She released my hand and leaned forward to get up. As she did, her robe bowed forward and back. I was very much aware of her right breast and the tan line around it.
"Take it off," she said, smiling.
I blinked up at her. "Your shirt," she said, her smile growing broader, "take it off. I have a T-shirt that I use as a nightie that ought to fit you."
"No, thanks. Really," I said uncertainly. "I'm all right."
She planted her fists on her hips and looked resigned. "Well, if I can't make you comfortable, at least I can get you a drink. What will you have?"
"Orange juice," I said, and cleared my throat. "And a little vodka, if you've got it."
"I'll just be a minute," and she trotted off-to the kitchen for the drinks, not to the bedroom to change.
Well, John-boy, what now? Beth now. Beth and my decision. The question was how to put the decision into words. Or actions. And when. Something was beginning to make me perspire again. Maybe the flannel shirt.
She returned with the drinks. From across the room, mine appeared awfully pale. Unless she reconstituted her frozen o.j. with a lot of water, she'd mixed me a whale of a screwdriver. She handed it to me. As she sat down, her robe did another calisthenic. I was positive she had known that it would.
"To lasting friendship," she said, with a nice try at a naughty wink.
I took a sip. Almost pure vodka. "You should hold the orange peel in a little longer next time."
She rolled the ice around in her glass and looked me up and down. "You know, John, you have a great sense of humor, but you shouldn't let it affect your taste in clothes."
We both laughed. "Actually, I'm on my way to find Stephen."
Valerie jumped forward and nearly spilled her drink as she set it on the coffee table. Her robe bowed out again and stayed that way. I kept looking into her eyes.
"Oh, John, you know where he is! Where?"
"I told Mrs. Kinnington I wouldn't tell her, and I'll not tell you for the same reasons. First, I'm not sure I do know where he is, and second, given Blakey's general temperament, I don't want anyone he could approach to know as much as I do."
Valerie shot me a disbelieving look. "Oh, come on, John. Blakey wouldn't dare try to intimidate me or Mrs. Kinnington."
"I don't mean to frighten you, but I'm not sure he wouldn't, if the stakes he's playing for are as high as I think they are."
She slid her hand onto mine. The hand was cold from her drink and warm from her at the same time.
"I'm not frightened," she said.
I leaned away from her and against the backrest of the couch. My hand followed quite casually and naturally, and I interlocked my lingers in my lap. Val turned sideways to me and brought her legs up into a figure-four on the couch. She spoke in a whisper.
"From the way you're dressed and the things you've said, you expect to beat the bushes for Stephen somewhere. It'll be dark in another few hours. Do you really think that you'll find him at night?"
I cleared my throat again. "No, you're probably right."
She closed her hand over mine again. "I've got the chicken defrosted and some Sylvaner in the 'fridge. I can't promise you L'Espalier, but I can promise it will be nice." Another hard squeeze.
Now was the time. Instead, I lied. "That sounds good."
She leaned over, kissed me lightly on the cheek, and nestled her head into my shoulder. She also began stroking the back of my hand with the tips of her fingernails. She had long, pianist's fingers, and I noticed for the first time how long her nails were. I wondered how she could keep her nails so long, since she probably participated in vigorous school activities like recess. Then I remembered that school had been out for a while. Then I began to realize that I was thinking about her hands to avoid thinking about the lump in my throat. Now it was really time.
"Valerie…"
She arched her head back and up, her eyes half-open, her lips slightly parted.
"Val, it's just no good." I sat forward, and she drew back, her face an open cut.
"What… what do you…?"
"Look," I said, more testily than I had a right to, "it's just not right between us. It just isn't there."
She began to look more mad than hurt. "What? What isn't there?" she demanded.
I began gesturing with my hand, making my points and waving her off at the same time. "A feeling isn't there. You're a nice person. A good human being. And being with you here so far has made me feel more warm than I have for months, since even before Beth died, because the last week or so she wasn't warm, she was just getting slowly colder, slowly slipping away. But that warmth isn't enough-there has to be something first, some kindred spark."
"So now," she snapped, "now you're going to say I don't 'spark' you? That you weren't excited to be near me?"
"No, that's not it. That's what's drawing me, don't you see? You're real, and you want me to be with you and be a part of your life. And that, plus the physical attraction, is what's drawing me to you. But I don't want to make you a part of my life. I don't feel toward you the way I felt toward Beth."
She threw her hands up and jumped to her feet. She crossed her arms and turned toward me and argued down to me.
"You big jerk! I'm sorry, John, but that's what you are. I can understand that I'm the first woman you've let yourself feel anything about since your wife died, and I can see why that would make you feel, oh, awkward even, like I think you've been tonight. But my God, John, how can you expect to feel toward someone the same affinity you felt toward Beth so soon? I mean, you knew her for, what, ten years? That's the sort of thing that takes time to grow, for
God's sake!" Her eyes were filling with tears.
"But that's just it, Val. After Beth died, and in between binges with the booze, I read all sorts of articles, whole books even, on the need to rebuild, to start over in your life, block by block. The problem is, it's wrong. Those writers were wrong, and you're wrong. There really are special people in the world, people who are special to other people from the word go, and that's the way it was with Beth and me. She was the only woman I'd ever loved. She was the only one who knew me, who knew what I was thinking and could anticipate what I'd be doing. It was magic between us from the first time I met her."
"Magic?" Val said unbelievingly. "Magic?"
"Don't you see? I knew she was the one the instant I met her, and she did about me. Call it our Catholic upbringing or indoctrination if you like, but that was the attitude I had, and despite all the other Catholic attitudes I've fallen away from, it's still the one I have. And I'm right, Val. And the others, you, the writers and all, are wrong. At least about me."
Although Val then knelt in front of me, I'm sure she wasn't mocking my references to religion. She put her hands on my knees and leaned her face toward, and almost into, mine.
"John, that sort of thing does happen, but it happens when you're young, maybe when you're in high school or even college, before too many disappointments hit you and you wake up to the fact that life has imperfections in it. But you're ignoring reality if you tell me that unless it's love at first sight, a relationship can't work for you. That's just not the way it is, John."
I kissed her forehead and closed my hands over hers.
"I'm sorry, Val, but that's the way it is, at least for me. And if I kid myself any further about it, I really will be ignoring reality."
She blinked away her tears and rose to her feet. Her face took on a determined look.
"I feel sorry for you, John. I really do. Not because your wife died, but because you're letting you die after her." She turned away and picked up the drinks. She began walking to the kitchen. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to retract the dinner invitation," she said over her shoulder.
I was already halfway to the front door.
As I drove away from Valerie's, I felt cold and empty. I just drove, paying little attention (to my eventual regret) to anything around me. The problem was, Valerie was right about one thing: It was far too late in the day to begin looking for Stephen. I took a county road that wound roughly north. When it crossed Route 9, I headed west. I came pretty quickly to the Sheraton Tara, a large, mock-Tudor motor inn. It's about twenty miles from Boston where Route 9 and the Mass Pike intersect. I checked in, ate a monstrous steak in the restaurant, and then downed several too many screwdrivers while watching some suave suburbanites rock and disco till closing.