallen knee-deep into a daydream, and by the time she’d snapped herself out of it, she was appalled to find that he’d noticed her looking, and was now gazing back as well.
 
She’d blushed sharply, and immediately scurried off, losing herself in the crowd.
 
Ten minutes later, as she mingled with two other women, she’d glanced off briefly, only to find Jack’s eyes still trained on her.
 
She’d looked away, feigning indifference, but could not shake the feeling that she had given herself away.
 
From that moment forward, she promised herself that she’d never let something like that happen again.
 
But that was a promise she wouldn’t be able to keep.

It was in the third month of Jack and Portia’s relationship that things began to sour.
 
Portia had mentioned that their kissing sessions were becoming increasingly intense.
 
He was having difficulty controlling himself, and although he apologized frequently, his hands continually roamed.
 
Sometimes, Portia admitted, she actually let them.
 
Not very far, of course, but probably much farther than she should have.

On any other occasion, Gabrielle would have seen Jack’s aggression as proof positive that he’d been up to something all
along,
that his supposed respect for Portia’s chastity was actually part of a slow seduction, a patiently executed stratagem to erode Portia’s sexual convictions and get her in bed.

But that was not what she thought.
 
Quite the opposite, in fact.
 
It was not Jack who was trying to seduce Portia.
 
It was Portia who was trying to seduce Jack.

At the time, the notion seemed perfectly reasonable.
 
Portia had left modeling on a quest for love, and in doing so, had suffered a bitter string of defeats.
 
Then Jack entered her life, seeming like the man of her dreams.
 
But now even he had begun to press her sexually, which put her in a quandary: continue to deny Jack and risk losing him, or forgo her morals and give him what he wanted.
 
Cleverly, Portia had chosen a compromise.
 
She would loosen her restrictions just enough to keep him around, just enough to make him believe he might get something from her.
 
Eventually, he’d become so desirous of her, so blind with passion, that he’d be willing to do anything to have her.
 
Yes, Portia was clearly trying to seduce Jack, not to have sex with her, but to marry her.

It was the first time Gabrielle could ever remember becoming truly angry with her friend.
 
It simply seemed outrageous that a thirty-year-old woman could behave so insidiously.

Portia and Jack would remain together only another month.
 
Portia continued to recount those ever-intensifying kissing tales, and just as Gabrielle had suspected, she continued to give up more and more moral ground to keep him from leaving.
 
Portia was still adamant, quite naturally, that their relationship would never be consummated, but she was getting used to certain things.
 
Whenever it got too heated, Portia would merely wrestle herself away and depart for the bathroom.
 
According to the story, Jack had always handled this with patience and understanding, but Gabrielle knew beneath the surface, especially for a man like Jack, a fire was raging.

It was during that time that Gabrielle realized something that had formerly eluded her.
 
She now understood why she was attracted to a man that was so universally regarded as a playboy.
 
It was because that part of his life, being a playboy, was coming to an end.
 
Jack Parke was changing.
 
His womanizing ways were finally over.
 
The fact that he was willing to stay in a sexless relationship for such an extended period of time was proof positive of that.
 
And if that was really true, if Jack’s one great flaw really was dying out, then she’d be a fool not to see him as the most desirable man on the planet.

In the last week of Portia and Jack’s relationship, the fire Gabrielle suspected was in him finally came out in a short, but near volcanic burst.
 
Portia related that while she and Jack were kissing on the couch, Jack had abruptly forced her to her back.
 
When she protested, trying to push him away, he’d angrily yanked her blouse apart, exposing her bra.
 
She had managed to get from beneath him, but the event left her troubled.

Gabrielle knew then that things were coming to a head.
 
 
Portia was never going to give in, and Jack wasn’t ever going to give up.
 
At some point his passions were going to overwhelm him, and when that happened, who knew what it would bring.

Three days later, she found out.

It was on a Saturday morning, just after dawn, when Gabrielle heard the loud banging on her front door.
 
She’d anxiously jumped out of bed, threw on a robe, and went to see who it was.
 
To her surprise, Jack was standing in her doorway.
 
His eyes were bloodshot; his breath rank with Bourbon.
 
He grinned just slightly, as if happy to see her but too drunk to fully express it.
 
He then stumbled into her arms.
 
She caught him, nearly falling over in the process.
 
She helped him to the couch, where he quickly passed out, probably as drunk as he’d ever been.
 
She’d covered him with a blanket, and waited.

She sat there watching him sleep it off, wondering what possibly could have happened overnight to bring him here.
 
Over the next few hours, the answer to that question became abundantly clear.

Jack had begun to mumble in his sleep, speaking of and sometimes acting out the events of the previous night.
 
Gabrielle had to work to put it all together, but she could make out something about one of his and Portia’s kissing sessions, his groping her, and then being sharply slapped (at that he’d actually reached up and touched his cheek).
 
He’d
apparently gone to a bar thereafter, where he met two women that he’d intended to take home for an overnight.
 
He’d cackled on the couch as he mumbled something about driving through a puddle, splashing water on them, and leaving them at the curb.

He’d then mentioned something very disturbing.
 
It was something about re-entering Portia’s house, climbing the stairs to the second floor, and going into her bedroom.
 
Portia was sleeping, but had soon awakened, extending her hand to him, and beckoning him to come and make love to her.
 
But just as he was about to do so, a woman’s face appeared in the closet, frightening him so badly that he was forced to leave.

Gabrielle wasn’t sure what to make of the story.
 
She seriously doubted that Jack had actually entered Portia’s bedroom, although he certainly seemed drunk enough to do so.
 
The part about there being a woman in Portia’s closet was a more obvious fiction.
 
But none of that really mattered.
 
What was happening to Jack was clear.
 
Portia had made him desperate for her, obsessed.
 
So obsessed, in fact, that he seemed just about ready to do anything to have her—which would, in turn, allow Portia to get what she wanted: marriage.

Jack went silent then.
 
An hour later, perhaps just after 10:00am, he began to stir.
 
She had made a pot of coffee, poured herself a cup, and sat down at the table, waiting for him to finally awaken.
 
She had looked down and was taking a sip of the coffee when she heard him whisper: “Gabrielle.”

She looked up quickly, thinking he had awakened.
 
But his eyes remained closed.
 
Several minutes passed, and then he spoke her name again, this time so softly, so tenderly that it actually made her heart flutter.

She watched him anxiously for several minutes more, trying to suppress the foolish notion growing in her heart: that what brought him here was much more than mere coincidence, much more than a drunken stupor.
 
What brought him here was something deep and instinctual.
 
Maybe he had feelings for her too.

He said her name a third time, and then his eyes fluttered.
 
Slowly they drifted open.
 
He brought his hand up to shield himself from the glare pouring in through the ceiling windows, then frowned and stared around confusedly.
 
He then looked at her, blinking in astonishment.

Without a word, she had stood and walked the coffee over, kneeling in front of him.
 
He took it, sipped it, and then sat it on the floor.
 
He gazed up at her intently, and something in the way he was doing it told her she should look away.
 
But she didn’t.
 
He began to toy with her hair, and she repeatedly brushed his hand away, rejecting what she felt was an obvious, and probably still drunken, advance.

It came as a complete shock when his hand reached up and pulled her close.
 
Next began to kiss her.
 
She resisted at first, refusing to kiss him back.
 
But that resistance was far
weaker than it should have been.
 
Already she could feel them easing, those cords of restraint, normally as rigid as steel, now melting like warmed wax.
 
An image of Portia, not the seducer, not the sexual tease she’d become so angry with, but the innocent woman she’d adored since grade school, filled her mind’s eye.
 
She could almost see her standing over them, watching their sordid little encounter.
 
She’d tried to pull away, but Jack’s arm tightened powerfully.
 
The image of Portia flashed again, and she tried to pull back again, but Jack was relentless.
 
Portia entered her mind once more, but that time she barely even flinched.
 
The image faded, swept away by a thunderous feeling that only later she’d be able to identify.
 
She then took hold of his face with both hands, opened her mouth, and kissed him like she’d never kissed a man before.

As wonderful, as exhilarating as that day had been, guilt had plagued each day following.
 
She felt like a sinner, betraying her best friend, doing the worst thing one woman could do to another short of murder.
 
And yet, to this very day, now two months later, she had allowed the affair to proceed.

Several times, stricken with guilt, she had intended to break it off with him.
 
She’d tried to call him, an apology in one hand, an admission of her own stupidity in the other, and between the two,
an
impassioned plea that the whole affair be swept under the rug and forgotten.
 
But each time she had hung up the phone.
 
Already she had gone too far.
 
Already the good girl was as good as dead.

Gabrielle waved away the re-approaching waiter, tossing her hand and shaking her head.
 
She felt trapped, her love for Jack on one side, loyalty to her best friend on the other.
 
Was it really any wonder then that she felt such a sweeping sense of dread, like something terrible was about to happen?
 
Something terrible was going to happen.
 
Sooner or later, Portia would know of their affair.
 
 
And whatever that brought, no matter how unimaginable, one thing was clear: it was all deserved.

She peered up once more, high onto
Corcodova
and beheld the man on the hill.
 
She had a sudden and very powerful urge to pray to Him, to plead for a way out of her situation.
 
She needed help; the strength to do the right thing, to become the good girl once again.
 
She needed a miracle, something divine, a godsend of some sort.