"Don't worry about it."
"The porch is clean, I promise. Let me grab you a blanket. You can warm your toes by the space heater, curl up under the blanket, and I'll get you plenty drunk with the strongest margarita you've ever had."
"Deal," Andrea said.
When the pitcher of margaritas was half empty, they barely noticed the cold anymore.
Andrea lay propped in a wicker chaise, her stocking feet poking out from under a multicolored Spanish blanket. A space heater glowed in front of the chaise, warming her toes. The blanket bunched at her waist. Above it, she wore only her silk blouse. From time to time, she rubbed the gooseflesh on her bare forearms. For the first hour, she had kept the blanket tucked under her chin, but eventually she let it slip down.
She held a bowl glass in her hand. Every minute or two, she extended her tongue to lick a trace of salt from the rim, then took a swallow of the green drink. Despite the dim light, Stride could see her do this, and something about the glimpse of her tongue on the glass was very arousing. He watched her from his own chaise a few inches away.
The porch was nearly dark. A faint glow from the house lights behind them cast shadows. Where the frost had not crept onto the glass, they could see through the tall windows to the inky darkness of the lake, illuminated only by a handful of stars and a half moon giving off a pale glow. For long minutes, they lay next to each other. It was late, but they were wide awake, keenly attuned to the sounds around them: the crash of waves, the hum of the space heater, the in and out of their breathing. Their conversation came in fits and spurts between stretches of silence.
"You're pretty calm about the divorce," Stride said. "Is that an act?"
She stared at him. "Yeah."
A few streaks of water appeared on the windows. Stride could see texture in the rain, a light mix of sleet and snow. They heard the patter increasing on the wooden roof above their heads and the whip of wind against the house. The frame rumbled. He reached for the pitcher of margaritas and refilled their glasses.
Andrea swirled the ice in her drink. A sad smile crossed her lips.
"I had to visit my sister in Miami. Denise had just had a baby. I got back, and there was a note. He needed some time alone, he said. To write. To 'find himself creatively' again. He never had the courage to call me. Not once. Just postcards. Goddamn postcards, for the whole world to see. Next thing I know, he's in Yellowstone. Then Seattle. He's still writing great stuff. But somewhere along the way, he's realized that he just can't be himself around me anymore. That I'm stifling his genius. So maybe it's better if we call it quits."
"Shit," Stride murmured.
"It took five weeks and ten postcards for Robin to officially declare our marriage over and tell me he'd met someone else in San Francisco. On the back was a photo of the fucking Golden Gate Bridge."
"I'm sorry," Stride said.
"That's okay. I don't miss him so much as I hate being alone."
"It's the little things I miss," Stride murmured. "I'm cold in the mornings. Sometimes I wake up and try to roll over to get close to Cindy, like I used to. She'd always complain about my cold hands, but she was like a heater warming me up. But she's not there anymore. So I lie there freezing."
He heard his words die away. He was aware of the lingering silence. Without Andrea asking, he knew she wanted him to tell her more. Earlier, in a passing comment, he had mentioned Cindy's death, not going into detail, not wanting to cast her shadow over their evening. Andrea reacted with shock and grief, but like everyone else, she had no idea what to say or how to comfort him.
Even one little detail, a memory of warming up next to her in bed, made him want to tell all his stories. But he was stubbornly silent.
It was now actively snowing outside. The streaks of ice, slowly slipping down the window glass, obscured the view. Stride glanced at the Parsons table next to the chaise and realized the pitcher of margaritas was empty. He glanced at his watch but couldn't read the time in the shadows.
"You have succeeded," Andrea declared finally.
"At what?"
"I am now drunk. Thank you."
Stride nodded. "You're welcome."
Andrea looked over at him. Or he thought she did. He could barely see her.
"Tell me something," she said. "Do you want to fuck me?"
It was the kind of question that called for an immediate answer, although this was the first time since Cindy died that Stride had faced it. He knew what half a pitcher of margaritas and his stiffening crotch told him to do, but he still felt unfaithful. "Yes, I do."
"But?" she said, hearing it in his voice.
"But I'm drunk, and I don't know if I can, uh, rise to the occasion."
"You're a liar."
"Yeah."
"You haven't had sex since she died."
"Nope."
Andrea slid out of the wicker chair. She staggered to her feet. "Tough," she said.
Stride didn't move. He watched her hike up her skirt and yank down the black stockings and floral panties underneath. She peeled them off and tossed them aside. She was a real blonde, with a wispy patch of pubic hair nestling between her slim thighs. With clumsy fingers, she undid the buttons of her blouse, then unsnapped the bra inside. She pushed aside the fabric, exposing her small breasts with erect pink nipples.
Andrea bent over him and yanked down the zipper of his jeans. Her fingers squirmed inside his pants and found his erection.
"Looks like you rose to the occasion."
"Looks like it."
She extracted his penis with some difficulty. In one swift motion, she swung her leg over the chaise and straddled him. Using one hand to spread her vaginal lips, and the other to hold his cock, she lowered herself onto him. Stride felt his penis sinking into her wet folds, and he groaned.
"You like?"
"I like."
"Good."
He reached up to her breasts and caressed her nipples with his fingertips.
"Harder," she said.
He pinched them, then squeezed her whole breasts in his large hands. Andrea gave a loud shout of pleasure and sank forward, kissing him, forcing her tongue inside. Her buttocks rose and fell as she pumped up and down on top of him. Stride squeezed his hand onto her mound and found her clitoris and began to rub it in circles.
The porch creaked and whined. So did the chaise, complaining under the pounding of their combined weight.
Stride felt himself swelling. She was bringing him quickly to a marvelous, drunken orgasm. And it looked like she was having one, too. Her head rose back, and she had a wild smile on her face. Stride leaned forward and took her nipple in his mouth. She held his head tightly against her breast. He licked and tugged at the nipple, and the feel of her erect areola on his tongue sent him over the edge. Stride's hips rose up to meet her as he spasmed. He came with his mouth still closed over her breast. Strangely, Andrea started laughing.
"God," she murmured, half to herself. "And the bastard said I was cold in bed."
11
"Well?" Maggie asked.
She kicked the snow off her boots on the floor mat of Stride's truck, then folded her arms and stared at him expectantly.
"What?" Stride asked, smiling despite himself.
Maggie whooped. She punched Stride in the arm. "I know that smile," she said, beaming. "That's the smile of a man who got lucky last night. Did I tell you? Was I right?"
"Mags, give me a break."
"Come on, boss, details, details," Maggie insisted.
"All right, all right. We stayed up late, we got drunk, we ended up in bed. It was great. Are you satisfied?"
"No, but you obviously are."
Stride shot her an irritated glance, then swung the truck out of the parking lot at Maggie's building. The tires slipped on the fresh snow. Only a couple of inches of heavy, wet snow had fallen overnight, enough to make the roads treacherous but not enough to get the snowplows out of the garage. Stride blinked. His eyes were red.